As my rental car pulls into the parking lot of the Timberlake Titans’ practice facility in Rhode Island, I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. Perspiration beads on my forehead—a stark reminder that I’m not in Kansas anymore. Or rather, the icy arenas of Michigan where my choreography career has been neatly carved out.
That is, until now.
I step out of the car, taking in the sprawling complex before me. It’s so bright in this world of perfect people, huge mansions, and pretty seascapes, I have to blink twice, then pinch myself so I remember this isn’t a dream.
Well, it is a dream. My dream, of staring something new, over a thousand miles away from home.
My heart thumps a nervous rhythm against my ribs, but there’s an undercurrent of excitement too. This is it, Lila Mercer, ice choreographer for figure skaters, about to break the ice—literally and figuratively—with a hockey team.
“Deep breaths,” I mutter to myself, smoothing down the fabric of my blouse which clings stubbornly to my skin in the humid air. The building looms large as I approach, the cool blast of air conditioning hitting me as I push through the doors, offering a welcome reprieve.
“Ms. Mercer, welcome!” The voice booms through the lobby, and I turn to spot Preston Cruthers, my new boss, striding toward me. Fully bald yet young-faced to suggest he’s probably in his early thirties, he’s all smiles and open arms, his casual attire suggesting a laid-back confidence. His physique is that of the hockey player he once was: broad-bodied but slightly soft around the edges.
“Please, call me Lila,” I say, returning his smile as we shake hands. His grip is firm but friendly, a good sign in my book.
“Only if you’ll call me Preston,” he chuckles, and I notice the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes, hinting at a person who doesn’t let the stress of the job get to him—or at least hides it well. Well, from my limited experience dealing with hockey players, I’ve come to learn they don’t let much shake them.
Of course, what do I know? Until now, I’ve always been in charge of the pre-show entertainment. I’ve never really paid much attention to the main attraction.
“Deal.”
"I'm pretty new, too. They hired me as team manager in the off-season. After the shake-up."
I'd heard about that. Last season, Coach Thompson had left, taking a number of players with him. Legendary coach Pat Lawson, the toughest screw to ever do a turn in hockey, took over, bringing last year's team to the championships. But that's really all I know about hockey—what I read in the news so that I could get this job. "The team's really doing well this year, despite the new faces."
“Yes, but they can always do better. Which is where you come in. Excited to be here?” he asks, gesturing for me to follow him deeper into the facility. I can’t help but notice the ease with which he navigates the space, clearly proud of the environment he oversees.
“Absolutely,” I reply, though the butterflies in my stomach are doing somersaults. “A bit of a change from what I’m used to, but I love a challenge.”
“Ah, yes. The world of pirouettes and triple axels,” Preston teases gently. “Your choreography on that ice show I saw up in Michigan was stellar. Well, brace yourself. The guys here are more about body checks and slap shots.”
“Something tells me they might benefit from a little finesse on the ice. That’s where I come in,” I say with a grin, hoping my confidence isn’t betraying the slight tremor of trepidation beneath.
Preston laughs, a warm, rich sound that eases some of my tension. “That’s the spirit. We’re thrilled to have you here, Lila. Your reputation precedes you, and there’s plenty of buzz about what you can bring to the team.”
It’s an unorthodox practice, of course, asking an ice dancer who usually choreographs pre-game shows to help hockey players improve their game, but it has been known to work. I liked Preston because he’s willing to think outside the box and take risks as one of the team managers of the Titans. Apparently, Coach Lawson is pretty traditional, but when she heard of what I did with the Penguins in Michigan, after only three short, impromptu lessons, even she was sold.
“Thanks, Preston. I won’t let you down.” It’s a promise to him and a pep talk to myself. I need to believe in this new chapter, even if the pages are still blank.
“Never doubted it for a second,” he says with a wink. “Come on, let’s introduce you to your new kingdom.”
We walk side by side, and I can feel the weight of expectation on my shoulders, paired with an odd sense of belonging. This is a whole new game, and I’m ready to play.
Preston’s strides are confident as he leads me down the corridor, the echo of our footsteps a steady rhythm against the hum of activity surrounding us. The air is cool and charged with anticipation. We stop at a set of double doors, his hand resting on the handle before he turns to me with an expectant grin.
“Ready for the grand tour?” he asks.
