Can a hotshot snowboarder de-ice the ice queen?
At twenty-six, Blake Tremblay is one of the oldest snowboarders in the game. His sights are set on the gold medal, and he knows it’s now or never.
Kelly Johnson has spent her entire life skating and winning. She’s had no time for friends or an active social life, earning her the nickname “Ice Queen” – in and out of the rink.
Blake makes a bet without knowing all the terms. His ego won’t let him back out, even though his target is none other than the American Ice Queen herself.
What are the odds the dreadlocked playboy can warm the frosty figure skater when the real games are unmasked?
Let The Games Begin.
📆 November 6th
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I wasn’t a big drinker. Ever. And I had no idea how many bottles of alcohol Blake, and I had gone through. Or when he got so funny.
Maybe it was the accent. It was a mixture of sort-of-kind-of-french and northern Minnesotan, which I guess was basically Canada. But when he spoke he rolled his Rs like a French man, and I couldn’t help but stare at his mouth. And I should have stopped staring or stopped talking after the first glass. Then he just kept filling mine up, and I kept staring, and there we were, me laughing and staring at his beautiful mouth.
“You really had a Mohawk for Sochi trials?” I asked, almost spitting out my Soju that was a sugary vodka and supposed to be a very popular drink in Korea.
Blake laughed and filled my cup again. “Yeah. I wanted to stand out. You Americans can’t have all the flair with your blue-haired swimmers.”
I pointed at him and leaned on my elbow. “Hey! Those summer guys aren’t the same, and you know it!”
He grabbed my hand, and a smirk crossed his face that brought out one small dimple on his cheek. I don’t know if it was the large amounts of alcohol we consumed or that dimpled smile, but all of my body felt flushed, and I was sure my face had to be redder than the Canadian flag. “It’s not nice to point, Miss Johnson. Even an American knows that.”
I tried not to focus on how warm and rough his hands were on mine. His whole palm covered my fists, and I briefly wondered how big other things were before quickly shooting that thought out of my head, and pulling my hand away. I didn’t need to think about sex, no matter how long it had been. This was The Games. Not a time for romance or lust. “I wanna see a Mohawk picture. Come on; I know you’ve got one on your phone.”
“Only if you show me one of yours pictures. I’m sure you have some from your early days of skating. The American costumes in the nineties weren’t exactly some of your proudest moments. Or at least that’s what your movies showed me.” He raised an eyebrow before taking a sip of his drink, which was more like a giant gulp.
Gathering some courage, I poured the rest of the bottle in his glass. “I don’t even know what I have on my phone. Nothing exciting. No 1980s scrunchies or poofy sleeved leotards.”
He laughed. “I’m sure you’ve got something. Now show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”
Meet The Author: Magan Vernon
Magan Vernon has been living off of reader tears since she wrote her first short story in 2004. She now spends her time killing off fictional characters, pretending to plot while she really just watches Netflix, and she tries to do this all while her two young children run amok around her Texas ranch.
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