Chapter 14
Calder
I look for Arabella the second I walk into the rink. I tell myself it's habit while tossing my bag onto the bench. Routine, that's all. We train together. But my eyes still scan automatically toward centre ice anyway.
Then Arabella steps through the rink doors and something low in my chest settles.
I hate how instantly my mood improves. One second I'm irritated about being awake before sunrise. The next Arabella walks in with sleep-messed hair and a coffee in one hand and suddenly the morning feels manageable again.
Absolutely not.
I drag one hand down across my jaw while pulling tape from my bag. This does not have to become a thing. We train together. We get coffee. We kiss eventually probably. None of that automatically means emotional catastrophe.
The thought would feel more convincing if my entire body didn't already react to her presence like it's hardwired.
Arabella catches sight of me while stepping onto the ice. The corner of her mouth lifts slightly, small and automatic, and immediately I know exactly what comes next. She's going to make some comment about hockey players being psychologically unstable before six a.m.
"Rough morning?" she calls.
There it is.
"You say that like you don't look half dead too."
Arabella skates closer while rolling her eyes. "Figure skaters suffer with elegance."
The laugh leaves me before I can stop it.
Easy. Natural. Like this conversation has existed between us forever.
Arabella drifts to a stop beside me while tightening the sleeves of her jacket, close enough that cold air follows her movement across my skin, and my body adjusts toward hers without thought.
Jesus Christ.
I tell myself again that none of this means anything serious.
People get routines. People spend time together.
People hook up all the time without turning it into emotional dependency.
Except I can already anticipate her reactions before she says anything.
The shift in her expression before she gets frustrated.
The tiny crease between her eyebrows when she's spiraling.
The exact look she gives me before insulting hockey as a sport.
I've memorized all of it without meaning to, and I shove that away because it is not helpful.
Arabella skates past me toward centre ice, then circles back automatically when she notices I'm still taping my wrist. "You're doing that unevenly again," she says, and already reaches for the tape before I can respond. Like fixing things for me has become normal.
My chest tightens.
I watch her fingers smooth the tape properly against my wrist while she mutters something judgmental about hockey players lacking basic survival skills.
Her presence settles me. Instantly. The rink feels louder before she arrives, sharper somehow, and then Arabella steps onto the ice and everything inside me loosens without permission.
My body reacts to her like she's become part of the structure holding my mornings together. That does not feel casual.
The touching keeps happening. Not dramatically, not intentionally, just constantly.
Arabella skates past me during drills and I catch the end of her ponytail automatically before it hits my face, then my fingers linger briefly while tightening the elastic higher against the back of her head.
The movement feels weirdly practiced, like I've done it a hundred times already.
Arabella glances back over her shoulder. "You're becoming suspiciously useful."
"I contain multitudes."
She snorts softly and pushes off again. Easy. Like me touching her hair no longer registers as unusual. Which honestly feels more significant than the almost kiss did.
Later she leans lightly against my shoulder while pulling off one skate beside the boards, no hesitation, just tiredness and habit, and my body adjusts around hers instinctively.
I rest one hand briefly against her waist while stepping around her, protective and automatic, my thumb catching lightly against the fabric at her hip before I let go. Arabella barely even notices anymore.
My body already expects contact with hers.
We end up sitting side by side again during a break.
Of course we do. Arabella stretches her legs out beside mine while drinking water, our thighs pressing together lightly, and neither of us moves.
Conversation continues normally around it like this isn't completely insane.
Arabella says something sarcastic about hockey players lacking emotional intelligence and I reach up automatically to brush loose hair back behind her ear.
My fingers catch briefly against the side of her neck, warm and soft, and then Arabella leans unconsciously into the touch before I can pull away.
My entire body reacts before my brain catches up.
I drop my hand slowly. Arabella keeps talking anyway.
Not sexual. Worse. Familiar.
By the time we leave the rink, some of the public has gathered near the entrance as they wait for the rink to open.
