Love on ice

Chapter 3: three is a crowd

Jace’s POV

I had imagined this moment a thousand times.

Anastasiya Volkova in my car, close enough that her birch and ice scent curled into his lungs. I’d pictured it softer, though. Less murder eyes, more… well, anything but the way she was currently digging her nails into her knees like she wanted to stab him through the heart.

I flicked on the radio. Some country crooner wailed about lost love. Perfect.

Then Nikolai nudged me. “Dude. Eyes on the road.”

Right.

I focused for exactly three seconds before my traitorous brain replayed the video.

Flashback: Two Years Ago

Seventeen and stupid in the Wilder family’s boathouse, Nikolai shoving his phone in Jace’s face:

“That’s her. That’s my sister. F*ck*ng art on ice, right?”

The screen showed a girl in a blue leotard, doing a spin, her braids flying like dark ribbons. Fifteen years old and already devastating. Jace had swallowed his beer too fast.

“She’s dating that d*ckh**d Anton, though,” Nikolai had grumbled. “Future Olympian. Blah f*ck*ng blah. The only Olympian I see is my f*ck*ng sister”.

Jace had shrugged. “Cute.”

Cute. What a pathetic word for the way his chest had gone tight.

Present: Backseat Tension

“You’re going the wrong way,” Anya snapped.

I tapped the GPS. “Scenic route.”

“It’s dark.”

“And yet, here we are.” I grinned at her in the mirror. “Alive. Thriving.”

She bared her teeth. “Barely.”

Nikolai groaned. “I’d like to stay alive. Faster, Wilder.”

Jace floored it.

Anya gasped, grabbing the door handle finally looking at me. “Are you insane?”

“Only about” He bit his tongue. Sh*t.

Nikolai squinted, his skate bag slipping off his shoulder. “Only what?”

My pulse hammered against my ribs. The words had nearly tumbled out "only about you" raw and stupid and true. Instead, i rolled my eyes. “Only about hockey”. The word tasting like cheap gum.

Anya snorted “Typical.”

If only she knew.

If only she’d seen the way my breath had stalled when she’d stepped off the plane, all sharp elbows and sharper glares. If only she knew how many times I’d watched that grainy video of her first Grand Prix win, or how her name tasted like a secret on my tongue. Anastasiya Valeryevna Volkova. A storm in skating tights. If only she knew that i had watched every one of her competitions since she was fifteen, or how I’d nearly put my fist through a locker room wall after her Nationals collapse.

Nikolai clapped me on the back, oblivious. “You’re such a weirdo, Wilder.”

I forced a grin, but my gaze snagged on Anya in the back seat

Yeah. Weirder than you know.

The car hit a pothole. Anya’s buckled

My gaze snapped to hers in the rearview mirror searching. “You good?”

No. She was trapped in a metal box with people she couldn't stand at the moment “Peachy,” she lied.

Nikolai grinned, clueless. “Wait till you see our new rink, Anya. Jace’s dad got them to install”

“I don’t care,” she interrupted.

My lips quirked. Liar.

The car slowed outside their house. Anya bolted before it fully stopped, but not fast enough to miss my low chuckle.

Game on.

Nikolai lingered on the porch discussing something about today's game

“Coach says we need to work on your slap shot,” he muttered.

Nikolai didn't respond.

The cold air bit through my sweater as I shoved past him into the house, where the scent of garlic and roasted meat hit me like a memory.

Lillian stood at the dining table, arranging plates with the precision of a woman who’d spent years trying to fit into a family that wasn’t hers. She glanced up, her smile tight. “Anya. How was the game?”

“Loud.” I grabbed a bread roll from the basket, ignoring the way my father’s gaze tracked me from the living room.

“Where’s Nikolai?” he asked, setting aside the newspaper.

“Outside.” I tore the roll in half. “With Jace.”

His eyes lit up the same way they did whenever hockey was involved. “Ah! I should invite him for dinner. The Wilders have been”.

“No.” The word came out sharper than I’d intended. Lillian’s hands stilled on the cutlery.

My father frowned. “Anya”.

“We just got here.” I forced my voice level. “Can we have one meal as a family before you start recruiting strangers?”.

A beat of silence. Then he pushed back his chair and headed for the door.

Nikolai’s laugh carried through the screen door. I didn’t need to look to know Jace was still there, leaning against his car like he had all the time in the world.

