Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
Love Spiral
by Alina Adams
Chapter 1
Ten years later, the scars on Gabrielle Cassidy's wrists were hardly visible. When her ex-husband asked about the furrows zig-zagging parallel to her palms, she passed them off as the remnants of an old skating injury. Still, while visiting CougarAthleticWear corporate offices, Gabrielle made certain to tug both of her blue blazer sleeves down firmly over her arms.
Three years earlier, the company had agreed to underwrite her proposal for a novel kind of ice-skating training center. While conducting research for her Ph.D. in Sports Psychology, Gabrielle concluded that there was a way to train Olympic contenders without the crushing pressure prevalent in all other facilities. But she needed funding to launch her experiment.
The first year, Cougar employed a hands-off policy, letting Gabrielle construct her Northern California ice-rink and dormitory in peace. They rubber stamped her coaching staff, and sent flowers when, after only a year of operation, four of her skaters qualified for the U.S. Championship. However, Cougar's enthusiasm noticeably dimmed when not a single student managed to medal. So they called Gabrielle in to "discuss" her enterprise's future.
Cougar's marketing director explained. "Our only interest in your training center, Dr. Cassidy, lies in advertising generated by seeing your skaters wearing our clothes during nationally televised competitions. So, in the interest of attracting promising students to our location, we would like to add a new coach to your staff."
Gabrielle's eyebrows narrowed. "Who did you have in mind?"
"Well, he hasn't coached before, but he is a former World and Olympic Champion. I'm sure you've heard of Christian Kelly."
While Gabrielle waited for Chris to arrive in her office, she watched, through her wall-sized window, a half-dozen girls in neon skating dresses wiggle along the ice surface outside her door. She grew so engrossed following the diligent attempts of one child to complete an Axel jump without landing on two feet, that she didn't notice Chris' appearance, until he was towering above her desk.
He was still the same tall, slender young man that Gabrielle remembered, but the extra decade of maturity had smoothed out his adolescent rough edges. Chris no longer wore his trademark bangs, but instead kept his hair long in the back, short on the sides, to underscore his uniquely bronze eyes. It seemed to Gabrielle that his face had altered in shape slightly, cheekbones and chin honing and growing more masculine, less boyish. There was no doubt about it, this was no child anymore. This was a man. A very attractive man. And, no matter how sternly she lectured herself to quit being affected, Gabrielle couldn't help noticing the lithe way he moved. Like the descent of a waterfall. Even his smallest gesture, the twitch of his finger, the bob of his chin, emanated from a fluid whole. Chris was the only man Gabrielle ever met whose rudimentary stretching of his arms made her yearn to set the act to music.
For his part, Chris also appeared to be studying Gabrielle. But his only comment was, "So, I see you're not dead."
Now that, certainly, was an interesting way to kick off a job interview. Not that she'd expected any less from Chris. From what she remembered, he did enjoy making an entrance.
Her tone light, Gabrielle offered, "Sorry to disappoint you."
He shrugged, slipping into the chair across from her desk with more grace than, in all fairness, should have been allocated to one human being, and rested his left ankle across his right knee. He'd come dressed in a Winter Olympics warm-up suit, and wearing a gold chain around his neck, from which clicked a pair of rings engraved with the Olympic emblem. Gabrielle presumed it was his subtle way of reminding her about his two gold medals.
She began, "You know, when I heard you were interested in a coaching position, I was really surprised. I thought you had your own touring show this season."
Another shrug. Gabrielle sighed. She should have remembered. Skaters were internationally celebrated for physical deftness, not conversational ability. So she asked more bluntly, "What happened to your show? Drop-off in attendance?"
Ever since 1994's Nancy Kerrigan/Tonya Harding debacle, or as it was called inside skating circles, Kardigan, figure skating's swelling popularity had triggered an avalanche of competitions and shows to supply the demand. However, once the initial boom died down a bit, it left dozens of freshmen companies to scramble for a single audience. And most tours simply didn't possess enough big-name draws to hold off already-established giants.
