Chapter Three

Iglance at my sketch once more and ensure the equipment is all in its proper place. Of course, at tomorrow’s game, everything will be different with the lights and pyrotechnics. I’ve done this routine dozens of times already. I know it by heart. All I’ll need to do is ensure everything is set up properly during the intermission. I’m not worried, though. I thought I would be, but now that I’m in my element everything feels right again. I’m home here. I’m myself here.

Freya insisted I needed a spotter for my practice. She’s probably not wrong, but I have a net. During the actual show, I won’t have one, but for practice I always install a catch net under my equipment. No one needs to die with a new stunt gone wrong during practice.

I adjust my leotard and stretch again. I’m without makeup right now because it’s thick and heavy, and also expensive to put on just to keep my identity a mystery when it’s only Freya and me here. I’m not sure what she’ll do if I fall, but if it makes her feel better to stand guard for me then I won’t stop her.

I work through the beginning of the routine, some simple gymnastic flips that bring me across the mat to a series of poles. Hoisting myself up on them, I balance my body on the small platform, contorting it in the most inhuman ways while Freya claps in the empty arena. It’s louder than anywhere I’ve performed before. I’ll have to take that into consideration.

Once I’ve twisted and contorted through my routine, it’s time for the wheel of death as April calls it. It’s a circular metal loop that lowers from the ceiling. Once I’m inside of it, it raises high above the crowd and I perform a series of death-defying maneuvers such as dangling from my head with only my neck holding me on the circle. I spin and twist, flipping my body in directions that stretch it to its limits.

Once that part of my routine concludes, I’m lowered back to the ground for the finale. Fire breathing.

I glance over at Freya, who is already enthralled. She’s probably pondering why anyone would perform such feats of insanity without a net. For me, it’s a rush I can’t find anywhere else. It’s controlling my own fate, keeping my life in my own hands—and not my father’s. I love pushing myself to the absolute limit, trying new routines, and keeping people exactly where Freya is—on the edge of their seats.

From my table of props, I grab my bow and arrow. This part is fairly new, but it will only up the dramatics of the pyrotechnic aspect of my performance. On game night, there will be firework fountains and a ring of fire for the players to enter the ice. I’ll be the one to light the fire ring with my arrow. That’s the one that will get me up close and personal with the players, but with the lights down, me in full makeup, and the hype of the crowd, they probably won’t even pay me a bit of attention.

You still need to tell Aiden.That thought rushes through my mind again, but I shove it down and get into position to test both props for lighting the entry ring. On my balance poles, I contort myself onto my hands, steady, and pick up the bow with my feet. I had requested an assistant for this portion of the show, a man who could hold me up hand to hand, but Mr. Gregory didn’t want to hire another performer until he measured the success of my first show. Fair enough.

I pull the bow into position with my feet and aim for the target. My arms wobble a little on my perch, so I reposition. I’ll have to ensure that doesn’t happen during the show, but my recovery is perfect and the arrow lands in the bullseye, lighting the entry ring on fire. Freya squeals. This brings a smile to my face, thinking of how much fun the show will be for the fans, especially children. A real dragon? Not exactly, but the kids will think so, and it’s a lot of fun listening to their squeals of delight.

I descend from my position and head over to collect my arrow and turn off the fire ring, ready to practice the next part of my fire tricks. Freya must know what’s coming next because she’s standing now with her hands clasped in front of her. I don’t think I’ve ever had a more supportive and endearing fan, and we only met a few days ago.

Setting up my equipment, I’m sure to double check everything. Breathing fire is probably the most insane thing someone can do, but it brings in big crowds. It’s all about the chemistry, and I know it well. The thing is, the more you know about something the less respect you have for it. I’ve seen my fair share of gruesome injuries because performers didn’t respect their equipment or bodies, and I never want to be that person. I always check and check again.

Once I’m sure everything is set, I dip my torch in fuel and take a big mouthful of specialized lamp oil. This is the part that people won’t see during my routine. My torch will be pre-lit, and I’ll slip in that mouthful of oil seamlessly during my routine.

