Laney blushed and dropped to a knee to try it again. Gifted athlete, natural dancer, all-around high achiever Laney Thompson still had to remind herself of the steps to tying her skates. Why had the nuances of short-track speed skating lingered in her memory, but the act of tying her laces remained a challenge? And reading a clock, and remembering to eat or what not to eat? She’d almost triggered an allergic reaction two days prior when she’d been ready to eat a nutrition bar containing peanuts. It’s the brain injury, Laney, not you.
Tanya Crowley shot her an odd look before she concealed her eyes behind racing glasses. Was it disdain Laney saw on her lips? Mind games, an athlete’s trick.
Laney wondered what would happen if she produced a terrible race here today. Practice or not, she knew her performance would answer the question in her own mind. Could Laney Thompson be the person she was before the hit-and-run driver had almost taken away her future?
Her eyes scanned the darkened arena for Max. She did not see him. Zipping her skin suit up to her neck, she had a flash of memory, picturing the cut paper bird he had given her a moment before their lives were changed. After the crash, he’d retreated so far she doubted if there ever really had been the sweet connection between them.
You’re like a bird, flying over the ice without really touching it. Had she read more into those words than she should have?
Would he ever see her that way again? Or was she someone flying away with a dream that should have been his?
No more time to think about it, Laney. Get into position. Game face on.
* * *
Max stood in the shadows, his body tensing just as it always did before the start of a race. Practice run or the real thing, it had never made a difference. When the buzzer sounded, there was only the ice and the finish line and seventeen-and-a-half-inch blades carrying him to victory. That’s what he had loved about it most, how racing stripped everything away to that simple equation. Insane levels of training plus a helping of talent equaled a win.
At least, it used to. He eased the weight off his bad hip, still stiff in spite of the massive efforts he’d made to rehab. It wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough. The only thing that saved him from total despair was this job, the chance to help Laney achieve what they’d both lost. He wouldn’t get all of it back. Anger twisted his soul into an impenetrable knot that separated him from everyone, even Laney.
He found his hands were clenched around the rail as he watched her get into the zone. Would she remember to focus on her cornering? He was already taking notes about her tendency to chat with the other girls. Always kindling with energy, Laney struggled with brain trauma that had left her with a shortened attention span. There was more riding on this practice run than anyone knew, except maybe him and Dan Thompson, Laney’s foster dad, who paced anxiously up and down the opposite side of the oval.
He felt someone next to him. Jackie Brewster, Beth’s coach, stood there with her impeccably perfect posture and gleaming silver hair. Coach Stan Chung was the lead coach of the U.S. national team, overseeing all the girls, but most competitors like Beth had the means to employ private ones.
“Does Laney have it together?”
“Absolutely,” he said, bobbing his chin at Jackie’s athlete. “And Beth looks like she’s in good form.”
Jackie nodded without taking her eyes off her own skater. “At this point, it’s all mental, as we both know.” She paused. “There is a gentleman hanging around out front, asking for Laney.”
“What gentleman?”
She shrugged. “He said he’s a reporter. I told him he could be the King of Siam and he wasn’t going to get into the arena without an appointment.”
Max nodded. “Thanks. She doesn’t need any distractions right now.”
“This is true. Security is lax around here. I already shooed away a kid who was hanging around last night.”
Max had seen him, too, a skinny red-haired kid with a sweatshirt too small for him.
“See you after the race.” Jackie patted him on the arm and went to take her place on the ice, stopwatch in hand, creased slacks an odd contrast to her clunky skate-clad feet. She was the only person he knew who could walk gracefully in skates.
Max saw Laney get into position. It was time for her to prove to herself that she had that heart of a lion, the ability to put everything and everyone out of her mind and go as fast and hard as she could for the five hundred meters it would take to win.
After some last-minute activity, the coaches took their places and everything went quiet. Max tensed with Laney as she raised her arm in front of her and crouched low, her blade tip dug into the ice. He realized he was taking slow, measured breaths, the same way she would be doing, bringing her mind into focus, preparing her muscles for the grueling challenge.
The bell sounded and Laney exploded from the start line so quickly she was a blur. After the initial chopping steps, she settled in to longer pushes, tucking into second position, the place where she was most comfortable as she waited to break away for the win. She leaned forward in the perfect crouch, gloved fingers skimming the ice as she rounded the turn, hands folded behind her on the straightaway.
“You’ve got this, Laney,” he whispered.
“Are you Max Blanco?”
Max jerked. He’d been so intent on Laney that he hadn’t noticed the lanky man come up next to him. “Who are you?”
The stranger regarded Max seriously, chewing on his thick mustache. “I asked you first.”
Max scanned his shirtfront and found no identification tags. “You have permission to be in here?”
He smiled, one eye drooping slightly. “It’s skating, not a nuclear missile test.”
Max looked back at the ice. “What do you want?”
“A story.”
Max offered him a momentary glance. “I’m busy.”
“I want a story about Laney.”
“She’s busy, too.”
“I’m patient. I can wait.”
Max rounded on him then. “Look, man. Laney’s racing, if you can’t tell. She needs to concentrate, and so do I. Call and make an appointment like everyone else.”
“I’ve called. No reply from any of the people I’ve tried. Almost like someone doesn’t want me to talk to her.”
Max looked at Laney as she completed another turn and he saw something there, something hesitant, a tiny flicker of uncertainty that was probably only visible to him. Instinctively, he moved for the entrance to the ice, eyes riveted on her.
The man took Max’s arm. “I’m writing about the American team hopefuls. Want to follow a skater from here all the way through the Winter Games.”
Max shook off the touch. “Good for you. Call again. Maybe you’ll get an appointment.”
“Maybe I’ll stay and talk to her anyway.”
With effort, Max controlled his rising temper. “Get out,” he said over his shoulder as moved.
The man shrugged. “All right, but you’re not her keeper off the ice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Max received no answer as the guy ambled in the direction of the exit. Max knew he should follow and make sure the man was truly leaving, but he could not walk away, not then, with Laney skating this critical race, her sides heaving