Cross Stroke
On The Edge, Book One
By Elizabeth Hartey
Cross Stroke
Copyright © 2018 by Elizabeth Hartey.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: Date 2018
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-289-7
ISBN-10: 1-64034-289-3
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
I want to dedicate this book to Maureen N. for raising the person who provided the inspirational antics for Dakota.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Epilogue
GET (5) FREE READS EVERY FRIDAY!
CHAPTER ONE
Tracey
It doesn’t seem possible. One brief interaction, one night, can change a person’s whole life. One mistake…well, um…I suppose it was a series of mistakes, brought me to this place and this conclusion. I don’t do well with the whole love thing. Love’s too risky, too destructive, too…fatal. That’s why my new motto is there shall be no more falling in love. The mantra repeats in a silent thrum inside my head, matching the thump of my blood, until it’s tattooed on my heart.
Taking a long breath for much needed courage, I tug open one of the glass double doors of the Bernard University Arena for the first time. As I do, my phone rings. Letting go of the door, I step back. Students push past me, coming and going from the rink, like I’m invisible. Since I’m not, I pull my wheeled skate bag behind me to step out of the way of the entrance and slide my backpack off my shoulder to hunt for the ringing phone.
“Come on. Where are you? I don’t have time for this.” My phone answers me with another ring. I’m already late and should ignore the call, but I’m sure it’s my mom and I don’t want her to freak out if I don’t answer. When I manage to retrieve the annoying implement of technology from the tangled mess of clothes I stuffed in there earlier, the screen lights up with my mom’s gorgeous face.
“Hi, Mom. What’s up?” Although, I don’t know how there can possibly be anything new to tell me since her last call a few hours ago.
“Hi, honey. Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“Great, Mom. I’m doing great.” Just like I was this morning.
“How are your classes going?”
“No classes yet, Mom. Told you, they don’t start ‘til next week.” I’m so late for practice, but I’m doing my best not to be curt. I know she calls me twice a day every day since I’ve been here, out of love and concern. She didn’t used to be like this; an anxious, overbearing mom. I did that to her. But she needs to understand I’m doing better now. I love how much she loves me, but she doesn’t need to worry anymore.
“Oh, right. I forgot. So, have you met any new friends?” The same question she asks every time she calls. What she really means is, “Have you met any new boyfriends?”
“Nope, not yet.” Not since this morning, when you asked. “I don’t have time for socializing, with classes starting, my research, and skating. In fact, I’m headed in for a practice session right now and I’m super late.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll let you go then.” The thick concern in her voice reaches through the phone and tugs at my heart.
“Mom, I’m good. You don’t need to worry about me. It’s beautiful here. The school is outstanding. The little house you found for me is awesome. Everything’s really good. And I’ll see you in November. Please stop stressing.”
“I know you’re fine, honey. I just like to hear your voice. And remind you, you are a strong and powerful woman, in control of your own destiny,” we recite simultaneously.
I remember, Mom. Everything’s okay. I promise. I’ll call you in a few days?”
“Okay, honey. Love you up to the sky.”
“Me too. Talk to you soon.”
Although I sense her reluctance to hang up as I disconnect, I can no longer assure her with words alone. I’m going to have to let my actions while here at Bernard speak for my determination to fix my life. I totally get the whole strong and powerful woman thing and controlling my own destiny, the reason I’m giving up relationships. Although, I’m sure it’s not exactly what my mom means about taking control. Truth is, she wants me to find so-called ‘true’ love one of these days. She says I’ll ‘know when the right guy comes along’.
Not. Interested. Finding Mr. Right involves the painful possibility of connecting with too many Mr. Wrongs along the way. It’s time to focus on my future sans sticky relationships, which do nothing but screw me over, and not in a good way.
I stop at the front desk and sign in before walking into the rink area. A shiver runs down my spine. Holy shit it’s cold!
Where are the White Walkers? Winter is definitely here.
I snicker to myself, as my thoughts drift to my favorite television show in an attempt to ease my nerves.
Dropping my backpack on one of the benches that line one wall, I sit to put my skates and guards on. I jump up and down to warm up, get blood flowing to my limbs instead of pounding inside my head with nervous energy. Could it be any colder in here? Patting my arms to alleviate the feeling of ice water running through my veins, I look around the rink.
Championship hockey and figure skating banners, in neon gold, red and blue, decorate the perimeter walls. They stand out in the glaring overhead lights, like radiating warning signs to remind me how good these teams are. I take a deep breath. The freezing air turns my heated lungs into popsicles, much like the rest of my body. My eyes drift to the ghost mist when I blow it back out.
“Surprised it doesn’t freeze into a plate of ice at these temperatures,” I mumble.