I take position and hold up my torch, then blow the oil out. It’s an insane arc of fire that leaps across the distance before disappearing into nothing. I use my hand to extinguish the torch’s flame just as I hear something clatter to the floor and echo in the arena. My heart races, but it’s only Freya who has dropped her clipboard and stands slack-jawed in amazement.

I chuckle. “Want me to do it again?”

“Can you? That was crazy!”

“Do you want to do it?” I ask, motioning for her to come down to the ice.

“Me? Um, no. Not a chance.” Her lips say no, but that twinkle in her eye is visible even from where I stand. I shrug and take another swig of the oil, light my torch, then blow another arc of fire. This one is even more controlled and emits a large black ring of smoke that the crowd will eat up. Mr. Gregory had the local fire department and structural crews approve my show, so I know we won’t get rained on in the middle of a performance. Another plus? Super cute firefighters on standby.

I wiggle the torch. “Are you sure? Last chance.”

She presses her hands to her face and glances around. “Are you sure I’ll be safe? I can’t promise Bridger won’t murder you if I get hurt.”

I motion her down. “Promise. It’s not nearly as difficult as it seems.”

She enters the ice and shimmies across it in the cutest little ankle boots. I’m not usually this open and friendly with anyone, but the employees are so sweet and helpful, it’s hard not to like them. A little shiver of fear rises up in my throat, but I force it down.

No. I won’t let fear keep me from living. I won’t let my father rip away another dream from my hands like he always does. I want to be a part of this Dragons family that I’ve followed for years.

Then you better talk to Aiden,my inner voice taunts.

I refocus on Freya and walk her through everything, including reassuring her that she will not catch on fire. “It only ignites when it’s sprayed, so it won’t flame back into your mouth. Trust me. I’ve screwed this up a hundred times, and I’m still alive.”

“That’s…comforting?”

I smile and hand her the torch before walking her through the process once more. The other crazy thing about this is, aside from April, I don’t make friends with women very easily. Most of the women in my family circle are carnivores out for blood, so it’s always been easier to avoid them. It’s odd having a conversation with another woman who genuinely wants me to succeed.

“Okay, you promise this is okay?” Freya asks once more.

“Promise. Ready?”

She takes a deep breath and nods. I light her torch and hand her the bottle of oil. She takes a small mouthful and wipes her lips. With a glance in my direction, she steadies herself.

“Just focus on spraying it out far away. It’ll be warm but won’t burn you.”

She blinks her eyes closed, then opens them and blows the oil out. It’s a little arc but it’s still impressive for a first attempt. She flails the torch out towards me, so I grab it and extinguish it before she lights my clothes on fire. Her eyes are bright and wide and her laughter carries through the arena.

Along with the distinct sound of men banging around in the tunnel, ready to enter the ice for practice. I panic and check the clock. I’m twenty minutes over my allotted practice time, and they’re ten minutes early. I was supposed to have a thirty minute buffer to protect me.

“Go. I’ll get with maintenance and have this cleaned up. There’s an exit that way. Hurry.” Freya pushes me in the opposite direction. I’ll barely have time to escape before they make their way to the ice. All of my equipment is sprawled out, so I’ll have to come in extra early before the game tomorrow and check it all out.

“Hey, Pix. What are you doing down here?” a man’s deep voice asks.

“Getting some shots of the mascot practice for the socials. Guess what?” Freya says. “She taught me to breathe fire!”

His response is muffled as I slip into the empty hallway. I lean against the wall and take a few breaths, trying to slow my racing heart. I know Freya won’t out me, but something about her telling her fiancé—at least, I assume that’s who she told, that I taught her to breathe fire has me worried he might hunt me down just to make sure I know he’ll murder me if I get her injured.

This is going to be harder than I thought.

I can’t expect Freya and Chantelle to lie to their friends and significant others, but telling everyone who I am, Aiden included, will probably have devastating consequences.

Voices carry into the hallway from the ice and I’m reminded of just how much I loved those sounds. The sloshing and slicing of skates, the scraping and tapping of the sticks, even the smack and bang of bodies against the glass.