Chris bristled at her implication. "We were doing quite well, thank you. Bookings in all of the major cities, plus stops in Asia scheduled for next Fall."
"So what happened then?"
He drummed four fingers along the tip of his knee, tapping his thumb impatiently against his calf, before mumbling cryptically, "A guys in the tour had an accident and couldn't skate anymore. Show was choreographed for eight principals. I didn't have time to find a replacement, so we folded for the season. Now I need a gig, and I thought I'd give this coaching thing a shot."
He was being awfully casual about his life-altering change of fortune, and that bothered Gabrielle, on a psychological level. He was obviously in denial about something. But, whether to himself or to her, she couldn't be sure. What bothered her on a personal level, though, was the way he kept looking at her. From the moment he came in, Chris' eyes never quit moving. He took sensual stock of Gabrielle's every feature, pausing a good instant longer than he had to on her lips, her neck, her chest. She figured she should be taking offense. But, Gabrielle couldn't shake her longing to ask him exactly how her... assets... had measured up.
Clearing her throat in the fervent hope that trying to produce a coherent thought would distract her from further speculation, she told Chris, "You do know that our policy here is markedly different from most other facilities."
"Yes, yes," Even as he dismissed her life's goal with a wave of a hand, that flirtatious smile never left his face. "You've got some cuckoo idea about producing stress-free champions."
Gabrielle's past resentment of Chris Kelly mingled with newly swelling indignation. She didn't appreciate being toyed with. "If you think my ideas are ridiculous, why do you want to work here?"
"Oh, I don't know, luv. Could be I want to save the kids you got training here from ending up as half-assed principles trapped inside an Ice Capades Smurf suit."
She supposed that thirty years of rudeness tempered with that British accent and killer smile, made Chris believe he could get away with any impertinence. But Gabrielle wasn't some star-struck fan hanging over the barrier, hoping for an autograph. Or, well, at least she refused to be. "Look, Chris, if you want to work for me, you're going to have to play by my rules."
"Excuse me?" He leaned forward. "You, who couldn't tough out a single World Championship, are lecturing me -- two Olympic golds, three World Titles -- on how to train elite skaters?"
"No one is forcing you to work here, Chris. If you think my theories are so ridiculous, you're free to leave. In fact, let me paraphrase that. I'd like you to leave. Right now."
That seemed to set him back a bit. Good. It was about time someone knocked Chris off that high-horse he'd come riding in on.
He said, "I don't think that's your call to make."
"It's my center." Gabrielle reminded, although a part of her wondered how long that fact might stay true. "And I am officially declining the opportunity to hire you."
Chris blinked in surprise. Gabrielle wondered how long it had been since he'd last heard the word, "no."
"Cougar told me I already had the job. That this meeting was just a formality."
He was right. As soon as he said the words, Gabrielle knew he was right. She was at Cougar's mercy. She had to do whatever they said, or risk losing all of her funding.
Chris continued, "Frankly, Gabrielle, you ought to be leaping to hire me on. I know who's working here. They're worse than has-beens. They're never-was-beens. None of your coaches know what it takes to be champion. Or have what it takes to beat John."
"What?" She'd been so busy amassing synonyms for "blackmail" to use in her memo to Cougar, that she barely heard a word Chris said, until the last part. "What are you talking about, beat John? John and I aren't in competition."
"Oh, right, of course," Chris smirked. "Fifty states in this country, and you choose to construct your training center barely a stone's throw from his. That means your skaters will face John's at Regionals and at Sectionals. It also means that any student who leaves his facility will have practically no choice but to come to yours. Yes, I'm sure the entire set-up was purely coincidental."
