Page 58 of Break my Heart
She looks incredible.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice is thick with sleep.
I shrug, trying to act casual even though my pulse is racing like I just finished a sprint. “I know you usually practice at six, so I thought I’d drive you to the arena.”
Her gaze dips to the travel containers. “Is one of those for me?”
“Yeah.” I hand over a cup, watching as she lifts it to her lips.
Fuck. The way her mouth curves around the lid sends a wave of heat straight through me. I shift my weight, trying to focus on something other than how much I want this girl.
I promised we’d take things slow.
“Thanks.” Her eyes linger on mine before she takes another sip.
For a second, I think about how good it would feel to kiss her again, but I shove that thought aside.
Slow, Hayes.
Glacial.
I clear my throat. “Why don’t you change, and then we can head out? I wouldn’t want you to miss your ice time.”
She glances down at her outfit, as if only now remembering she’s still in her pajamas. “Give me five minutes,” she murmurs, turning toward her bedroom with her coffee in hand.
As she disappears, I force myself to stay rooted in the living room and take in her private space. It’s neat, minimalist. There’s a small couch, a table, and a few pictures on the shelf. I pick one up and study it closer. It’s a black-and-white photo of her mid-spin, three or four feet above the ice, with her arms tightly pressed against her chest.
She looks powerful.
It’s a stark contrast to the vulnerability that lurks in her eyes.
“I’m ready.”
I turn, startled from my thoughts.
She’s transformed in minutes. Black leggings, a fitted pink sweater that clings to her curves, and her blonde hair pulled up into a tight bun. The change is almost jarring, like a mask she wears to keep everyone at a distance. All I want to do is strip it away, layer by layer, until she lets me in completely.
She tilts her head. “You good?”
I clear my throat and force a smile. “Yeah. Let’s go, Tink.”
I hold out my hand, hoping she’ll take it.
Her gaze drops to my fingers, and hesitation flickers in her expression. After what she’s been through, I don’t blame her for being cautious.
It feels like an eternity before she finally slips her hand into mine. It’s a small gesture that has something in my chest loosening.
I pick up her duffel bag, slinging it over my shoulder as we head downstairs to my truck. The arena is only a five-minute drive from her apartment building, and the morning is still pitch black as we pull into the empty parking lot.
As we reach the arena, Ava walks ahead, her movements sure as she unlocks the door to the rink and pushes it open. We make our way through the building until arriving at another set of glass doors. Once inside, the air hits me—the cold, familiar smell of ice.
When she drops down onto a bench, I jerk my thumb toward the men’s locker room. “I’ll grab my skates and be back in a minute.”
She nods, already slipping off her shoes and pulling her white skates from her bag. I cut across the space to the locker room before shoving inside. The lights automatically turn on, illuminating the echoing area.
When I return, Ava’s already gliding across the ice with that same effortless grace I caught a glimpse of in the photo. I can’t help but stop and soak in the sight of her. She’s poetry in motion—spinning, twisting, floating across the ice like she’s weightless.
I’ve only caught glimpses of her like this when I watched her from a distance. This isn’t the guarded, careful girl who looks at me with uncertainty. This is the real Ava. The one who comes alive on the ice.