“Absolutely,” I reply, tugging at the hem of my shirt, trying to calm the flutter in my chest.
He pushes the doors open, and we step into the expansive ice rink, the sudden drop in temperature making my skin prickle. It’s magnificent—the high ceilings adorned with banners boasting past victories, the seats looming empty around us, waiting to be filled with roaring fans. The scent of cold, fresh ice fills my nostrils, a familiar comfort that settles some of my nerves. I’ve always loved it, always felt at home near the ice, even during my very first lesson, when I was three.
“Here’s where the magic happens—or should I say, where it will happen, now that you’re here,” Preston says with a nod towards the ice.
I can’t help but smile at his unwavering confidence in me. “It’s impressive.”
“Wait until you see them in action,” he says, pointing toward the ice where the players are already warming up, their movements fluid and sharp. I don’t pay them much attention—truthfully, the game of hockey has always bored me. They look very similar to the Penguins—big, bulky guys who could do with a little agility training.
We continue our walk, passing by the players’ lounge—a comfortable space with plush seating and a large flat-screen TV. It’s clear that the team values relaxation just as much as hard work. There’s a camaraderie here that seeps into the walls, tangible even in the brief moments we spend traversing the area.
“This is our new lounge. A very popular addition this year. Players come here to unwind, strategize, or just catch up. You’ll probably find them here when they’re not on the ice or lifting weights,” Preston explains, his hand sweeping over the room.
“Seems like a great spot for team building,” I remark, envisioning the space filled with athletes, discussing plays or celebrating wins. It’s easy to see how this room could be a sanctuary for them.
“Absolutely. And now, let’s head over to the locker room,” Preston suggests as we move toward another part of the facility.
The locker room door swings open, and we step inside just as Preston points out, “This is where they gear up and debrief. It’s all yours once practice starts. And over there is your office, so you can get away with them when you need to.”
“Thanks, Preston. I’ll make sure to respect their space,” I say, taking in the neat rows of lockers and jerseys hanging with precision. The smell of determination and sweat lingers, a scent not unfamiliar to me—a reminder of countless hours spent at rinks myself.
“Alright, let’s get you to the best spot,” he adds with a hint of excitement. We exit the locker room and make our way to the rink-side, where a clear view of the ice awaits.
As we approach the edge of the rink, I lean on the boards, taking a look at the players who glide across the ice with purposeful speed. They’re a blur of movement—powerful strides, sharp turns, and the occasional playful shove that speaks volumes of their camaraderie.
“Here they are, the Timberlake Titans,” Preston says proudly. “They’re good, but with your expertise, they’ll be unbeatable.”
“Thank you again for the vote of confidence,” I reply, my heart thrumming in my chest as I watch a player execute a perfect spin, puck on his stick like it’s an extension of his body. The ease of his movements is mesmerizing, the raw athleticism nothing short of awe-inspiring.
“Take your time getting to know their style. You’ll be working with them closely,” Preston advises before checking his watch. “I have to run, but make yourself at home. They’re finishing up, so feel free to observe.”
“Will do,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper, still captivated by the display of talent before me.
Preston gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder and heads off, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the swirl of potential that surrounds me. I follow one player as he breaks away from the pack, his control of the puck impeccable, his focus unwavering. I can already picture the drills I’ll craft, tailored to each athlete’s strengths, pushing them to new limits.
I might not love the game of hockey, but there’s something thrilling about being here, on the cusp of blending my world of figure skating with their high-stakes hockey universe. My mind races with choreography ideas, envisioning these strong, agile men incorporating grace into their brute force on the ice.
“Time to make magic happen,” I murmur to myself, a determined smile playing on my lips as I head up the steps and out of the arena. This is where I’m meant to be, where my passion meets new challenges. And I’m ready for it—all of it.
Slipping into my new office, I take a moment to appreciate the quiet hum of possibility that seems to echo off the walls. This is my domain now, a place where creativity meets the ice. But first, it’s time for a quick freshening up; I’m melting from nerves.
I step out, scanning for signs directing me to the restroom. Though Preston just showed me around, I have a terrible sense of direction. The corridor outside is a labyrinth of doors, but one at the far end stands slightly ajar, and I make a beeline for it, trusting my instincts more than I probably should. I push through without knocking—big mistake.
