Hearts On Ice

by Janae Keyes

  Hearts On Ice

  A Steamy Sports Romance

  Janae Keyes

  Jessica Watkins Presents

  Hearts On Ice: A Steamy Sports Romance

  Copyright © 2017, Janae Keyes

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. References to real people, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely fictional and not meant to be considered real.

  For those thinking about giving up…

  Don’t!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Thank You!

  BREAKING NEWS

  A Note From The Author

  About the Author

  Looking For More?

  1

  Lia

  That night replayed constantly in my head. Whenever I closed my eyes, it was there. The press didn’t help it either. I couldn’t escape it. It was tormenting my every waking moment and some of my sleeping ones too. That moment was the one that changed my career and quite possibly, my entire life.

  America’s Ice Princess… That’s what they had called me. I was seventeen years old, a nobody in the world of figure skating, but the world learned exactly who I was when I competed in Vancouver. I left with gold, and my life changed in ways I had never expected. I became the Ice Princess.

  Taking Sochi by storm was almost a piece of cake, and I already felt Pyeongchang was within my grasp. I’d qualified, and it was just practice, practice, practice, until I would be on the podium again. I felt it in my bones. There were only two world championships to snatch up, or so I thought.

  In every practice round, my routine had been flawless. I saw the other girls watching, shaking in their boots. Well, I should say skates, actually. It was the biggest competition to all of them. Normally, I wasn’t cocky, but that day I felt it. I was the champion.

  I felt like pure grace as I floated across the ice. My turns were on point, never missing a beat as I skated to a mash-up of “Hello” by Adele and Lionel Richie. I took risks, and everyone knew it. My biggest risk of the night would be landing a perfect triple Lutz followed almost immediately by an unknown quad Axel. I was taking the biggest risk of my career, and all eyes were on me.

  That moment would be seared into my brain forever. I’d landed my Lutz on point. There was nothing in me that pointed to anything going wrong. I was pure perfection. I took off into my quad. I felt my heart pounding in my chest, a smile gracing my face. I’d fucking did it! My landing was going to be everything and I could already hear the crowd going insane. But it didn’t work out that way.

  I came down for my landing, ready to show the world that I was a champion. The exact moment my skate came in contact with the ice, I felt it. The landing wasn’t right. I slammed down so hard that the wind was knocked out of me. The pain that ricocheted from my ankle and throughout my body was nothing like I’d ever felt before. I was done for, my medal and career slipping away in those moments.

  “You aren’t watching this again,” my mother announced, stripping the iPad from my hands.

  My eyes shot up to the mocha skinned woman who stood holding my iPad, shaking her head at me. I couldn’t help but torture myself. I’d gotten cocky and I would never come back from that—never.

  “Mom—”

  “Don’t Mom me,” she interrupted. “You can’t keep doing this. I know it’s been hard on you with all the surgeries, but you need to move on. You need to heal, get stronger, and train. Show the world that fall didn’t end your career but only made you more unstoppable.”

  I don’t know, though. I didn’t know if I could come back from that. I remembered all the comments and commentary from that night. The reports that I could never come back from an injury like mine; an injury that the doctor said was the worst he’d ever seen. Three surgeries later, I didn’t know if I could go back to being the champion I was.

  “Here it comes. Here it comes. There are rumors that she might be going for a quad Axel.”

  “Are you serious? After the triple Lutz?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Lia Crestwood isn’t taking any prisoners. And here she goes! That’s four turns!”

  “Never in competition has this been. Oh no. Oh no, she’s taken a fall.”

  “She looks really hurt there, Dan.”

  “Yeah, her screams are practically filling the rink.”

  “The medical team is heading out on the ice to see what they can do.”

  “Yes, the team along with her coach, the esteemed Beverly Zimmer.”

  “The cameras are getting a shot of her mom, Kamber Crestwood, rushing from the stands to get to her daughter’s aid.”

  “This does not look good for Lia.”

  “No, I think she might be out for a while. That was a hard fall.”

  “Let’s take a look at that again. You can see she gets the four and when she comes down. She can’t quite stick that. Possibly coming down on the wrong edge and her ankle took a beating.”

  “I think her hopes of another Olympic gold might be shattered.”

  “I think so too.”

  No shit, my ankle took a hell of a beating. The bones in my ankle were all nearly shattered. The repairs have required three surgeries so far and there’ll possibly be more in my future.

  Damn, giving up seems too easy, but I can’t do it. Not yet. I’ve worked too hard to give it up, though with everything that has happened,, giving up feels so good. I wasn’t just injured physically. My ego took the biggest beating.

  “Our ride should be arriving soon,” my mom said as she stored my iPad away in her luggage.