Without thinking, I step slightly behind Arabella while guiding her through the space with one hand against the small of her back and my hand stays there longer than necessary.
Arabella glances up at me briefly. Aware.
Soft around the edges. At some point touching her stopped feeling deliberate.
The problem with routines is that eventually other people start noticing them.
Arabella and I walk into the café together after training like we always do now. She's halfway through complaining about a competition judging panel when one of the newer defensemen from the team steps into our path near the counter.
"Hey," he says to Arabella. Friendly. Casual. Then he smiles.
I dislike him immediately.
Arabella smiles politely back while adjusting the strap of her bag. "Hi." The defenseman keeps talking, asking questions about skating, competitions, training. I recognize the tone immediately. Interest. My entire mood tanks.
Absolutely ridiculous.
Arabella doesn't seem bothered. If anything she looks mildly amused while answering him.
The guy laughs at something she says. Then shifts slightly closer.
And before I consciously process the decision, my hand settles automatically against the middle of Arabella's back, the movement subtly redirecting her closer toward me.
Arabella glances up immediately. The defenseman notices too. His expression shifts almost invisibly, then he clears his throat. "Well. I'll let you guys get coffee."
Arabella nods politely while he walks away. The second he disappears into the line, awareness slams into me hard enough to make my stomach tighten.
That reaction was not normal.
Arabella turns toward me slowly. "You just did the hockey equivalent of growling at someone."
"No I didn't."
Arabella raises one eyebrow. My hand is still resting against her back.
I drop it immediately. Too late. Because now I'm hyper-aware of the fact that I instinctively pulled Arabella closer the second another guy showed interest. Not casually. Automatically. That reaction was not casual. Nothing about it was.
Arabella watches me quietly for a second longer, amused around the edges, then steps slightly back into my space anyway.
"Relax," she says lightly.
I exhale slowly through my nose while steering her toward the counter with another instinctive touch against her back. Arabella notices, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly. I'm absolutely becoming possessive. Arabella already expects it.
By the time we leave the café the possessive spiral still sits ugly beneath my ribs.
Arabella walks beside me through the cold morning air with one hand wrapped around her coffee cup while sunlight starts creeping slowly across the sidewalks.
Comfortable. Like nothing between us shifted at all. Which honestly makes it worse.
"You scared that poor guy," she says eventually.
"He survived."
"Barely."
The corner of my mouth lifts automatically. The conversation drifts into meaningless territory and somehow neither of us tries ending it.
By the time we reach her building, neither of us slows.
We just naturally stop together near the entrance.
Arabella leans lightly back against the brick wall beside the doorway while I stand in front of her with my hands shoved into my hoodie pockets.
The city noise fades softer around us. Silence settles between us easily now.
Neither of us feels nervous anymore. The closeness just exists now.
Arabella reaches up absentmindedly and fixes the collar of my hoodie where it folded awkwardly.
The touch lingers briefly near my throat, warm fingers against skin, and my entire body reacts instantly.
I catch her wrist lightly before she can fully pull away.
Instinctive. The movement stills both of us.
Arabella's eyes lift immediately to mine.
No panic. No hesitation.
My thumb brushes once against the inside of her wrist before I let go. Arabella's breathing changes slightly.
Neither of us moves away. Neither of us looks nervous.
My hand slides slowly from her wrist up along her arm. Warm skin beneath my fingers. Arabella's breathing catches slightly. Then she steps closer, no hesitation, and the movement knocks the last remaining distance out from between us.
My hand settles against her waist. Arabella's fingers curl lightly into the front of my hoodie while her eyes flick once toward my mouth.
That destroys whatever restraint I had left.
I kiss her.
The impact hits instantly. Relief crashes through me so hard it almost feels violent, like something stretched painfully tight between us finally snaps.
Arabella responds immediately, one hand sliding into my hair as she pulls herself closer without hesitation, and the first sharp rush of air she takes against my mouth nearly wrecks me on contact.