This rink is much colder than UDel’s. Or maybe it’s my newfound, uncharacteristic anxiety making it seem like it is. The size of this place is overwhelming. It’s gigantic, with hundreds of individual black and gold seats instead of bleachers. I almost expect the Penguins to take to the ice any second. Between the cold and the overwhelming size of the arena, I can’t keep my teeth f
rom clattering.
There are only a couple of people on the ice and they’re hockey players, not figure skaters. One of the six foot walls of humanity pushes past me as he comes off the ice. “Excuse me, sweetheart,” he says. I don’t look at him or acknowledge his comment. Nope. Just step out of his way.
Hmmph. Sweetheart my ass.
Boys are assholes.
Bob, the rink manager, comes up behind me and asks, “Did you sign in for this session, Tracey?” He holds out the clipboard with the required sign in sheet.
“Yes, thanks. Took care of it at the front desk when I came in.”
“Okay, good. We like to keep a count of skaters for each freestyle session.” He glances up at the digital clock on the gigantic Jumbotron hanging from the middle of the mile-high ceiling. Seriously, they could hold the Stanley Cup in this place. “Cutting it kinda close, aren’t you? The session’s almost over,” Bob continues with a friendly smile, reminding me of my late arrival. Not that he needs to. I’m more than aware of my tardiness, as my mom loves to call it.
“No need to be nervous,” he offers, as if he can read my mind. “You’ll feel better as soon as you take the first stroke on our flawless ice.” He smiles again and walks away.
Pinching my eyes closed, I instruct myself to calm the hell down. I can make this work. I will take the lessons I’ve learned, make changes, and move on with my life. Wait. What lessons? Oh right. Love sucks.
I thought I knew all about the so-called fuzzy, warm things called love. I so didn’t. Not if what happened with Sean is any indication. I thought I knew what I wanted. I was ready to reach for the stars with two hands, both professionally and personally. Then came Hurricane Sean and everything I knew or wanted was annihilated. Now the only thing I know for sure is I wish I had never laid eyes on him.
Closing my eyes again, I try to will all thoughts of Sean out of my head. When I open them and stare across the shimmering expanse, the lone hockey player on the ice flies past me and glances over. Another shiver flashes down my spine. I don’t even know why I feel this trembling rush of nerves. It’s only a team practice.
Funny. Skating rinks used to be my safe haven. The place where all stresses slid away with the first glide of my blade on the ice. Standing in an arena, waiting to perform, I owned it. The music washed over me, invading my senses, the ice and I became one. It was just my music, the cold, glistening surface, and me.
All that was BS. Before Sean. Yup. There always seems to be either one really stupid or one totally awesome thing which changes your life forever. Sean was my one really stupid thing. Things I believed BS evaporated like water on a Phoenix summer sidewalk.
Standing here about to glide onto the ice for my first freestyle session, I’m a complete mess. My heart beats with an enthusiastic attempt to explode against my chest, my stomach is determined to work its contents back out into the world, and the weird Santa jelly-belly shaking of my legs has increased to seismic proportions.
The hockey player zips past me again. The wind of his speed sweeps across my face. As Bob said, this session is almost over, but I only wanted a few minutes to get the feel of the ice anyway. However, when I take the first stroke on the ice, this is not what I had in mind. The feel I was interested in wasn’t the one where my ass hits the frigid, unforgiving surface right in front of a pair of black hockey skates.
The skater slides to an abrupt halt to avoid running over me, his sharp blades spraying me with cold shavings. In my frantic state of synaptic overdrive, I forgot to remove my glittery purple skate guards.
“Yeah, those don’t work too well on the ice. You might want to remove them before trying to stroke.” I look up up up until I reach the face of the taunting skater.
Yowsa. His ice blue eyes shimmer like lasers right through the Plexiglas visor of his hockey helmet. Strands of sun-kissed streaked hair peek out from his helmet and frame cheekbones, which would be the envy of every Express model. Absurd. No one looks that good in a helmet.
Did he say something about stroking?
My naughty, sex starved mind drifts for a second to stroking other types of hard surfaces, the kind that could melt cold ice and my bones. Seems the blood has no problem reaching lower regions of my body now.
Stop it.
Right. Sworn off sex. Forever. Well, at least until I can let someone get that close again, if I ever can.
But when Hottie McHot wiggles his fingers and stretches his hand out a little further toward me, it’s like he has a front row seat to the opening night of my porno imagination. Although my ass has lost all sensation from its imminent fusion to the icy surface, I can feel the warm blush creeping up my neck and face.
For an experienced skater, taking off skate guards before stepping on the ice should be as natural as removing shoes before jumping in a pool. It’s a pretty lame, rookie mistake.
“No thanks. I’m good.” I ignore his chivalrous gesture.
