CHAPTER 14 #2
"Again!" Svetlana demands, but she's almost smiling now.
Kane stands first, pulling me up with him. "Ready?"
"Why not? My dignity's already in a dumpster fire."
This time, when he counts to three, I'm ready. I jump, he lifts, and suddenly I'm airborne, Kane's hands secure on my waist, holding me steady above him. For three breathless seconds, we're perfectly balanced—me suspended above the ice, him solid and strong below.
Enter gravity.
The landing is a controlled disaster—we stumble but manage to stay upright, Kane's arms wrapping around me to keep us from falling again.
The team erupts in cheers and whoops, even Coach looking impressed.
"And that's when they both realized they were completely fucked," Wall announces from the sidelines.
"Shut up, Wall," Kane and I yell in unison, which only makes everyone laugh harder.
***
Kane
I PUSH THROUGH the cabin door, muscles pleasantly sore from my extra hour at the gym. There's something satisfying about working past the point where everyone else quits—finding that edge where your body wants to give up but your mind says fuck that.
The cabin is empty. No Becker sprawled across the bunk with his laptop balanced precariously on his stomach. No podcast equipment scattered across his desk like a bomb went off in an electronics store. No running commentary on whatever ridiculous video he's watching.
Just... quiet.
It's nice.
Except it's not, really.
The silence feels wrong somehow, like walking into your apartment and immediately sensing someone's been there. Not that I'd know what that's like—I live alone in a place so meticulously organized I’d spot an out of place teabag in a heartbeat. But still.
Becker's skates are missing from their usual spot by the door, too. Even in chaos, he has patterns—shoes kicked off immediately upon entering, skates always in the same corner, his ridiculous collection of energy drinks lined up on the edge of his desk like toxic soldiers.
I should enjoy the peace. Take a shower. Call it an early night.
Instead, I find myself grabbing my own skates and heading back out.
The rink is mostly dark when I arrive, just the emergency lights casting a blue-white glow across the ice. Enough to see, not enough to be seen.
Perfect for spying on someone who probably doesn't want an audience.
And there he is.
Becker glides across the center of the ice, attempting what I'm pretty sure is supposed to be a basic spin.
His form is atrocious—arms flailing instead of controlled, weight distributed all wrong.
He wobbles, nearly goes down, recovers with all the grace of a drunk giraffe, and immediately sets up to try again.
I should announce myself. Let him know I'm watching.
I don't.
Instead, I stand in the shadows by the entrance, watching as he makes another attempt. And another. Each one marginally less disastrous than the last, but still firmly in the category of "please don't try this in public."
But he keeps trying.
That's the thing about Becker that I've reluctantly come to admire—he never stops trying, even when he's terrible at something. Especially when he's terrible at something.
He sets up for another spin, and I can't help but smile as he wobbles through it, arms pinwheeling.
"Your free leg needs to be straighter," I call out, stepping onto the ice.
Becker yelps—actually yelps—and nearly falls, catching himself at the last second. "Jesus fucking Christ on a pogo stick!" He clutches his chest dramatically. "Make some noise when you creep up on people, Robot!"
"Sorry," I say, not particularly sorry at all.
"How much did you see?" he demands, trying to look casual and failing spectacularly.
"Enough to know you need help."
He narrows his eyes. "I'm doing fine, thank you very much."
"If by 'fine' you mean 'not actively bleeding,' then sure."
He crosses his arms, defensive. "I'm just... practicing. For the thing tomorrow."
"The thing where Svetlana will publicly eviscerate anyone who hasn't improved? That thing?"
"Yeah, that thing." He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up in ridiculous spikes. "I don't like being bad at shit, okay?"
It's so unexpectedly honest that I'm momentarily thrown.
Becker usually deflects vulnerability with humor faster than Wall blocks shots.
"Want some actual help?"
He hesitates, then shrugs with forced nonchalance. "I mean, if you're offering."
I skate closer, trying to remember the basics my mother taught me years ago, before everything went to shit.
"Start with your feet like this," I demonstrate, positioning my skates in a T-formation. "Weight on your back foot."
Becker mimics me, his movements more controlled than I expected. He's a good skater—all hockey players are—but figure skating requires a different kind of precision.
"Now arms out to the sides, not flailing like you're being attacked by bees."
"I do not flail," he protests, definitely flailing.
"Sure." I skate behind him. "May I?" I gesture toward his arms.
He nods, and I reach out, adjusting his position. My hands on his forearms, guiding them into the proper form. His skin is warm even through the fabric of his hoodie.
"Like this," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. "Now when you turn, keep your core tight and your head spotting—pick a point and keep your eyes on it as long as possible before turning your head."
He attempts the spin, wobbling but staying upright. Barely.
"Not terrible," I concede.
"High praise from the Robot." But he's grinning, clearly pleased with himself. "Show me again?"
We spend the next hour like this—me demonstrating, him attempting, gradual improvement punctuated by creative cursing when he falls. The emergency lighting casts everything in a surreal blue glow, making the rink feel smaller, more intimate.
"Okay, I think I've got it this time," he says, setting up for another spin. "Witness greatness."
He pushes off, rotates once, twice—and then his edge catches. I see the moment he realizes he's going down, eyes widening in comical panic.
I move without thinking, skating forward to catch him. His momentum carries us both backward, my arms wrapping around his waist as I struggle to keep us upright.
For a moment, we're stable—his back pressed against my chest, my arms around him, both of us breathing hard from the near-fall.
Then he turns in my arms to face me, and suddenly we're chest to chest, faces inches apart.
"Nice catch," he says, voice uncharacteristically quiet.
I should step back. Put distance between us.
I don't move.
Neither does he.
His eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second, so briefly I might have imagined it. But I didn't imagine the way my heart rate picks up, or how my grip on his waist tightens slightly.
What the fuck is happening?
This is Becker.
Annoying, chaotic, never-shuts-up Becker. Who is suddenly not annoying at all. Who is suddenly very close, and whose lips look very—
The lights shut off completely.
"What the—" Becker starts, and then we're both laughing in the darkness, the tension broken.
"Timer," I explain. "Rink lights automatically shut off at midnight."
"Of course they do," he sighs. "Just when I was getting good."
"That's a very wide interpretation of 'good.'"
"Fuck off," he says, but there's no heat in it. "How are we supposed to get off the ice now? I can't see shit."
"I've got you." I keep one arm around him, using my free hand to fish my phone from my pocket. The flashlight illuminates a small circle around us, catching the glint of his eyes, the curve of his smile.
"My hero," he drawls, but he doesn't pull away as I guide us toward the exit.
We make it off the ice without incident, sitting side by side on the bench to remove our skates. The silence between us isn't awkward, exactly, but feels charged somehow.
"Thanks," I say finally. "For not making fun of the figure skating thing."
He looks up, surprised. "Why would I make fun of it? It's cool that you can do something most of us can't."
"My father thinks it's ridiculous."
"Yeah, well, no offense, but your father sounds like an asshole."
I should defend him. That's what I always do—explain away his behavior, make excuses. Instead, I find myself nodding. "He can be."
Becker bumps his shoulder against mine. "Thanks for sharing it with me. And for not letting me break my face."
"Your face is fine the way it is," I say before I can stop myself.
He raises an eyebrow. "Just fine? Not exceptional? Not the pinnacle of masculine beauty?"
And just like that, we're back on familiar ground—Becker being ridiculous, me pretending to be annoyed by it.
Except I'm not annoyed. Not even a little bit.