Love on ice

Chapter 6: unwelcome tutor

Friday morning arrived like an uninvited guest, too early, too bright, and with all the subtlety of a slap.

I woke before my alarm, because of course I did.

My body had always been wired for discipline, even when the rest of me wanted to collapse into a pity puddle under the duvet. Thirty percent recovery. That number clung to my thoughts like frost on glass, clear and cold. I could still hear the physio’s voice, clinical and detached. “Thirty percent range of motion in the right ankle. No competitive return projected.”

I refused to let it define me. If the gods were testing me, I’d test them right back. Twice as hard, and with glitter on my blades.

The day passed in its now painfully domestic rhythm: physiotherapy stretches, breakfast (toast, bland), study, a lecture from Nikolai on some American sports thing I didn’t care about, a nap (which I took only because my ankle ached, not because I’m weak), and more studying.

By mid-afternoon, I was sprawled on my bed, phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly through i********: reels of figure skaters and skiers and flawless lives. Most of them fake. All of them stinging.

I didn’t want perfect.

I wanted purpose.

That’s when I found it; La Glace Brisée. The Broken Ice. A French novel about a champion ice dancer sabotaged and shattered, fighting her way back onto the ice. It was as if someone had cracked open my ribcage and poured my story into ink. My breath hitched.

Then came the gut punch: No English translation until next year.

Nyet. Absolutely nyet.

Within minutes, I had three language apps downloaded, YouTube tutorials on speed-dial, and a rapidly disintegrating sense of calm.

French verbs made no sense. Articles were gendered like they had a personal vendetta. And the accent? Every time I tried to mimic it, I sounded like a drunk goose. I had switched my phone to French mode, and queued up YouTube videos of cheerful Parisian women explaining nasal vowels with alarming enthusiasm.

One hour later, I knew three things:

1. French people really liked throat sounds.

2. Duolingo’s owl was far too aggressive.

3. I needed a tutor.

Downstairs, the scent of sugar and something vanilla-soft lured me to the kitchen. Lillian was dusting powdered sugar over a golden almond cake. Nikolai hovered behind her like a dessert gremlin, eyeing the mixing bowl like it was a national treasure.

“Touch that bowl and I’m calling pest control,” I muttered.

Nikolai flashed a batter-slicked grin. “No promises.”

“Lillian,” I said, already dreading the answer. “Do you speak French?”

She looked up, surprised. “Fluently. Why?”

Before I could blurt out Because I found my spiritual twin in a tragic French novel, my father appeared in the doorway like a summoned ghost.

“Lillian returns to the university next week,” he said, in that calm, resolute tone that meant I wouldn’t win this one. “Her research team is back in the lab.”

Great. The woman curing tissue degeneration didn’t have time for a girl degenerating emotionally.

“She’s not the only Francophone,” Nikolai offered way too casually.

A knot formed in my stomach. I already knew what was coming.

“Jace is fluent. Studied abroad in Lyon. Reads weird French books about, like... despair and baguettes.”

No. Non. Nyet.

I had interacted with Jace Wilder precisely twice.

Once when he smirked at me from across the rink like I was some ironic sports-themed meme, and once when he drove me to the mall and asked fifty questions like he was hosting a podcast. That was it. And yet, somehow, he’d embedded himself into my family like an invasive species. The Hockeyweed.

Nikolai’s phone buzzed. “He says he’s in. He’ll tutor you.”

I stared at him like he’d grown another face. “I’d rather swallow my own skates.”

Nikolai laughed, texting. Another buzz. “‘Tell her squirrels don’t have my je ne sais quoi.’”

The urge to flip the kitchen table was overwhelming.

Dad clapped. “That’s very generous of Jace.”

Generous? Generous was donating a kidney. This was sabotage.

“Oh, and,” Nikolai added with a devil’s grin, “‘I don’t do pity lessons. I do results.’”

I blinked. “Tell him if he sighs, smirks, or breathes too loudly, I reserve the right to test if hockey players float."

“He says you’re delightful.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’ll show him delightful.”

But I couldn’t deny the truth: I needed this. The book was a lifeline, and Jace—arrogant, infuriating, obnoxiously fluent Jace was my only way in.

I sank against the counter in defeat. Tomorrow: dinner with the Wilders. And now? French lessons with Smirking McSkatesalot.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Maybe this wouldn’t be a total disaster. Maybe I’d even survive. Learn something. Reclaim a little piece of myself that felt foreign now.

But if Jace started quoting Voltaire in a fake French accent, I was setting fire to his philosophy collection.