And that other sound.

Aiden Doyle’s unmistakable laughter.

My heart seizes, pinching the breath out of me. I grasp my leotard front and lay my head back against the wall, desperate to control the stinging in my eyes. It’s the same, even after all these years. The deep, smooth, mellifluous tone wraps its way around my heart, squeezing even tighter. I can’t breathe. Can’t speak. Can hardly move as I force myself off the wall.

I finally make my way to my office area and change, peeling my practice leotard from my body. I need to go home, shower, forget about how the mere sound of his laugh takes me back more than a decade. Back to a time when his laughter enveloped me in safety, security, and love. I dress quickly and grab my bag, aiming to escape before anyone can see me.

Out in the main hallway, I check both directions before entering the open plaza area where massive glass doors separate me from sweet security in my car. Only, that laugh catches me again and I freeze. Glancing over my shoulder, I spy a lounge seating area. Their practice won’t end for a long time, and no one else is around. I could slip into the lounge and see what’s going on down on the ice. After all, I need to make sure my equipment isn’t getting run over or thrown around.

Yeah, right. I can’t even fool myself with that line, but it doesn’t stop me from heading into the privacy of the lounge. It’s high up enough that anyone on the ice would need to squint to even see me, let alone identify me. Plus, if I stand back far enough, no one would even notice a human up here. Slinking along the wall, more like a cowardly villain than a covert agent, I make my way to the part of the lounge that overlooks the ice.

It”s like my whole body is still tuned in to Aiden, and my eyes land on him immediately. All of the guys are growing out their facial hair—a playoff tradition, I have learned—but I can still pick him out of the group. I know how he skates, the way he moves on the ice, even the way he stands. His head swivels to the right and upward, directly at me.

I leap backward, but I’m certain the shadows cover my face.

After a few calming breaths, I step forward again. Aiden is in a battle for the puck while the others move into varied positions. The goalie shifts back and forth, anticipating their next move. Aiden tips into the tiniest space, steals the puck, and makes a breakaway before passing to someone else and repositioning to score. The player passes back to him and he shoots, barely making the goal between the goaltender and a sliver of open space.

His celebration is even the same.

And my heart hurts.

I’ve watched him on television, even pulled up some video footage of interviews, but it’s different watching him play in person again. I feel like I did back in high school, rushing to watch all of his practices after my debate club let out. We’d walk home, grab a burger or something on the way, and snuggle on his sofa before he’d take me home. We never spent time at my house. My father hated him, and even the mention of his name sent Father into a rage for days.

Irish trash.

Father wouldn’t even call him by his name. Only what he thought of Aiden and his family. They were poor…Irish…trash.

But I loved him almost from the moment we met.

When I can’t stand it any longer, I dart for my car and head home. I have to get it together before my first performance tomorrow night. April was right. This is going to be impossible, and I know I have to figure out a way to balance my life if I want the people I work with to care about me.

And I do. I want to be a part of this family that spends time together off the ice. Who supports one another through difficult times.

As for Aiden Doyle? He broke my heart, shattered it into a million pieces, but I don’t hate him. Perhaps if I tell him the truth, we can be friends. I can do that. I can befriend the man who promised me forever then threw it away like it didn’t matter. Then never talked to me again. For over ten years.

When I reach my townhouse, I take a moment to consider just how much can go wrong if I walk into the arena, go up to Aiden, and say hi. It’s me. I’m the new mascot. Can we be friends and pretend like we don’t have a massive history that includes me standing alone in a white dress at an altar you never showed up to?

Oh, and I still have that dress by the way, but I’m not still holding out hope that you love me and will eventually come back. Nope. Threw that hope out the window years ago along with everything else I had wanted for my life.

It was his mother’s dress, and he never came back for it. I tell myself that means nothing, but I can’t help wondering if, at the very least, it means he hasn’t found another woman he wants to marry.

With a deep heave, I push open my car door and head inside. Maybe a good meal and a full night of sleep will do what ten years hasn’t done—help me get over Aiden Doyle.