Spiral (Off the Ice Book 2)
Spiral: Chapter 5

THERE ARE A few weeks left before the hockey world falls into the frenzy of preparing for the Stanley Cup playoffs, a qualification nobody was expecting from the Toronto Thunder after the previous year’s poor season. The pressure is on, because Mason’s main selling point for me was my goal average at Dalton University. It was one of the highest in the NCAA, and it’s no secret that the Thunder banked on my ability to execute that for them. However, with my current circumstances, none of that seems possible, and the eyes on me are a heavy, unrelenting weight.

To my surprise, even with the very real possibility of a trade looming over my head, my mind isn’t on the road to the finals today. I’m thinking about the text I sent Sage earlier this week about our date. There’s nothing good that can come out of taking her on a date, even if it’s technically for charity, because if we’re together, she’s going to be turned into another notch on my very public bedpost. However, I’m staying true to my word and hope to avoid a repeat of the locker room confrontation. I arranged a date for us with Mason’s help, and she agreed to meet today.

“You look nice,” Aiden comments as he heads to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator to grab a carton of orange juice. His gaze lingers on me as I slip on my shoes by the front door.

“I’m going out. Don’t wait up.”

“Out?” He chokes on his juice, slamming his fist into his chest.

“With Sage,” I clarify. He grins with a knowing smile. I roll my eyes and leave before he starts gloating.

The drive to the restaurant is short, and when I head up, the host leads me inside to an empty room.

As my watch ticks thirty minutes past six and the server gives me a pitying look, I’m sure she isn’t coming, but the ding of the elevator pulls my attention from my wrist.

Sage is wearing a simple lavender blouse and black jeans, whereas my button-down and dress pants scream try-hard. It’s been a few years since I’ve been on a date, but surely, I’m not that much out of practice. There’s a heavy contrast between the nervous energy thrumming off me and Sage’s infectious confidence.

When she finally sees me, she beams, a soft, light smile that tells me this girl really doesn’t hold grudges. It would be easy for her to rule me out and put me in a box with all her hockey stereotypes when I haven’t done much to prove them wrong.

She scans the restaurant and the view of the city below us. I can’t tell if she’s impressed.

Do I want her to be impressed?

Her gaze falls to my clothes, then back to my face. “Where is everyone?”

“What?”

“The other diners,” she says, tilting to the side to look behind a wall as if they’re hiding from her. The revolving restaurant rotates three hundred sixty degrees every seventy-two minutes. It’s the tallest freestanding structure in the world, and they have great food. It’s impossible to get a last-minute reservation, but with Mason’s help, we secured one.

“It’s just us,” I explain.

“Right, because you rented the place out.” She laughs, but her smile quickly dissipates when she notices my blank expression. “Are you serious?”

I shrug. “Thought this would be more comfortable for both of us.”

“Why? I doubt anyone cares that much.” She looks at me critically.

This is never a fun topic to discuss. “I’m cautious. From the moment I went viral, I can’t seem to catch a break.”

There are a few rookies who met much the same fate, but none of them have defamatory articles written about them on slow news days. They’re all in long-term relationships, so I became the ideal target.

I pull out her chair and move to sit across from her. The faint classical music playing in the restaurant serves as a buffer. When the server finally comes over, we both straighten, letting the attention fall on him.

“Oysters,” he says, placing the plate between us.

When he’s gone, it’s quiet again, and for a second, I think this is how the entire evening will go. Then Sage slurps an oyster and drops the shell on her plate with a loud clunk. She stares at me intently. “Okay, don’t ask me what my favorite color is or any of that crap. Tell me about your deepest, darkest secrets.” She places her elbows on the table and rests her chin in her hands.

I’m stunned and find it difficult to answer. Or where to start. Sage stares at me for a long minute, patiently waiting.

Then she sighs. “Fine, I’ll go first. My parents spent my childhood in some dark alley, using drugs I can’t pronounce, and left me and my younger diabetic brother to fend for ourselves. They are currently on the run for their involvement in the sale of illegal narcotics, which means I haven’t seen them in years. So, life is going pretty well, and I’ve gained extensive knowledge on type 1 diabetes and family law in case someone tries me. Your turn.”

The torrent of information catches me off guard, but Sage spills it all with such ease that I can’t help but envy her nonchalance in sharing the depths of her life.

I sip my water, processing that information. “You really don’t hide anything, do you?”

“What’s the point?”

“Privacy?”

She plays with the stem of an empty wineglass, surveying the secluded restaurant. “You don’t get a lot of that?”

“I’m in the media at least once a week. I’m not allowed to have privacy.”

She frowns, assessing me like she’s trying to figure me out. Just then the server brings out the truffle risotto and lobster thermidor. Sage stares wide-eyed at the food.

“Wine?” the server asks.

I wave a hand to refuse just as Sage does the same. She watches me curiously.

“I don’t drink,” I explain.

“Me neither,” she says. “Well, not before auditions or rehearsals, and I have both tomorrow.”

“Auditions?”

She nods. “I’m a ballerina. That’s why I was at the auction.”

Suddenly, her posture being the thing I first noticed about her makes sense.

“How do you know Aiden Crawford?” she asks. “I know you’re teammates, but he really went all out for you at the auction.”

“He’s like a brother. I’ve known him my whole life, and we went to Dalton together. Even lived together in the hockey house with a few of our other friends.”

Sage’s questions about hockey are limited, and I’m glad for it, but her personal anecdotes haven’t ended, and I don’t mind learning about her. When she talks about ballet, it’s hard to miss the passion in her eyes, and it makes me curious.

“I want to be a principal dancer for the production of Swan Lake.” She leans forward, eyes twinkling. “Have you heard of Misty Copeland? The first-ever African American woman to be promoted to principal dancer in American Ballet Theatre history? The first person to advocate for diversity in the industry?”