Weeks of restraint collapse all at once.
My hand tightens at her waist while the other slides along her jaw, warm skin beneath my palm, soft strands of hair catching between my fingers while she leans fully into me. The pressure of her against me wipes every coherent thought out of my head instantly.
No overthinking.
No control.
Just her.
Her breath catches when I pull her closer and suddenly everything turns rougher for a second.
Hungrier. The quiet little sounds between us, the way she grabs lightly at my hoodie, the way neither of us seems capable of slowing down now that we've started.
I guide her gently backward until the brick wall catches behind her shoulders, and she just follows the movement automatically, still pressed close enough that I can feel the uneven rhythm of her breathing against me.
Arabella laughs softly against my mouth before leaning back into me.
The sound hits somewhere deep in my chest.
Relieved.
My fingers slide into her hair again while I slow the movement between us for a second, softer now, until she tugs lightly at the front of my hoodie and everything deepens again.
When we finally pull apart for air, her forehead rests briefly against mine while both of us try to breathe normally again.
Shared breaths fill the tiny space between us, warm and uneven.
My hand stays curved around the side of her neck while her fingers remain twisted loosely into my hoodie like neither of us fully knows how to let go yet.
Neither of us moves back.
We just stay there breathing each other in.
Then Arabella leans into me again, slower this time, softer, and I follow instantly. My thumb brushes the corner of her mouth while she melts closer against me with this quiet kind of certainty that feels far more dangerous than the desperation did.
Like this is already familiar.
The kiss keeps escalating in waves. Foreheads touching.
Shared breathing. Small desperate kisses that turn deeper the second either of us tries pulling back.
But before things can fully spiral, Arabella's hands flatten lightly against my chest. Not rejection.
Grounding. Both of us breathing too hard.
I rest my forehead against hers while trying unsuccessfully to remember how oxygen works.
Arabella laughs softly beneath her breath, warm and breathless, and somehow that tiny sound feels more intimate than the kiss itself.
For a few seconds neither of us moves. Arabella stays pressed lightly against me with her forehead resting near my jaw while both of us recover. The city noise comes rushing slowly back into focus somewhere behind us. Cars. Voices. Footsteps.
All I can feel is the warmth of her against my chest.
Arabella exhales slowly against my throat while her fingers stay loosely curled into the front of my hoodie. My hand stays against her waist automatically, not because I'm trying to keep her close, because my body physically does not want to let her go yet.
Kissing her felt natural. That's the problem.
Okay. People kiss. People get carried away. That doesn't automatically mean emotional disaster. I know how to keep things contained. I've done it before.
The argument sounds weak.
Arabella pulls back just enough to look up at me properly.
Her hands still rest lightly against my chest. Warm.
Familiar already. Neither of us says anything for a second.
The silence is soft instead of tense. I brush my thumb once along the edge of her jaw while trying unsuccessfully to pull my thoughts back into something manageable.
I'm going to think about her all night. Not just the kiss. The way she relaxed against me afterward. The sound of her laughing quietly against my mouth. The way she held onto me.
Tomorrow morning I'll still show up early. I'll still look for her the second I walk in. I'll still feel my entire mood shift when she arrives. Nothing about this kiss changed that.
If anything, now it's worse.
Arabella's fingers catch lightly against the front of my hoodie before falling away slowly. I lean down and press one last slow kiss against her mouth before forcing myself to step back. Even then my body resists the distance immediately.
This was supposed to simplify things, I think while the cold air hits my face. People kiss. That part should have been simple.
Instead it feels like I just handed over something I don't know how to get back.
I start walking. Arabella stays near her door. I don't look back.
The street is cold and quiet and I walk faster than I need to with my hands shoved deep into my pockets, telling myself the same thing I've been telling myself for weeks: this is manageable, this is containable, this does not have to mean what it feels like it means.
I can still feel her against me even after the cold hits.
I told myself she was just a distraction.
I'm not sure the word fits.