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.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Bal Khabra’s Revolve, which releases on October 14th 2025.
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.
EXCERPT
“THIS RINK IS your bitch,” I tell myself, staring into my car’s rear- view mirror.
My breathing exercise doesn’t loosen my white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. I’ve been in my car for thirty minutes, watching the hockey team exit the arena like a creep. The music playing in my car fuels my momentum, and before I can change my mind, I sling my gym bag over my shoulder and hop out.
In and out, Sierra. Dark nostalgia coats me like tar at the sight of the arena. I swallow around the thick lump in my throat, taking a hesitant step forward, then retreating two steps back. If someone were watching, they’d think I’ve lost my mind. Sometimes it feels like I have.
My feet stay rooted as I try to fight the flood of memories pulling me back to last year. But the effort is useless; they always claw their way back.
Then the doors screech open. The guy who steps out is so large he crowds the whole entrance. He seems like he’s lost in his own world, but when he spots me, he holds the door open. He’s big, broad- shouldered, probably a hockey player, judging from his massive gear bag. His brown wavy hair is disheveled like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times. He’s the type of NCAA hockey player you’d see all over social media, with countless fan accounts and a shiny NHL contract cushioning him.
Nerves aside, I waited in my car to avoid this exact interaction, but it’s a blessing because now I have to go inside. After a few whispered affirmations, I realize he’s still watching me, brown eyes tracing my lips. He looks at me like I’m casting spells.
“Are you going inside?” he asks in a deep, rumbly voice. He holds the door wider as if I’m having issues hearing. The sight of the blue hallway makes my heart pound like a ticking time bomb, threatening to curl me into the fetal position. God, that would be embarrassing.
“If I let go, the door’s going to lock,” he says, softer now. I blink.
“I don’t bite, if that’s what you’re worried about.” His lips slant into a lazy smirk. “Promise.”
He says it like he wants me to find out whether that’s true. The
old Sierra would’ve had a snarky retort for the cocky hockey player, but I haven’t been her for a long time. I slide past him and step inside the rink.
“Have fun,” he remarks casually, leaving his words to linger like an echo.
I head to the locker room, lace up my skates, and lean against the locker, murmuring affirmations. It’s not long before I start drifting.
The blood-soaked memories hold me hostage again. My mom’s tear-streaked face and her desperate calls for me over and over—
“Devushka.”
I jolt awake, and my head bangs against the locker. The rush of cold air and the smell of chlorine surround me all at once, and I look up to find Coach Lidia Orlov. Dark brown hair, arched brows, and lips pressed into a thin line of worry.
Crap. It’s happening again. After this morning, I tried all my calming techniques. Breathing, counting, EFT tapping, and knit- ting. But the latter’s overkill now that I’ve knit enough scarves to keep a small family warm.
“If this is too much for today, we can try again next week,” Lidia says.
Her pity is a sharp knife to my gut. It’s that same damn look everyone’s been giving me since the accident. Like I’ve become some fragile thing. Too weak to be what I once was. Apparently, you can’t crack your head open on the ice and fall on your partner’s skate to suffer a collapsed lung without people treating you differently.
“I’m ready. I just didn’t get much sleep last night.” Or any night, but I don’t tell her that. I can’t have another person give up on me.
“How’s this?” Lidia taps her forehead, still scrutinizing me.
My brain? Oh, just a complete fucking mess. “Sharper than a computer,” I say instead. If that computer was dropped and smashed into tiny bits. Then scattered across Connecticut waiting for me to find them and piece it back together.
With that, I slap on my skate guards and fling myself off the bench, tugging at my tights and feeling the familiar weight of my anklet. I don’t know why I still wear it, because my ex-partner got it for me. But it’s a good luck charm, and the one time I forgot it on his hotel bedside table, it was the day I fell. Go figure.
The ice should fear you. My aggressive outlook on today’s skating session is thanks to propranolol. That pink pill I swallowed this morning is the only reason my legs haven’t buckled. My chest is barely in a vise, and I haven’t spiraled. I won’t. Not today.
I even called the campus sport clinic pharmacy to get a refill since mine is on an as-needed basis. And clearly, it’s needed. But as much as I need the pill, I can’t stop seeing it as a crutch. Something the old me never would have taken.
“Just do what you’re comfortable with,” Lidia says once I’m on the ice. The woman is known to be as cold as a Russian winter, but now she’s babying me. The ice won’t bite, Sierra. Lidia’s old voice is still loud in my head. With this pace, the Zamboni will run you over.
My first lap is confident, or at least I pretend it is. But the moment I attempt a toe loop, everything crumbles. My landing is shaky and novice, nothing like a former Olympian’s. My next jump barely gets any air, a shitty attempt that tightens that knot in my stomach and makes the back of my eyelids sting. Don’t cry.
An hour or so slips by in a haze of amateur footwork and personifying Bambi on ice all while I force myself not to let the frustrated tears fall. My first practice back, and all the promises I’ve made to Lidia have already begun to rip at the seams.
To my surprise, she doesn’t look angry. Not even a little. “It’s a good start. Nothing a few practices won’t fix. Since your hiatus”—calling it that sounds better than near-death experience, I suppose—“I’ve been working on some solo per—”
“I’m doing pairs.” I’ve been doing pairs since I left singles at sixteen. Four years ago. I am not going back.
Lidia cocks her head. “I didn’t know you had a new partner.”
Yeah, so, the thing about nearly career-ending freak accidents is that nobody wants to pair with you. After my ex-partner, Justin Petrov, dropped me like a hot potato—literally and figuratively—I’ve become damaged goods to the skating community.
When I switched to pairs, I chose Justin because he was good and only associated with people who could cater to that. I’ve never changed myself for anyone, but for him I had.
“I don’t,” I say, and her face contorts. “But I’ve been looking!”
