He Iced Me Out, So I Kept the Whole Rink

I run Glacier Gardens. I coach the skating school, work the snack bar, and drive the Zamboni at five in the morning.

My husband Brett wears the nice coat and calls himself the director. He's never laced up a skate in his life.

So I'm the one who walks in on him with the flashy new instructor, half his clothes on the floor.

That's the small part. The big part is what he's promised a developer: my father's rink, scraped down to gravel for luxury condos. He can't sell it — it's mine, and this whole town knows it. But he told them not to worry.

He told them I'd sign. Because I'm agreeable. Because I'm nice.

I'm a rink rat. I don't scream. I smile, I let him keep selling a building he doesn't own, and I let the pro-shop owner who's been waiting eleven years for me finally stop waiting.

The championship exhibition is in six weeks. Packed house, whole town watching.

He's going to find out exactly what a nice woman costs.

Ice-cold revenge, two very hot nights, and one spectacular fall. No forgiveness, no second chances.