On Thin Ice Read online

  ON THIN ICE

  By

  PJ Sharon

  Also by PJ Sharon

  A Girls of Thompson Lake Novella

  Sami's Christmas Wish List

  Chronicles of Lily Carmichael

  Waning Moon

  Western Desert

  Healing Waters

  Girls of Thompson Lake

  Heaven is for Heroes

  On Thin Ice

  Pieces of Love

  Savage Cinderella Novella Series

  Finding Hope

  Sacred Ground

  Lost Boys

  Savage Cinderella

  Standalone

  The Girls of Thompson Lake

  Watch for more at PJ Sharon’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Also By PJ Sharon

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

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  Also By PJ Sharon

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Journal Entry, May 15th

  I’m a liar. I know it, I hate it, and I can’t seem to help myself. I feel the lies piling up as if I’m being buried, each one a stone that keeps me pinned in a shallow grave.

  God knows I have my reasons for hiding from the truth. Truth is hard and ugly. The lies are easier. As Mom gets sicker, my world grows smaller and the lies grow bigger. The uneven ground beneath my feet leaves me unsteady, and I’m waiting for an earthquake that will disrupt my life and change it forever.

  At school, I’m expected to get all A’s. On the ice I’m expected to pass tests, compete, and win. At home...well, I’m expected to be strong, help out, take charge and be an inspiration—like one of Mom’s Celine Dion slit-my-wrists songs. If I am “Perfect Penny”, maybe everything will be okay, but I know that I’m lying, even to myself. Because no matter how hard I try, I will never be good enough to change the truth.

  ∞∞∞

  I hit the ice at 8:00 a.m. Monday morning. Summer camp was one more step on the path to Olympic Gold. At least that’s what Mom had been telling me since I was eight. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that we would never have the money it would take to get me to the Olympics, no matter how talented I was. I started keeping track of our costs in little journals when I was about ten. After calculating the thousands of dollars my parents had spent over those first few years, it was clear to me that unless we found a wealthy sponsor who saw my potential, the best I could hope for was the ice show circuit or teaching.

  That idea didn’t bother me the way it did Mom. I hated competing, but telling her that would have broken her heart. She had such high hopes for me, and with her cancer, I couldn’t let her down. So I worked hard and stuck to the plan.

  But plans have a way of changing. I could spin with the best of them, but after my second concussion when I was fourteen, I developed a phobia of axels. I had no trouble with all of the other double jumps, but every time I tried to kick through to come off of that forward outside edge, my body balked. Without a double axel in my programs, pursuing a competitive freestyle career was futile. Despite trying every trick in the book to overcome my fear, including use of a jump harness and off-ice training, nothing worked. “Instinctual avoidance”, my coach called it. So, Mom started me ice dancing, hoping I’d have a better chance at landing a partner—a possibility as slim as me escaping the horrors of daily life in the trenches at number four Barrett Street, also known as home sweet home. At least that’s what the sign above the kitchen door said.

  A group of girls stood behind me waiting for the Zamboni to finish cleaning the ice. They were townies like me, but much younger, ranging from eight to thirteen, girls I helped teach basics to as part of our club’s mentoring program. Chad, a twelve year old boy with a pretty face and short blond hair stood amongst the girls trying to blend in. I had noticed some hockey players teasing him earlier and saw the hurt in his eyes. Before I’d had a chance to go put the brats in their place, another guy in a hockey uniform had scattered the little beasts with a few choice words. I would have to remember to thank him.

  Chad was the token practice partner for that group, but none of them would land him as a permanent partner. There were ten girls to every one boy on the ice. It was an unspoken assumption that the boys got their pick of partners, and it only made good sense to choose a rich girl who could pay all of the expenses along the way.

  This was clearly the case for our premier ice dance team, Kent and Daphne, who stood off to the side arguing about costumes for the upcoming show. Daphne had her hands on her hips and a look on her face that meant the argument would be short lived and she would be choosing the colors they would wear.

  The lights overhead dimmed and crackled as they pulsed to full force in their effort to warm up in the cold rink. The Zamboni finished its final round. Carl, the zee driver and all around rink rat, jumped off and shoveled the residual pile of slushy snow out the double doors. We had to wait until the doors were closed and the puddles dried before we opened the gate and took to the ice.

  To my left, another group of girls closer to my age crowded in and pressed me up against the boards, subjecting me to their usual rants. The nasally voice of Cassie Phelps grated in my ear.

  “This rink is so totally lame. If it weren’t for having the best coach around, I’d be skating up in Shrewsbury instead of this crappy little town.”

  “C’mon, Somerville isn’t that bad—if you like the smell of cow manure,” Portia Whitman chimed in, working her long dark hair into a French braid and shooting me a dirty look. I followed her gaze as she glanced up at her bleacher mom who was dressed in a business suit and pecking away at her Android, probably scheduling Portia’s next fitting for a custom skating outfit, and ignoring her daughter’s antisocial snarkiness.