  I sighed and stood from the comfy chair in the hotel room we occupied.

  Mom and I had flown to Denver in order for me to spend eight weeks at an injury rehabilitation center for ice athletes. This place was supposed to be the best of the best, and my coach, Bev, could only rave about it and how I should give it a chance. They had the best rehabilitation therapists, doctors, and coaches on site for most ice sports.

  “What if I hate this place?” I asked as mom rolled our suitcases out the door before holding it open for me as I followed on crutches.

  Since my last surgery, it had been difficult to place any pressure on my ankle. Just getting up to pee in the middle of the night and hopping to the toilet would leave me in tears. The doctor said I had to try and work with it, and eventually, the pain would dissipate. But it didn’t feel like it.

  Every day, I worked through the pain without medication, a lot of patience, and with plenty of foul language. I avoided the painkillers prescribed to me. I’d heard too many stories, especially about athletes who had become addicted after injuries. Hell, I had a friend who got hooked. Things got really bad. I had my determination and I was going to beat the pain without the pills.

  “Take it slow there, Lia,” my mom warned as I hopped up the hall, my arms already aching from the pad of the crutches diggi
ng into my underarm.

  My mom checked us out of the hotel. The van was waiting outside. On the side of the van was a depiction of a large willow tree with The Willows Center painted underneath it. That’s where I would be for the foreseeable future at least until I could get back on my feet and back in my skates.

  “Lia! Lia! One question please!” A reporter came out of absolutely nowhere and thrust a camera in my face. “Do you think you will be competing in the Olympics? Do you think a stint at the Willows Center can bring your career back from ruin?”

  I stumbled over my crutch and nearly fell, but the van’s driver jumped out and caught me before he fought the reporter away. The pain in my ankle crashed through my body and shot through almost every limb.

  I screamed as my mom helped me into the van, my face soaked in my tears. I could never get used to that part—the fame. Most of the reporters had no class. Clearly, I was injured and on crutches, but they only cared about the story.

  As the van pulled away from the hotel’s curb, I tried to breathe through the earth-shattering pain that radiated through my ankle. Nausea was building in my throat at the sheer intensity of the pain.

  “Fuck! Oh fuck,” I hissed, my eyes closed, trying to breathe through the pain, nausea, and my overwhelming emotions.

  “It’s okay, Lia. It’s going to be okay,” my mom repeated as she rubbed my back while I kept my head down between my knees.

  “Mmm… It hurts so bad, Mom,” I cried.

  “I know, baby,” she said in a calming tone before reaching into her bag.

  I knew that she was about to get one of those disposable heating pads that would provide some temporary relief.

  “When we arrive at the center, one of the doctors will take a look at it Ms. Crestwood,” the driver noted.

  “That’s good. We don’t need her ankle to be more screwed up than it already is. I need to find out who that reporter was. That was completely unprofessional. Lia could have further injured herself.”

  I could hear the anger rising in my mom’s voice as she placed the heating pad on my ankle. There were many who were skeptical of my return. I’d aged since my first Olympics. I was now twenty-five and would be twenty-six at the time of the games. That scrawny seventeen-year-old girl was gone, replaced by a curvy woman. The way I skated had to change as I aged, and my genes took over; and taking a beating like I had, it wouldn’t be as easy to snap back. I always had to laugh. I was only twenty-five, not some old woman.

  The heat from the pad began to give relief after another fifteen minutes or so, and I was able to begin to enjoy the ride. I looked out at the wide open landscape around us all covered in a thick blanket of snow. I loved winter and I adored being in places that got snow as I didn’t have snow growing up in Oakland.

  My mom said I was about three when she took me to see The Nutcracker on Ice, and I was completely taken, not so much with the story, but with the ice skating. It was Christmastime, and she had decided to take me to the outdoor rink at The Embarcadero Center in San Francisco. The way she tells the story, she had to carry me off the ice, kicking and screaming.

  From then, she got me into lessons, and I picked up the skill immediately. I lived for going to my lessons and as soon as I could compete, I was on point one hundred percent and didn’t allow any distractions. Being on the ice was my everything, and the possibility of losing that was breaking me down inside. Who was Lia Crestwood without the ice and her skates?

  “We’re here,” the driver announced.

  I looked ahead as we drove through iron gates. I hadn’t been prepared for what was in front of me. It reminded me of an Olympic village. Coming down the hill, I could see the large main building of the center, but scattered about were picturesque cabins. Beyond them was a glittering frozen lake.

  “Now, this place is something,” my mom commented as we arrived in front of the main building.