“Whatever. Take it easy, Bambi,” he says, slips on his glove, and skates away before I’m able to push myself up.
“Hey, my name’s not…” He pays no attention to my objection and his lack of interest is fine by me.
Oh yes. Now I remember the second most important lesson learned since Sean. Never fall for a gay guy, unless, of course, you’re another gay guy. Been there, done that, and it was soul crushing. Although I suppose in technical terms, Sean is bisexual. It’s irrelevant. Because what he truly is, is a cheating, douchebag liar. Okay, maybe I’m still a little angry—and broken. He’s the primary reason I transferred from UDel and one of the reasons I don’t accept help from the sort-of-magnanimous hottie.
How do I know McHottie’s gay? Oh, it has nothing to do with judgie outward appearance observations or judgie anything, for that matter. Nope. I love men who prefer to get it on with their fellow man. And therein lies the problemo. I, Tracey Hayward, have a definite defect in my uterine radar. A fancy way of saying I’m totally fucked when it comes to picking boyfriends. Whenever I fall for a guy, no pun intended, I’m sure to find out his only interest in me is as his new BFF. I’m like a moth to a flame when it comes to gay men. I don’t mean in a conscious “I know what I’m doing” kind of way. No idea why. Could be some kind of Karmic thing, God’s little joke or something. If I’m hormonally attracted to a guy, after hanging out with him for a while, I’m trying to jump all over him while he’s explaining to me I’m a great ‘friend’ but…No joke. It’s happened several times.
The last time was with Sean. I thought for sure a super jock, sex on a stick, quarterback would be a safe bet. I was almost right. Our relationship went way beyond friendship. Except, thinking about it now, we may’ve skipped the friendship stage. A “friend” would never have treated me the way Sean did. My association with that dirt bag was devastating to the point where I almost didn’t survive the deep abyss of heartbreak.
I did some tremendously stupid things as a result, and can never make up for the worry and distress I caused my family. They had my back through the crazy, self-destructive behavior and hours of self-pity, the reason my mother has become the definition of a helicopter mom. But I’m determined to regain my self-confidence. No guy, especially a snake like Sean, is worth giving up what I almost gave up.
Which is why I intend on steering clear of any overzealous attraction to the opposite sex, no matter how much my already used V-card begs me to try to get back into the game. I’m focusing on marine studies and research, with a few figure skating competitions and shows in my free time. No partying, no temptations, no super-hot athletes—including hockey players.
Getting myself to an upright position, nervous jitters flutter my insides again like hundreds of inebriated butterflies. Whoever said nerves and adrenaline were great tools to enhance one’s performance was either someone who never performed in front of others or an alien from another planet, ignorant of human physiology. Hanging onto the boards, balancing on one leg at a time to slip off my guards, I realize I’m a normal, nerve wrac
ked human. After placing my guards on the edge of the boards, I push off on freshly sharpened blades, gliding in the opposite direction of McHottie.
Yup. Just one look at him and I’m feeling yummy warm sensations right down to my toes, which set off bells and whistles in more ways than one. It tells me one thing. If I want him, he must be gay.
Never again, and I mean never again. I know how it works. It’s how it always starts: a chance encounter, a heart-racing glance at a panty melting face and body. The first encounter with my next big mistake. Not this time. My middle name is going to be Snow White while I’m getting my graduate degree. I’m focusing on the new, celibate, Tracey Snow White Hayward and what I need to do right now.
Forget your current state of humiliation. Shake If Off—the apropos advice of Ms. T. Swift’s song blaring over the PA system in the rink.
There are only a few people left in the arena since it’s the last freestyle practice session of the day. Maybe no one noticed, except for the hottest guy on the planet, that is. Which doesn’t matter because, nope, no, nada, nyet, will I get involved with another gay guy—or any guy at the moment—only to get my heart pulverized.
After two weeks off the ice, I only need a few minutes to get the old skating legs back. My dad was a pro hockey player, so I learned to skate almost before I could walk. The ice is like home to me when I’m not experiencing this unusual nervousness about new surroundings. The Zamboni gears up to make its entrance onto the ice. I glance at the clock. There’s about fifteen minutes left in the session; enough time to do some stroking to warm-up, a little footwork and then I’ll try a double or two.
An abrupt switch to The Black Eyed Peas “Pump It” interrupts T. Swift’s song and I do as the Peas suggest, taking off at a fast and furious speed, back in the zone. The frigid wind turns my cheeks to the feel of cold-glazed marble and the resistance of the hard surface makes my muscles strain to the point of complete exhaustion. Still, the strenuous action of flying around the ice is the most liberating sensation ever. Um…the second most liberating sensation. And maybe I’m not quite as pure as Snow White.
Cross Stroke Page 1