  There were several of these types of moms in the stands. Mine was conspicuously absent—just as she had always been conspicuously present. She took pride in the way she refused to put up with anyone who thought they were better than her because of money. My heart gave a sad lurch. Mom’s bold color choices and her Wal-Mart bargain rack clothes were a dead giveaway that she could care less about fitting in.

  Portia nudged me aside, opening the gate so she could be the first to get on the ice—like it mattered. I competed against Cassie and Portia for a dance partner and I couldn’t stand them. I felt sorry for the unlucky boy that got saddled with either of them. I smiled and nodded, ignoring the jab to my ribs and stepping aside to let the others pass. It served me best to keep to myself and focus on being the best that I could be—which would likely never be good enough. It wasn’
t that I didn’t have talent or didn’t work hard enough, but at seventeen, my window of opportunity was all but closed, and I knew I wasn’t cut out for the dog-eat-dog world of competitive skating. In the shark tank of figure skating, I was a guppy.

  The early morning fog dissipated once the dozen or so skaters blasted out a few laps. By the time the music started, I was well warmed up. My blades sang across the ice, cutting a deep edge as I swung my right leg through. I pulled my arms in tight and spun in the opposite direction to complete the twizzle that defined the Argentine Tango. I pushed hard to gain speed out of the turn. With my chin lifted and my head tipped to the right, I looked down my nose at the gracefully extended fingers of my right hand. I finished the third pattern of my dance and ended with a lunge followed by a sharp T-stop as the music ended abruptly.

  “That was a mess! You were flat going into the end pattern, and you need to keep those toes pointed with every stroke.” George Stewart was well known for his nationally ranked ice dancing teams—not so much for his patience or tact. Tall and slender, George wore middle age well, always dressed for a camera and ready with a breath mint. His hair was dyed a dark brown and slicked back, his nose long and prominent. He clapped his hands together on the beat as the music started again. “You’re still off time on the progressive-chasse sequence. Let’s see it again.”

  I rested my hands on my thighs, trying to catch my breath. To my eternal regret, I had the stupidity to ask, “Three full patterns?”

  He eyed me with the disdain of a man who believed I was a waste of his precious time. “You’ll do it until you get it right.” Thank God, my lesson was only an hour long.

  Three and a half hours later, I’d completed an hour lesson, an hour of power skating, (with George’s half-his-age boy-toy, Paul), a half hour of off-ice drills, and an hour ballet and stretch class. I was exhausted and exhilarated. It felt good, although I knew I would pay for it with new blisters and sore muscles the next day.

  Skating was the closest thing I could imagine to flying. The sensation of the wind in my face and the speed at which the barriers passed by, made me feel like I had wings. I felt light when I was on the ice, a wisp of air spinning and flowing like a spirit set free. If only the skating was all that mattered. I might not make it to the Olympics, but I knew that someday, I would teach. When I did, I’d be kind, patient, and supportive. And I’d never tell anyone they were fat.

  Giggles and chatter filled the dance room behind me as I made my way out the door, already anticipating whatever disaster awaited me at home. Mrs. Russell, our neighbor and Mom’s best friend, had agreed to stay with her until one o’clock. My internal clock ticked the time away. I slung my bag over my shoulder and waved to Tiffy and her little band of friends huddled together on the bench. They all chimed in together, “See you tomorrow, Penny!” I smiled in return.

  Then I collided with a solid object.

  “Hey! Look where you’re...” a boy with dark, sweat-soaked hair, and long-lashed hazel eyes stopped and looked from me to the front of his hockey jersey, now splattered in orange soda. I recognized him as the boy who had stepped in to help Chad earlier.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry,” I backed away, watching him drip and brush the soda off his shirt. The crushed cup lay between us in a puddle on the floor. He had a helmet under his arm and a hockey stick in his hand and appeared dumbfounded about what to say or do next. I sympathized. “Let me get that,” I said. I reached in my bag and grabbed the towel I used to dry my blades. I dabbed at the front of his shirt, avoiding looking up at his face, which I was pretty sure was crimson with rage or at least annoyance. How could I be so clumsy? ‘Good going, Gracie,’ I heard my sister Rachael say from the recesses of my brain, causing my own cheeks to flush with heat.

  “I’ve got it.” He took the towel from me and finished wiping his orange stained shirt. His eyes met mine and his annoyance melted away. “No big deal.” Then he smiled. I felt something click inside me. Like the lock being opened on a safe—only the treasure inside seemed both thrilling and dangerous. His eyes were the color of a frozen lake, a deep blue-green that sparkled like the sun shining through ice. My breath caught in my chest.

  I swallowed and looked down at the puddle. “I’ll tell Carl about the mess. He’ll take care of it,” I said, working my eyes up to his face again, happy I hadn’t fumbled for words.

  As if my ovaries weren’t in enough of a twist, he cocked his head to the side slightly, the light catching the shades of deep red and gold in his dark brown hair that was drying into wild curls and waves. “If you know the cleaning crew on a first name basis, I guess this isn’t your first collision.” He looked amused, which somehow embarrassed me more than if he’d been annoyed. He handed me back my towel, his fingers brushing against mine. I could feel his warmth and it sent goose bumps trailing up my arms.