  Waiting for us were staff members, all in their Willows Center baby blue polo shirts. Our luggage was taken from the back of the van right away and I received help out by a kind staff member who knew exactly what she was doing.

  The driver explained to the staff what had happened with the reporter, and one of them took out a phone right away to make a phone call.

  “We’re going to take you straight to the medical clinic for a quick examination just in case,” a staffer informed me.

  After nodding in response, I was quickly greeted with a wheelchair. These people didn’t play around.

  “Orientation will begin in ten minutes, but I will let Ms. Willows know that Ms. Crestwood needs medical attention and will be arriving a little late,” another member of the staff noted to the person who began to wheel me inside, while my mom kept up with me.

  My trip to the medical center was better than expected. My pins were all in place according to the x-rays that my surgeon had apparently sent to the center. I liked the doctor at the facility. He was thorough and already jotting down notes for working with the rehabilitation team.

  I heard voices as I was wheeled down a hall. We arrived at a large room at the back of the center. The floor-to-ceiling windows provided a beautiful view of the back of the property and the cabins that were scattered about. The room was furnished all in wood, and a large fireplace was lit with a bright and roaring fire.

  The room was encircled with couches that were filled with others; many faces, which I knew. Standing in the middle of the room was Fantasia Willows who was a skating powerhouse in the late 70’s and early 80’s. She was also the founder of The Willows Center.

  Fantasia was tall and thin with ivory skin and graying blonde hair. I remembered watching old videos of her when I was a kid. She was an inspiration to many in the skating community no matter what sport you were involved in. Fantasia was a legend.

  “There is Ms. Crestwood, who was at the medical center,” she noted with a kind smile as I was wheeled next to one of the couches. “We’re still waiting on one more. I think we’ll start and if he arrives, he can join in.”

  I glanced around the circle at the other faces. I saw a good friend right away and gave him a wave. Damian Vostroski was one-half of a Russian skating pair. He had suffered an injury during practice at the same world championship I had been injured. He’d been my partying partner in Sochi along with his skating partner, Dahlia Petrova.

  There was also a speed skater from Belgium I knew and another one from Norway. I didn’t know the other faces in the room. They were obviously competitors, but not on the Olympic level.

  “Welcome, all to the Willows Center. Some of you I know, and some of you I don’t. A number of you are Olympians, and others aspire to be. All of you have two things in common. First, you are skaters, in whatever sport you compete in. Regardless, you do it on skates. Secondly, you’ve all been injured. Not all of your injuries are the same and you are all at various stages in your healing. However, you all want to heal and get back to doing what you do best.”

  All of our eyes were glued to Fantasia as she spoke eloquently, drawing us in.

  “Now, I started this center because I came back from an injury that could have ended my figure skating career. I worked with some amazing people to get back in the game. I know it takes a village, so I built a village here at The Willows Center. I have the best of the best working for me. You will meet with doctors, rehab therapists, mental health therapists, and coaches in your sport. You will also become acquainted with one another. At the Willows Center our purpose is to—”

  “Already spouting off the brochure bullshit. Seems like I’m just in time,” a gruff voice spoke, cutting her off.

  Everyone’s attention went toward the door where a guy limped in. My eyes were glued to him from the moment he fully entered. He was a tall guy; maybe about six feet, two inches tall with broad shoulders, a five o’clock shadow, and sultry eyes that looked to be a dark almost sapphire blue from where I was seated. His muscular build was enticing and one could almost make out the defined lines of his six p
ack through his tight white t-shirt. I swallowed as I watched him, my core heating at just the sight of him. It was almost poetic, when he ran his fingers through his dark chocolate brown hair, the contrast between his pale skin and dark hair. And that lopsided grin he sported, it was almost too much. That man was fine as hell.

  “It seems our final expected athlete has arrived,” Fantasia said, a hint of venom in her voice.

  “No need to roll out the red carpet for me, Ms. Willows. I’m just here for the food and the pills, so don’t mind me,” he jeered as he limped to the only vacant couch and laid down, feet up and all.

  His eyes seemed to scan the room until they landed on me. They were filled with heat that instantly seared me. A smirk lined his kiss-begging lips as I clearly gawked at him. He gave me a wink, and I shook my head.

  Who was he?

  2

  Max

  I listened to that chick ramble on and on about the damn center. I didn’t want to be there, but JC, my best friend and manager, had practically ditched me there without a way out. What a great friend he was, leaving me at the front door with my luggage and driving off. His punk ass was going to meet my fist when I saw him next.

  I pulled my flask from the inside of my jacket pocket and took a swig. Whiskey was keeping the pain away for the time being, along with a few oxies for the edge. I was skeptical about whatever this Willows Center had in store for me.