The unmistakable sound of laughter and banter bounces off tiled walls, and as my eyes adjust to the brightly lit room, it dawns on me—I’ve walked straight into the men’s locker room. My heart careens against my ribcage like a wild thing as I’m met with broad backs, towel-clad waists, and more bare skin than I’ve seen outside of a swimwear catalog. It’s horrifying, and yet all those beautiful, athletic, muscular bodies are so enticing, my eyes have a hard time of looking away.
“Oh... I...” My voice is a strangled squeak, and my face flames hotter than the sun outside.
“Hey. Are you lost?” One player says, his tone teasing as he casually wraps a towel around his waist.
“Can we help you find your way?” another chimes in, pulling on a shirt.
“Sorry, I thought this was—” My apology tumbles out, tripping over my embarrassment. “I’ll just—”
“Hey, no harm done,” says a third, his chuckle deep and surprisingly warm, cutting through the awkward tension.
“Really, I apologize.” Mortification claws at me, demanding I sink into the ground and become one with the floor tiles.
“Everyone’s had a rookie moment,” the friendly giant continues, dismissing the others’ jibes with a wave of his hand. “Are you in the right place?”
“Okay, Lila, time to set the record straight,” I murmur, rehearsing the speech I hadn’t expected to give on day one. Then I speak in a loud voice. "I must've taken a wrong turn back there. I'm sure I'll be meeting all of you later, so I might as well get this out of the way now. I’m Lila Mercer, and I am your new ice choreographer.”
A few snickers ripple through the group, but I stand my ground and continue.
“I’m here to help you step up your game on the ice. The playoffs are just weeks away, and you made it in by the skin of your teeth. So you need all the help you can get so you don’t embarrass yourselves. Agility, precision, performance—that’s my focus. I come from a figure skating background, yes, but I assure you, I can bring a lot to the table that will benefit this team.”
“You’ll be weaving some pirouettes into our plays?” someone calls out, half-mocking.
“Only if you think you can handle it,” I shoot back, earning a round of surprised laughs and nods of respect. “But seriously, we’re going to use the finesse and control of figure skating to enhance your natural hockey prowess. Think of it as adding a secret weapon to your arsenal.”
One of the guys crosses his arms. “This is bullshit. You really think you can help us with your ice dancing?”
I steel my voice. “Remember the Michigan Penguins last season? Remember how they were a wild card, and everyone thought they’d be out during quarter-finals? But then they won the whole championship? And everyone wondered what their secret weapon was?”
Another guy scoffs. “And what was their secret weapon?”
“Me,” I say, to complete silence. “I gave them three lessons. Three. And that was all they needed.”
I watch with some satisfaction as they exchange impressed looks. Then I turn on my heel and leave.
Back in the safety of my new office, I shut the door with a soft click, leaning against it as I let out a shaky breath. The echo of their laughter still rings in my ears, but it’s the whisper of doubt that’s louder. I’m used to the precision and grace of figure skaters, where every movement is choreographed to perfection, every step rehearsed until it’s second nature. Hockey players are a different breed entirely—raw power and lightning-fast reflexes dominate the ice.
My eyes roam over the pristine whiteboards waiting for my strategies, the empty shelves begging for binders of drills and routines. It’s all so familiar yet utterly foreign. The Penguins’ success might have been a fluke. Can I really translate the artistry of figure skating into something these athletes can digest and use? The question gnaws at me, and I feel a twinge of insecurity.
“You can do this, Lila,” I mutter to myself, pushing off from the door. I stride over to my desk, flipping open my laptop. I’ve done my research, watched countless games and practices, but the knowledge that I’m stepping into uncharted territory sends a tremor through my fingers as they hover over the keys. Glancing at the framed photo of my former figure skating students, their beaming faces remind me of the progression we achieved together, the barriers we shattered. That’s what I need to do here—break down walls, build trust, and get close to these hockey players in a way I never have before.
But not as close as I just was.
I blink away the image of all those gorgeous men and steel my heart. This isn’t about finding romance on the job; it’s about proving to myself and to them that I can make a difference. I won’t fall for the chiseled jaws or the easy smiles. I’m here for one reason only—to turn these Titans into legends on the ice. My resolve hardens like the frozen surface I’ve spent my life perfecting steps upon. No distractions, no detours. Just the clear, unwavering path to victory.