She'd never thought about it that way. Well, alright, maybe she had. Once. Briefly. Gabrielle grit her teeth. Apparently, the past years had not only made Christian Kelly more titled and more attractive, but also more aggravating. He'd zeroed in on her discomfort with the same precision he once employed for his third tracing of a compulsory figure. In his eyes, Gabrielle saw the same determination to win or die trying, that Chris used to flash before every competition, no matter how minor. With him, it wasn't the prize that was at stake, but the principle of refusing to lose. After all, this was the same guy who once psyched out a competitor by waiting for the other man to begin his preparation for a jump, then dashing in front of him, causing a collision. The same Chris who, after receiving a mark he deemed unfairly low, leapt from the kiss-and-cry area, grabbed the offending judge by his lapels and pulled him onto the ice, daring him to demonstrate how the program could have been skated better. He was hardly someone capable of spotting a weakness in his opponent, and letting it go at that.
"You know what all this is about?" Chris dismissed her wall of diplomas with the flick of one hand. "This is about you wanting to prove John was responsible for your bloody breakdown, instead of just admitting that you never had what it takes to make it."
She inhaled sharply, shocked not only by the belligerence of Chris' attack, but by the uncanny accuracy of his analysis. How in the world had he, in barely a few minutes, managed to comprehend a truth Gabrielle still only intermittently admitted to herself?
He continued, "The only problem you've got with me, Gabrielle, is you simply can not forgive me for succeeding where you failed."
"That's nonsense. My refusing to hire you has nothing to do with -- " but Chris had already slammed the door behind him.
She dreaded calling Cougar. Their marketing director hadn't made hiring Chris sound like a suggestion. She suspected he might prove cranky when she told him things hadn't gone exactly to plan.
Actually, he wasn't cranky. He was livid. The only way she could think of to keep him from firing her, was to assure him that they didn't need Chris. They had someone better. Abby Lawton.
"Who the hell is Abby Lawton?"
"She's a skater. She's seventeen years old now, but, when she was ten, she was the youngest American ever to land a Triple jump-Triple jump combination. She won her first international event at twelve, and competed at the World Championships at thirteen. She made the cover of Sports Illustrated as the most promising Olympic hopeful in the country. And, here's the best part. She wants to train with us. So, you see, we don't need Christian Kelly to make champions for us. We've already got one."
Not all of Gabrielle's hard-sell to Cougar was a lie. There really was an Abby Lawton, she really was the youngest American to land a Triple-Triple, and she really was interested in skating at their center. The lie came in the details Gabrielle left out.
One year earlier, Abby Lawton had been competing at the U.S. Championships as a favorite to make the World Team. Two minutes into her routine, she unexpectedly stopped skating. The judges thought maybe her shoelace had broken, and waited for her to skate over to the referee and explain the problem. But Abby stood frozen at center-ice, staring at the full-capacity audience as if seeing them for the first time. She took a step, tripped, and landed on her hands and knees. She started shaking, fumbling around on all fours and compulsively scraping the ice with her palms until they bled. Her coach, John Ramsey, trudged to get her, but she fought him when he tried to carry her off. The rink doctor sedated her. After that, no one heard anything about Abby for almost a year.
She'd resurfaced only a few weeks earlier. Her mother, Shana, called all of the big training centers, University of Delaware, Ice Castle, Indiana/World Skating Academy, Broadmoor, to tell them her daughter was back and was accepting new training offers. Gabrielle assumed that when all the other places informed Shana they wouldn't go near Abby with a ten foot pole, Mrs. Lawton called her.
Gabrielle hung up with Cougar, and drove to the Lawtons' home in San Francisco. Shana opened the door, and lead Gabrielle into the living room, where an entire wall was covered by a trophy case for Abby's medals. A portrait of Abby atop a podium hung over the fireplace. Right beside the framed magazine covers, Blades, Sports Illustrated, American Skating World, Skating. Abby's mother wore an NHK Trophy shirt and Skate America sweat-pants. Her rhinestone encrusted fingernails spelled out V S K 8 4 A U N O W. Gabrielle deciphered the message to read, We skate for Gold now.
