The road to redemption is far from smooth as ice in this sweeping romance between a figure skater and hockey player from the USA Today bestselling author of Collide.

Sierra Romanova was an Olympian figure skater before a life-altering accident on the ice left her with panic attacks every time she enters the rink. Now, back for her final year at Dalton University, she s ready to reclaim the spotlight, with all eyes on her including those of hockey player Dylan Donovan, whose audacious words goad her back into her skates to prove him wrong.

After getting kicked off his hockey team for his reckless behavior, Dylan is left with slim chances of making it to the NHL draft. But Dylan s whole world revolves around the ice, and if hockey is forbidden, well at least there s figure skating. Even better, it means more time at the rink with Sierra. Sure, he s helping her rebuild her confidence, but pushing her buttons along the way? That s just a bonus.

As the figure skating world awaits Sierra's comeback, she finds herself in need for a new pairs partner. The only person she knows who can match her skill on the ice is none other than the cocky hockey player who refuses to cut her any slack. Dylan's a wildcard, Sierra's a seasoned pro, but together, they might just be the perfect match on the ice.

Autorentext
Bal Khabra is a Canadian writer and booklover. Before she decided to jump into the romance pool, she spent her time gushing about books on social media. When inspiration strikes, she is found filling her Notes app with ideas for romance novels. She loves reading about love, watching movies about love, and now, writing about it herself. There really isn t much else that gets her heart fluttering the way HEAs do. She fell in love with writing and hopes to continue living out her romance author dreams.

Leseprobe
One

Dylan

"You failed your drug test."

Fuck.

With my phone pressed to my ear, I drop my head against the steering wheel, feeling the cold leather imprint on my forehead as I fight the urge to bang it until I forget everything that's gone wrong since I set foot on campus yesterday.

Dalton University is officially back in session. Well, classes may begin in a few days, but hockey has definitely started. Unlike coaches at other schools, Coach Kilner insists on getting all the introductions out of the way early, determined not to waste any precious practice time. I imagine he wakes each morning in a cold sweat, obsessively checking if he still holds the record for the most consecutive Frozen Four wins.

So, hearing those life-altering words over the phone at six in the morning from Vik Chopra, a junior studying premed, jolts me enough to make my hangover fade. A hangover I shouldn't have in the first place.

Vik, who volunteers at Dalton University Hospital, is the first to know all things health-related in college sports. He was one of the pledges for Kappa Sigma Zeta last year, and I helped get him into our fraternity. So, this call is an IOU if I've ever seen one.

The party from a week ago right before our preseason drug tests was sweaty bodies, booze, and clouds of marijuana smoke. The typical college party-though the ragers I've thrown have been much wilder-but I remember nothing except two girls, a brunette and pink-haired one, who really wanted me to see their bedroom. It was great, I mean it always is if I'm involved, and we didn't get any sleep that night. It's why I woke up in the middle of the afternoon, with the sun in my face and rope marks on my wrist.

My memory dips in and out, but I think it's better if I don't recall exactly how wasted I got, and if I indulged in way more than just whiskey and beer. Clearly, I fucking did.

What I do remember-vividly-is the conversation I had with my parents right before I left the house. I hung up on them mid-conversation, and that's when Tyler Sampson, our alternate captain, texted me about the party. If I hadn't been so irritated by the call, I would have had some fucking sense to turn down his invite. My first sign that this fall semester was off to a rough start should have been the fact that I willingly went to a Yale party.

"Is there anything you can do?" I ask.

In other words: Bury it.

It's a lot to ask of Vik, considering he's here on scholarship and is our frat's philanthropy chair. The guy organizes fundraisers and supervises frat parties from the good of his heart. He's the kind of guy you leave your drink with, and I'm the kind of guy that will drink your drink. He's a damn saint. His sister, on the other hand . . . well, let's just say she's the reason I'm in the parking lot of the Iona House dormitory at six in the morning. But I don't tell him that.

"You know I'd do anything for you, D," Vik says with a heavy sigh. "But even an inconclusive test would raise flags. Either way, the sports director and your coach would get an email about it." A series of keyboard clicks sounds. "I can keep your results private for now and see what I can do."

"Appreciate it, man. Text me with any updates." I drop my phone into the center console of my car. If this gets out, I'm screwed. Getting drafted to New York last month won't have meant shit since I haven't signed a contract. Nothing like a failed drug test to throttle you back to reality.

The sun is still rising when I pull away from Iona House. Last night, Mehar, Vik's sister who's on the diving team, invited me to her team's preseason party. She told me I reminded her of Nicolas Vasquez, a soccer player she's obsessed with. I didn't mind one bit when she asked me to come back to her dorm. Though, as it turned out, it wasn't Nicolas's name on her lips when her hands roamed over my body and her legs wrapped around my waist