“your stick handling’s still sloppy,” Jace was saying as my father stepped onto the porch.

“Jace!” Dad’s voice boomed. “Join us for dinner. We owe your family thanks for looking after Nikolai.”

My fingers dug into the windowsill.

Jace’s gaze flicked past my father, straight to me. Even through the glass, I saw the challenge in his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You are intruding,” I mouthed.

He grinned.

“Nonsense!” Dad waved him toward the house. “Lillian made enough for”

“Actually,” Jace cut in, straightening, “I’ve got family stuff. But save me a plate for next.” He winked at me before sliding into his car.

Nikolai snorted. “You wish, Wilder.”

At the dinner table Lillian passed me the potatoes. “Jace seems… nice.”

“He’s not, I barely met him for 24hrs and it's like he is trying to get on my nerves” I said, stabbing a fork into my chicken.

Nikolai kicked me under the table. “He’s the reason I got scouted.”

“And we’re grateful,” Dad said, pointing his knife at me. “Which is why we’ll visit the Wilders this weekend.”

My stomach lurched. More Jace. More fake smiles. More of that stupid cedarwood scent clinging to every room.

The scent that reminded me of home.

Across the table, Lillian studied me. “You barely touched your food.”

I pushed my chair back. “Jet lag.”

Upstairs, I slammed my bedroom door.

I locked my bedroom door and pressed my forehead against the cool wood. The house smelled unfamiliar, Lillian's lavender detergent, the faint tang of American takeout, the lingering scent of Nikolai's hockey gear. None of it was home.

I turned and surveyed my sanctuary. My suitcases stood in the corner, still half-packed despite my earlier efforts. The bare walls seemed to mock me.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Step One: Unpack Properly

I knelt before the first suitcase, methodically removing each item. My mother's scarf went on the bedpost first; its faded cashmere the only familiar thing in this foreign room. Then the medals, each one polished to a shine before being arranged chronologically on the dresser.

The silver medal from Nationals glinted accusingly at me. I turned it face down.

Step Two: Skate Maintenance

My hands steadied as I unzipped the protective case. The blades needed attention after the flight. I worked methodically:

1. Wipe down with microfiber cloth (always start with the right skate)

2. Check edges for nicks (none, thankfully)

3. Apply a thin layer of oil (three drops per blade, no more)

4. Rotate the wheels (for the off-ice training I wasn't cleared for yet)

"You take better care of those than most people take of their children," Nikolai had once teased. He wasn't wrong.

If I had any chance being who I was I needed to get my routine back.

Step Three: The Ankle

I peeled off my sock more slowly this time. The scar stared back at me—an ugly, raised thing that didn't belong on a skater's body. The doctors had called it a miracle I could walk at all. I called it a betrayal.

The arnica gel waited in my toiletry bag. I measured out exactly a pea-sized amount, rubbing it in clockwise circles until the skin burned. Thirty seconds per rotation. Thirty percent chance of full recovery.

Step Four: Nighttime Ritual

The bathroom light was too bright. I kept my eyes half-lowered as I went through the familiar steps:

Brush teeth (two minutes, timer set)

Wash face (exactly 37°C water, as measured by the thermometer I'd packed)

Hair (50 brush strokes, no more, no less)

When I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I looked away quickly. The girl staring back had shadows under her eyes that no routine could fix.

Step Five: Prepare for Tomorrow

I laid out my clothes with military precision

Black leggings (no holes, no wrinkles)

Compression sleeve (left ankle only)

Sports bra (the one without the Russian flag logo)

Hoodie (oversized, stolen from Nikolai years ago)

The alarm was set for 4:45 AM, no, 6:00AM I had no rehearsal it was early enough.

I was reaching for the light switch when headlights flashed across my window. Peering through the blinds, I saw the familiar outline of Jace's Audi idling at the curb. He wasn't getting out. Just sitting there. Watching.

My fingers tightened on the windowsill. Was he waiting for Nikolai? Or

A knock at my door made me jump.

"Anya?" Nikolai's voice. "You still awake?"

I didn't answer. After a moment, his footsteps retreated.

Outside, Jace's car remained.

Thirty percent chance, I thought as I finally turned off the light. Thirty percent chance I'll make it through this year without strangling someone.

The engine outside purred to life. Tires crunched on gravel as the car pulled away, leaving me in silence.

Alone.

Controlled.

For now.