Shana gestured for Gabrielle to sit, explaining, "Abby is so excited about training at your place. I think a change of scenery is exactly what she needs to get over the setback of last year."
Gabrielle let her euphemism pass, observing, "A facility like mine, which emphasizes a stress-free training environment, should certainly help Abby -- "
"And she's very excited about working with Christian Kelly."
Gabrielle blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Christian Kelly. When I heard you were adding him to your coaching staff, I knew yours was the only place for my Abby. He's a brilliant skater, don't you think? Well, of course, you do, why else would you hire him? I remember a number he did to Brazilian music once, such nice choreography. He'll be wonderful for Abby."
Gabrielle wondered how gossip managed to travel at the speed of light. She'd only found out about hiring Chris yesterday and, already, it was the talk of the skating world.
She tried telling Shana that the story about Chris was just a rumor. Abby's mother looked horrified. "But, Christian Kelly was the only reason I considered bringing Abby to your center. You are brand new, you know. You haven't really produced titles. I can't take the chance of risking my Abby's future on just anyone."
"Mrs. Lawton, considering Abby's problems last year, I don't think a traditional center is the right place for her to be. My rink, on the other hand, could give her exactly the sort of -- "
"She isn't getting any younger. Girls who were Novices when my Abby made the World Team, they're coming up the ranks, taking her spot. I'm not about to let that happen. We've put too much work into this. We want the best. We want Christian Kelly."
Gabrielle took a deep breath. She didn't think Cougar would react well to her going back on her word twice in one day. After the fiasco with Chris, she couldn't fail with Abby, too.
So, brushing her misgivings aside, she assured Shana, "Abby can start her first lesson with Chris Monday morning."
And then she went out to make it happen.
It wasn't until Gabrielle was climbing into her car that she realized she hadn't even met Abby.
It took Gabrielle two tries before she could dial the phone number Cougar left her for Chris. She'd never been particularly good at eating crow, and something told her Chris would insist on preparing the four-and-twenty-blackbirds variety.
As soon as he answered, she said, "I need to speak with you as soon as possible, Chris. It's about the coaching job."
"Sorry. I'm on my way out the door. Maybe some other time."
"I'll meet you wherever you like." She heard the desperation in her voice, and winced.
"I'm going skating," he announced.
Her heart sank. "At John's?"
"Actually, no. I'm not in the mood for a top facility today. Thought I'd take it easy and try Iceland, one of the public rinks."
"I know where that is." Gabrielle leapt at the opportunity before Chris changed his mind. "I'll meet you there in an hour."
She spotted Chris on the ice the moment Gabrielle walked into Belmont Iceland. He was impossible to miss. Skating on a smaller-than-Olympic-size surface, Chris' long strides had frightened all the other customers into cowering along the boards, wary of getting in Chris' way. The smallest children clung to the railing as he raced by, but it wasn't enough to prevent them from plopping down on their bottoms, knocked over by the wind he generated.
On ice, Chris appeared even more graceful than he had inside her office. He seemed to skate on a concealed air cushion located an inch above the surface, giving him the impression of floating, while simultaneously conveying intense strength with every step.
Gabrielle pushed through the swinging doors and stepped out into the rink area, standing by the boards and raising her arm to catch Chris' attention. He managed to ignore her twice, before languidly gliding over to her corner, and inquiring, "What?"
"I'd like to talk to you, Chris."
"Talk." He gestured broadly with his right arm.
Gabrielle opened her mouth, ready to concede that he was right and she was wrong -- and anything else Chris might require her to concede, if only he'd agree to come work for her. But, before she could even inhale in preparation, Chris pressed his hands against the boards and pushed himself backwards, winding up and executing a one-foot spin so quick, his features blurred like film running too fast through a projector.
"Chris!" she exclaimed in frustration.
