Chapter 29 - Karter | Two Months Later #3
Aleksey went still. The muscle in his jaw twitched, and a flush crept up past the collar of his jacket.
He muttered something in Russian and shoved his door open before I could get a good look at his face, but the tips of his ears were burning red.
A couple of minutes later, the chain-link fence rattled as I ducked through the gap behind him, still holding the skates.
We sat on an overturned bench near the slab and laced up in silence. The air was warm in a way that felt wrong for a rink; no ice fog, no chemical bite from the Zamboni. Just crickets and the low buzz of those dying streetlights.
Aleksey pushed off first. His wheels cracked over the rough concrete, the sound harsher and louder than anything on arena ice. I tightened my last strap, stood, and stepped onto the slab.
Aleksey was already halfway across the concrete, carving lazy loops through the orange glow of the streetlights. His shoulders were down, movements looser than I’d ever seen them.
I pushed off and fell in beside him, the rumble of our wheels filling the quiet.
“How old were you when you started skating here?” I asked.
He didn’t slow down and skated a slow circle towards the goal.
“Nine. My mom bought me this pair of used skates. They were three sizes too big. So I stuffed ‘em with newspaper so they’d stay on.” His fingers wrapped around the flaking metal of the goal frame, going white for a second before he let go. “My feet bled for a month.”
“But you never told her.”
Aleksey shook his head. “She worked extra shifts for those skates,” he said. “I wasn’t about to complain.”
I coasted to a stop beside him. “And now you’re buying skates for me.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
He didn’t answer.
“I used to come here every night,” Aleksey said finally, his voice dropping.
I skated a little closer. “Just you?”
“Yeah.” He looked down at the cracked concrete. “I’d pretend scouts were watching.”
“NHC scouts?”
“Anyone.” A slow exhale. “I’d pretend I mattered.”
The slight edge on that last word landed hard. I tried to imagine him as that kid who’d stuffed newspaper in his skates, and now he was standing next to me with a pro contract in his pocket, still carrying every sacrifice his mother made without asking anyone to help hold the burden.
I skated a tight loop around him. “So you were out here pretending to be famous. While I was stuck in figure skating lessons, disliking every minute of it,” I joked.
“Yeah, but those lessons gave you the edge work you kept rubbing in my face on the ice.”
“Still do.” I grinned as I began skating backward, pulling my arms in tight. The spin came easily, even while wearing in-line skates, as muscle memory from years of lessons I’d pretended to hate, kicked in. I landed clean on one foot and spread my arms wide.
“Show-off.”
“You said that last time.” I glided closer and grabbed his hands before he could pull away. “Come on. Waltz turn. Let’s see if you remember.”
“No way.”
“Aw, come on. You’re less stiff than last time. That’s progress.”
His eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “This again?”
“Yes, this again.” I tugged his left hand. “Cross your left foot over your right.”
He let loose an annoyed groan, but still let me guide him, his grip on my hands staying light. He crossed one skate over the other with an intense focus, and then his wheels clipped mine and he stumbled forward, catching himself on my shoulder.
A laugh broke out of him before he could choke it back.
I grinned. “Better. You didn’t tackle me this time.”
“Give me a minute.”
His hands found my waist. Mine slid up to his shoulders. We weren’t doing anything that looked like a waltz anymore, just a slow, aimless drift across the cracked concrete until we came to a stop.
Aleksey tilted his head as his fingers tightened on my waist, thumbs pressing into the dip above my hip bones through my damp shirt. The shift in his grip sent a slow ripple of heat up my spine.
I slid my palm to the back of his neck, thumb brushing the short hair at his nape. The scar on his jaw was a pale line inches from my mouth, and I caught the scent of soap on his skin, the faint trace of stew still clinging to his collar.
“You know that you matter to me,” I said. My words were quiet, with no pressure behind them. Just a statement of fact. “You always have, from the moment I saw you.”
His exhale hit my lips a second before his mouth found mine. Slow at first, just the dry press of his lips and the scratch of stubble against my chin. Then his hands fisted in the back of my shirt and hauled me closer, and the kiss turned searching, his tongue sliding against mine.
I twisted my fingers into his hair and held on.
An hour later, we changed out of our skates, the concrete still warm under my bare feet.
By the time I cranked the engine and pulled off the gravel shoulder, Aleksey had his head tipped back against the passenger seat, one arm hanging out the open window, his fingers drumming a slow beat against the door.
Half a mile into the drive back to the apartment, he broke the silence. “Mama told me my old man watched the championship game.”
I glanced over. “On TV?”
“Yeah. She said he seemed happy.” His voice stayed steady, but his thumb had stopped tapping.
“And?”
“And nothing.” He shifted in his seat, his jaw ticking once. “I don’t know if I’ll ever visit him. But I’m not pissed about it anymore. Being angry at him takes too much goddamn energy, and I’m done spending it.”
I nodded. “You don’t have to forgive him. You just have to stop letting him live in your head.”