  With his skates on, he towered over me by almost a foot, his wide shoulder pads making me feel like a five-foot-two-inch shrimp in comparison. It was hard to judge his age, but he didn’t seem like a high school guy and I didn’t recognize him as a local. I held the sticky rag in my hand, not wanting to put it back in my bag. “I try to stay on my toes,” I said. He was right about the clumsiness, but I wasn’t about to admit it.

  “That’s very funny. A figure skater...on your toes...I get it.” He laughed, a sound that sent an unexpected jolt to my already edgy nerves.

  I glanced down at my flip flops, skating skirt and leggings, and cringed since I hadn’t really been trying to be funny. But whatever it took to see him smile like that again, I wanted to do it. My face went a degree hotter and I looked at his feet, the beat up hockey skates still splattered with a few orange drops. Like an idiot, I bent down and wiped the tops of his skates. Not knowing what else to do, I resorted to cleaning up the mess on the floor. The rag was going in the trash anyway.

  “You don’t have to do that. It’s really no big deal.” He said, resting a warm hand on my shoulder. “Like you said, they have employees here that can take care of it.”

  “I am an employee. I work here on weekends.” I stood and faced him, but couldn’t think when I looked in those eyes again. What I’d said came out stupid or arrogant or...why was my brain not working? I could usually talk to people and sound reasonably intelligent, or at least lie my way through a normal conversation.

  “Do you work the front desk?” he asked. He had a lumpy little scar on the corner of his upper lip that drew my attention to his mouth as he spoke, which totally made my brain hiccup and want to tell him every last detail of my sordid life.

  “Huh? Oh. No. I work snack bar...three to eleven on Friday and Saturday, sometimes Sunday mornings from six to two or a week night shift when they need me. I’m working tonight...later.” TMI—he didn’t ask for my schedule, for God’s sake. Why was I blabbering on? I should have just said ‘yes’. Working the snack bar sounded lame. “I also teach the younger kids,” I said, feeling somewhat redeemed. “By the way, thanks for sticking up for Chad earlier.”

  “No big deal. I can’t stand bullies.”

  “Me either,” I said, unable to think of anything else useful to say. An uncomfortable silence settled between us and I stared at the rubber mats on the floor.

  “Well, maybe I’ll see you around.” I darted a glance up as a hopeful spark ignited my heart.

  He smiled a lopsided smile and stepped around the residual puddle looking back over his shoulder as he shuffled toward the locker room.

  “Yeah, maybe.” I called after him, “I owe you a soda. The next one’s on me.” Oh, God, did I actually just say that?

  He laughed again and looked back one more time before disappearing into the hive of buzzing hockey players. My heart fluttered madly behind my ribs. I watched him go, wondering who he was, and wishing I had asked his name.

  Chapter 2

  “Sit over there where I can’t reach you!” My mother shouted from across the kitchen table. Brain tumors cause mood swings and irrational behavior.
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br />   I held my breath and dropped my butt into the wooden chair, a table cluttered with newspapers and magazines between us. The last time she had said those words to me, I was thirteen. I had come home an hour late, and she grounded me for a month, making me miss my first school dance and the possibility of a date with Bobby Russell, the boy who lived across the street and the first boy I’d kissed when I was six. Puberty and my mother’s short fuse had put an end to a beautiful relationship. Four years later he was still dating the girl he’d taken to that dance. With my luck, he would probably marry her.

  Mom’s voice ripped through the small kitchen, making me flinch. “You’re grounded, Penny! I told you I needed you home by 10:00. If I can’t count on you to be here when I tell you to, how can I trust you with my car? What if I’d needed something?” She lowered her voice, her temper draining away like dirty dishwater gone cold. I sat silently, knowing she didn’t really expect an answer and that she would likely cut me off if I tried. “You know it’s your father’s night out. He won’t be home until late and what if I got sick?”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I stayed late at the rink to help close up.” A pang of guilt twisted in the pit of my stomach at how easily the lie escaped my lips. My shift had been over at 9:00. I squirmed in the hard chair, the fear of getting caught in my lies edging its way into my brain. “I know I should have been here on time...but you can’t ground me. I’m almost an adult. I’m driving for God’s sake.”

  “You can go to work or skating, but that’s it. I want you here ON TIME. I’m tired of you taking advantage of the situation. This isn’t like you. I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately.”

  The kitchen stunk of smoke and the dishes from supper sat on the counter, tomato sauce glued to the plates. I gazed at yellowed wallpaper pealing up in the corner and my mind drifted away from my mother’s voice and the smoke that burned in my nose. The thought of dirty dishwater gave me an idea. She wouldn’t make me sit there if I put myself to good use. The involuntary bouncing of my knee sent me into action. Keeping my eyes focused on the minor details of bread crumbs on the counter and the dusty angel figurines on the shelf above the sink, I put a few feet of distance between us and filled the sink with hot water while she continued her tirade. She ignored me and didn’t miss a beat.