"What?" He turned, eyes deliberately wide and innocent. "Did you say something, Gabrielle?"
She struggled to keep her tone civil. "If you'll just give me a moment of your time -- "
"Take all the time you want." A devilish grin perked Chris' features as he pointed his finger first at her, then down at the ice. "Right here."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Put on some skates and come on out."
"I -- no, I can't. I haven't -- in years. Not since -- "
"The World Championships?"
"No." She rubbed her wrists one against the other, as if that might erase the scars. "Not since then."
He shrugged. "Suit yourself. You need me, you know where to find me." And he skated towards the opposite corner of the rink, where, even if Gabrielle shouted, he wouldn't be able to hear her.
She had no other choice. Her need to save her training center overruled Gabrielle's sense of self-preservation. She returned to the lobby, paid her admission fee, and rented a pair of skates.
Her flesh crawled on contact with the unyielding leather, the damp sole, the flaking rubber tongue. She forced her feet inside, remembering the painful way they'd pressed against her ankles, and the way her toes ended up smashed with each step. Once, she'd had callouses to muffle some of those aches. But, after ten years, she was once again vulnerable to every discomfort.
Gabrielle clunked towards the rink, grasping the rail with her hands as she, tentatively, slid first one foot, then the other, on the ice. She loosened her grip, raising her arms for balance and wobbling unsteadily for a moment, before a long-forgotten instinct kicked in, setting her comfortably upright. She allowed herself a little smile, and raised her head, triumphant to have made it this far, in time to see Chris come barreling towards her at full speed.
She couldn't get out of his way if she wanted to. He was too fast and much too agile. Gabrielle froze, bracing for impact. She thrust her arms out defensively.
A quarter of an inch before collision, Chris twisted sideways, skidding to a hockey-stop, kicking up a shower of ice, and spraying Gabrielle in snow from the waist down. Her heart vaulted, vision swimming out of focus, startled by the speed of his advance.
"Welcome back," he said, and regally presented his arm to her, palm up. "Shall we Tango?"
Gabrielle wanted to kick him. Extremely hard and in the shin, then leave in a self-righteous huff. But, more than anything, she wanted him to come work for her. Keeping that in mind, she decided to play things his way. She raised her hand to receive his. But, Chris pushed his toes together, tapping his heels and effortlessly gliding backward, out of Gabrielle's reach.
"Come on, now," he called to her, arm still out, like a father encouraging his baby to take that first step.
Gabrielle bit her lower lip, and took a step towards him.
At the last minute, Chris once again slid out of her grasp.
This was ridiculous. Chris may have wanted to play pony-and-carrot, but that didn't mean she was obligated to indulge him. The next time he taunted her by holding out his hand, Gabrielle ignored her inhibitions and pushed off with all of her might, shooting past a stunned Chris and locking her fingers around his wrist, spinning him briefly and yanking him off-balance.
He stumbled precariously, not quite falling, but needing to put both hands down on the ice in order to remain upright. From the corner, one of the kids he'd previously knocked down, laughed.
Chris scrambled to his feet, wiping his damp hands off on the front of his sweater, and spun around, glaring at the giggling boy. The child abruptly shut his mouth and fumbled off the ice.
That was when Gabrielle knew she'd made a mistake. No matter how playful Chris may have seemed moments earlier, she should have recalled that he took his skating very seriously. She figured now would be a good time to apologize, to call a time-out, and return to the business at hand. Preferably before Gabrielle did something else stupid and alienated Chris for good. She began, "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't come here to -- "
But the remaining words were startled out of her mouth by his coming up from behind and gripping her hip-bones in his hands. She wondered how, amidst such sniffling cold, Chris' palms felt so hot. And why that heat should send such a chill throughout her body.
But Chris allowed Gabrielle little time to ponder the mystery, as, unexpectedly, he jerked her backwards, dragging her along as he commenced circling around the ice at top speed.