“She’s your inspiration?”

“She’s my everything. I want to do what she’s done.”

“But better,” I add.

She snorts, looking at me like I have a few screws loose. “This is Misty Copeland we’re talking about. If I can do half as good as her, I’ll be happy.”

I shake my head. “You won’t get anywhere if you think like that. You need to know you can be better than the greatest. That’s how you achieve even a fraction of their success.”

She sits back, seemingly digesting my words and watching me with a look of curiosity, the type of look I haven’t gotten from anyone in a while. A look that tells me she’s seeing something in me that she hadn’t before.

When the server comes with a dessert menu, I sit back to watch her order. Sage lists off the tiramisu and hazelnut éclair. Her decisiveness is attractive, and that she doesn’t shy away from food like I’d expect from a dancer makes me smile. Even athletes count calories or cut weight before a season, so it’s refreshing to see someone who’s not policing their meals.

“Are you judging me for getting dessert?”

A quizzical look settles on my expression. “Why would I judge you?”

She shrugs. “Some people do. You can’t be a ballerina without the perfect body ingrained in your brain.”

I can tell my earlier appraisal might be true, but it didn’t come without struggle.

The dessert comes out only a few minutes later, and it’s pretty fucking difficult looking at anything else but the girl who raves about every spoonful she puts in her mouth.

When her phone rings, she excuses herself, and I take the time to tip the servers before I wait for her by the elevator. She’s smiling wide when she walks back toward me.

“Sorry, that was my brother,” she says. “He’s in boarding school a few hours away, and I didn’t want to miss his call.”

We walk out of the elevator and through the back entrance. When she steps onto the stairs, she’s clutching the railing with a pained look.

“If I could strangle one person with the straps of these heels, it would be the designer.” She limps a little.

Staring down at the tight straps of her black heels, I notice how they dig into her skin.

“Why do you wear them?” I ask.

“Because they’re pretty.”

“But they make your feet hurt.”

“I’m a dancer. My feet always hurt.”

“So, you want them to hurt more?”

She laughs. “You won’t get it. It’s like the time in high school when I spent hours gluing all these pretty gems around my eyes for The Nutcracker, and by the time I got onstage they had all fallen off. I cried for hours afterward, and my uncle had no idea why it was such a big deal.”

“Marcus, right? He’s your uncle?” Suddenly, it makes a lot of sense that he’s not her father. As far as I know, Marcus doesn’t have kids. But the new information doesn’t relieve me in the slightest.

“Yup, the only normal-functioning adult in my life.”

She’s still smiling when her heel gets caught in a divot and she trips. I shoot out a hand and grasp her wrist, pulling her upright again.

“You’d think for a ballerina, I’d be more graceful on my feet, huh?” She exhales through a chuckle.

I look down at her feet. Before I can voice my concern about her raw skin, she bends down and frees her lilac-painted toes from the confines of the strappy heels. The moment her bare feet touch the concrete, she lets out a sigh of relief.

“What are you doing?”

“I can’t walk in these.”

As she attempts to continue our walk to my car, I gently wrap loose fingers around her wrist. “We’re in an alley. You could step on a needle, for all you know.”

“Lighten up. This is how humans were meant to walk.” Sage twirls in her spot, and my gaze drops to her feet again. Then I step in front of her, blocking her path. She appears bewildered. “What’s happening?”

“Get on. You’re not walking barefoot in an alley.”

Her confusion is palpable. “You want to carry me?”

“Yes. Now, get on.”

I anticipate her refusal, but then her hand slides up my back, each movement sending tingles racing down my skin. She effortlessly hoists herself up, and my hands hook under her thighs as they squeeze around me. The light vanilla scent wafting off her is closer than ever.

Her arms tighten around my shoulders, and her laughter rings in my ear as I move. I’m smiling as I speed out of the alley, and she giggles with each stride. When we’re finally at the car, there’s a crowd along the main roads, so I open her door, and she climbs in as I quickly go around to the other side. Anywhere else, and I’d be free to walk around, but in Toronto, the fans are dialed into hockey, and they can spot any player roaming the city from a mile away.

“Where to?” Sage asks when I’m pulling onto the highway.

I glance over at her. “I’m dropping you at home. You live in Weston, right?”

“It’s creepy that you know that,” she says. “But it’s nine thirty, Grandpa. Take me somewhere else.”

I’m hesitant, but the way she deflated at the mention of going home sent unexpected disappointment through me. For some reason, I want this date to be good for her.

“Where?”

She instantly lights up and points to the expanse of water under the bridge. “There.”

I look to where the evening sky darkens the water in the distance. “The lake?”

She nods.

It must be longing or nostalgia that colors her eyes and makes me take the next exit straight to where she pointed. I don’t bother looking at her for a reaction because her excited squeal when I pull into the parking lot is enough.

Pine trees surround the area, and gravel crunches under the tires as I pull into a space. It’s secluded at this time of day, but I still find myself scanning the area for rustling bushes that might hide photographers. Before I can park, Sage is out of the car and heading straight for the water.

I watch in shock but quickly snap out of my frozen state and run right after her. It’s rare that the late spring temperature ever dips low enough to turn off air-conditioning, but the water is different. Today, the breeze is strong, and this girl is rolling up her jeans.

“Sage, the water’s probably cold.”

Her hair whips around her. She looks at me standing there, watching her, and shouts, “You coming, rookie?”

I remove my shoes and socks, with my head on a swivel to check for passersby.

But when I’m running toward the water, feeling the rough sand beneath my feet, I’m no longer thinking about the tabloids. I’m thinking about the laughter coming from the girl who just ran into Lake Ontario.