If there was a more petrifying, helpless, exposed feeling than being pulled blindly -- and in reverse -- while both the walls and the ground beneath her feet blurred into a dizzying mass, Gabrielle couldn't guess what it might be.
She couldn't turn her head to see where they were going. She couldn't reach behind to steady herself or do more than flail her arms wildly, grasping for non-existent support. She couldn't even dig in her toe-picks to try slowing them down. At the rate Chris was skating, any sudden move on her part would send them crashing into the nearest wall.
Wind whipped Gabrielle's hair, coiling it around her throat and inside her mouth. She tried closing her eyes, but that only made her feel more helpless, like plunging down a bottomless pit.
"For God's sake, Chris, let me go!"
"What's that? Speak up, luv."
"Stop this at once!"
As unexpectedly as he'd begun, Chris crunched to a standstill, prompting Gabrielle to thump against his chest.
She took a beat to catch her breath, trembling in indignation. Chris dropped his arms to his sides. Gabrielle spun around, poised to confront him. But she overestimated the distance between them, and ended up bouncing off his chest a second time. The denseness of his frame surprised her. He was so slender, it was tempting to mistake that leanness for frailty. But Chris was all solid muscle. Bumping against his stomach was like hitting a rock. His grip on her hips had felt tight as a vise. Standing close, she could see the finely chiseled definition of his biceps and shoulders. The warmth she'd felt from his hands now radiated from his entire body.
Gabrielle thrust out her arm, warning Chris against coming any closer. "Don't you ever, ever, do that again."
He pretended not to know what she was talking about. "If you can't stand the cold -- "
"Stay out of the ice-rink. Yes, Chris, I seem to remember you mentioning that to me once before."
For the first time that day, the look on her face prompted him to wonder if maybe Chris had stepped too far. It was one thing to jerk Gabrielle's chain an inch. She deserved it for the way she'd just dismissed him that morning, like she was doing him some favor with her bloody coaching job. But it was quite another to blow his opportunity entirely. Gabrielle may not have known how desperately he needed this job, but Chris certainly did.
He softened his physical stance, stepping back and sticking his hands in his pockets so Gabrielle wouldn't think he was about to go at her a second time. He offered, "Look, here -- "
"No. You look here. Who do you think you are?"
Well, at least that was an easy one. "I am Christian Kelly. Two-time Olympic Medalist. My name is in the record books. Next to Sonja Henie. And Dick Button."
"What you are, Christian Kelly -- two-time Olympic Medalist, is a narcissistic, self-centered, spoiled jerk."
"You say that as if it were a bad thing."
"Alright, Chris. Here's the deal. We both know why I'm here. Do you want the job or not?"
He could easily have gone on giving her a hard time. God knew Chris still had so much more to give. But Gabrielle appeared to be reaching the end of her rope. And the last thing Chris wanted was for her to lose her grip entirely.
He asked, "Withdrawing our official refusal to hire, are we?"
"Yes." Gabrielle's reluctance stretched the confirmation into three separate syllables.
Chris warned, "Careful, there. Wouldn't want you to strain any important muscles."
"You start Monday."
"Hold on, there. I haven't said yes, yet, have I?"
Her shoulders tightened, stiffening Gabrielle's spine. Chris watched as it took every ounce of willpower for her to keep from strangling him on the spot. She steadied her voice, inquiring, "Would you like to start Monday?"
"How's about Tuesday?"
"Monday." She spat the word out as if Heimliched. "Our first freestyle session is at five a.m."
"I never get up before noon."
Gabrielle ignored him. "The top two dorm floors are private apartments for the staff. There's a one-bedroom available. You're welcome to move in. Otherwise, living arrangements are up to you."
"Where do you live?"
"In the apartments. It's a five minute walk to work."
"So, we'll be neighbors, then."
Gabrielle looked absolutely thrilled at the prospect. "I'll see you Monday, Chris."
She fled off the ice, and Chris watched her leave. Slowly, he glided to the rail, thumping into the snack bar, and easing into a chair. He took off his skates without looking, untying the laces by rote, fingers covered in callouses from years of daily tugging. Chris flexed his feet, wincing with each tired crack. But his eyes never left the rink doors, still swinging lightly from Gabrielle's hurried exit. He thought how, if she hadn't chosen his bathroom for her Big Finale attempt, Chris would have barely remembered her.
As it was though, he recalled John wrapping her sliced hands in his towels, trying to terminate the bleeding, while Gabrielle's mother kept shaking her by the shoulders, howling, "How could you do this to me?"
No wonder she was so determined to beat John at his own game. Or, rather, to beat John at his own game while playing by her silly rules. Chris figured the likelihood of that happening was the same as the odds of, these days, winning a Men's World Freeskating Title without landing at least one Triple Axel jump.
Still, it was gutsy of her to try. John was so accepted as a master of his sport, that potential competitors didn't dare set up shop in his vicinity. The Pacific Coast had long been conceded to John Ramsey. Chris knew that even while living in England. At ten years old, he'd nagged his coach, until Erin agreed to send John a tape of Chris. It came back with "not interested," scribbled on the cover. Erin anticipated tears from Chris, or, at least, one of his patented temper tantrums. But he only pointed to the message on the box and pledged, "He will be."
Chris sighed, rubbing his right knee and remembering what his last orthopedic surgeon had told him. "If we remove another piece of cartilage, Mr. Kelly, there won't be any more left." The good doctor thought Chris should lessen his skating load. He was hazy, however, on what Chris might then do with the rest of his life.
Chris supposed Gabrielle would see something pathological in his insistence to keep skating no matter what. But what did she know? Ten years ago, she'd complained about the long hours John made them keep on the ice. She'd never understand how Chris lived for those hours. How he leapt out of bed every morning, pulled on his sweats and raced to the rink. How it were the hours in between that drove him mad. He paced his dorm room, counting minutes until it was time to go back, filling the monotony with endless sets of push-ups and sit-ups and stretching exercises. He tried getting interested in books or television, but, compared to the rush he received from skating, everything else bored him. Chris only felt fully alive when he was on the ice.
And he was damned if he was going to let some damn doctor, or worse, some split-second mistake that he was already sorry for as soon as it happened, keep him away from it permanently. It didn't matter what the experts said. Chris wasn't down for the count yet. All he needed was time, a chance for things to cool down. People would forget eventually. They always did. And then he'd be back. Chris certainly wasn't planning on spending the rest of his days coddling losers, while Gabrielle tittered around him, warning Chris against, God forbid, putting any pressure on the little darlings.
Even if Chris did fancy the way that gossamer hollow at the base of her neck throbbed while she lectured. When Gabrielle got angry, she inhaled sharply, trying to keep it under control. But all that restraint prodded her pulse into quivering faintly at her throat with every admonishment. The sight absolutely captivated Chris. He doubted he'd heard more than one out of every two words she'd said that afternoon, so fascinated was he with watching her heartbeat bubble beneath her flesh, and wondering what that sweet tickle might taste like against his lips and tongue.
He also favored the way she wore her hair. Not in a pony-tail exactly, but not in a French braid, either. Sort of a combination, the hair on both sides plaited inward, but the back swinging loose down to her shoulders. It rather reminded him of.... No.
No.
Chris shook his head, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyelids until exploding yellows and purples blotted away all other images. No. He had no right even thinking such a comparison.
He sprung from his seat, wiping grey slush off his blades and packing them in cotton-guards to prevent rusting. He left his bag on the bench, keeping one eye on it as Chris sprinted towards the public phone by the pro-shop, dropped in his quarter and dialed the number from memory.
He waited six rings before informing the answering machine, "It's all set, then. She doesn't suspect. I'm in."