The Figure Skater #2
He pushed away from the boards.
“You’re the one performing for me.”
“I am not.”
“You added that back thing.”
“It’s part of the spin.”
“You held it longer.”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out. Because he was right. The realization must have shown on my face.
His smile changed.
Less teasing.
More certain.
“You did,” he said.
“You’re delusional.”
“You wanted me watching.”
“I wanted you out of my way.”
“You keep checking whether I’m looking.”
“Because you’re distracting.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
I skated toward him until only a few feet separated us.
“You want to know what your problem is?”
“I assume you’re going to tell me.”
“You think everyone in the building cares that you play hockey.”
He stopped directly in front of me.
On skates, the height difference was worse.
I had to tilt my face up.
“You looked me up,” he said. “Didn’t you?”
“I wanted to confirm you were as mediocre as I thought.”
“And?”
“Numbers can be misleading.”
He laughed.
I pushed past him, deliberately clipping his shoulder.
He grabbed my wrist.
Not hard.
Just enough to stop me.
Every thought vanished.
His glove wrapped almost entirely around my bare wrist. The contrast between the rough fabric and my skin made heat move up my arm.
He seemed to feel it too.
His smile disappeared.
For once, neither of us had anything to say.
The rink hummed around us.
His thumb shifted slightly against the inside of my wrist.
Then he released me.
“You should watch where you’re going,” he said.
His voice had changed.
Lower.
I pulled my arm back.
“You should stay out of my way.”
I skated to the other end before he could see how badly my hand was shaking.
We continued pretending that had nothing to do with each other.
I ran my program from beginning to end while he worked along the boards, shooting pucks from bad angles and occasionally drifting close enough to watch.
I felt him there without looking.
The awareness sharpened everything. Every extension became longer. Every landing cleaner. Every movement through my back more deliberate.
He knew.
I knew he knew.
That only made me do it more.
By the end of the session, my lungs burned and my clothes clung damply to my body. I skated to the boards and reached for my water.
He arrived beside me at the same time.
His shoulder brushed mine.
Neither of us moved away.
“You’re taking up the whole bench,” I said.
“There’s six feet of it.”
“You’re using four.”
“I’m bigger.”
“Congratulations.”
He removed his helmet completely.
His hair was flattened in some places and curling in others. Sweat glistened along his forehead.
He poured water over the back of his neck.
I watched it run beneath his shirt.
He looked at me from the corner of his eye.
“Subtle.”
“I was wondering if hockey players know towels exist.”
“We do.”
“Then why are you dripping all over the floor?”
“Bothering you?”
“Everything you do bothers me.”
His gaze settled on my mouth.
“Everything?”
The word changed the air between us.
I tightened my grip on my bottle.
“Yes.”
He leaned his hip against the boards.
“You’ve been watching me for sixty minutes.”
“You’ve been watching me.”
“I never denied it.”
The bluntness surprised me.
He looked out over the marked-up ice.
“You’re good.”
I almost laughed.
“That sounded painful.”
“It was.”
“Thank you.”
I drank.
He watched my throat as I swallowed.
My skin warmed.
“We’re still not friends,” I said.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“I don’t want to be your friend.”
His eyes lifted to mine.
I set the bottle down carefully.
“What do you want?”
He took half a step closer.
I could feel the heat coming off him despite the cold rink.
“You want me to say it here?”
My pulse jumped.
“You talk enough everywhere else.”
His gaze moved over my face, then lower.
“I want to know whether you arch your back like that because you know I’m watching.”
My mouth went dry.
“You really are delusional.”
“You still haven’t answered.”
“I don’t owe you an answer.”
“No.”
He lifted one shoulder.
“But you have one.”
I picked up my guards.
“Session’s over.”
“Running away?”
I stepped off the ice before he could say anything worse.
We changed in separate locker rooms.
That should have been the end of it.
I showered quickly, pulled on a sleeveless black dress and packed my skates while repeating several facts to myself.
I disliked him.
He disliked me.
Sharing the ice had created a temporary distortion in judgment caused by physical exertion and low rink temperatures.
The way he watched me did not matter.
The way his hand had felt around my wrist did not matter.
The water running down his neck definitely did not matter.
By the time I stepped into the hallway, I had almost convinced myself.
Then he emerged from the hockey room.
He had changed into gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt that fit too closely across his shoulders.
His hair was still damp.
We stopped.
He looked at my dress.
I looked at his arms.
The argument resumed because neither of us knew what else to do.
“You left ruts all over the middle,” he said.
I stared at him.
“That’s your opening?”
“You did.”
“You left enough snow in the corners to build a second rink.”
“That’s from stopping.”
“I know what it’s from.”
“Then stop complaining.”
I adjusted my bag higher on my shoulder. I should have walked away.
Instead, I said, “You still skate like a farm animal.”
“And you still leave holes in the ice.”
“They’re called toe-pick marks.”
“They’re called holes.”
We walked toward the parking garage still arguing.
The rink was nearly empty. Our voices echoed through the concrete corridor leading to the underground lot.
He carried his hockey bag over one shoulder and dragged two sticks behind him.
I hated the sound.
“Pick those up.”
“What?”
“Your sticks.”
“They’re fine.”
“You’re scraping them on the floor.”
“They hit frozen rubber for a living.”
“You’re doing that because you know it bothers me.”
“Correct.”
I pushed open the heavy garage door.
Warm, humid air replaced the chill of the rink. The underground level was dim, lit by rows of fluorescent fixtures and the pale morning sun coming through the entrance ramp.
My car sat three rows away.
His truck was parked beside the door.
Of course it was a truck.
Large. Black. Immaculately clean.
I stopped beside it.
“You drive exactly what I expected.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. It’s very subtle.”
“You drive a white convertible.”
“It’s compact.”
“It’s impractical.”
“I don’t carry a small apartment’s worth of equipment everywhere.”
He dropped his bag into the truck bed.
“You want to talk impractical? Your sport puts knives on boots.”
“So does yours.”
“Mine also has pads.”
“Because you’re scared.”
He closed the tailgate.
“I get hit by people.”
“You’re wearing armor.”
“You land on your face for applause.”
“I don’t land on my face.”
“You almost did today.”
“I slipped because you were distracting me.”
The words left my mouth before I could stop them.
Silence followed.
He leaned one hand against the side of the truck.
“Say that again.”
“No.”
“You said I distracted you.”
“You were taking up space.”
“That’s not what you meant.”
“It’s exactly what I meant.”
He stepped closer.
I backed up once, then realized the truck door was behind me.
His body blocked the rest of the garage.
He wasn’t touching me.
That somehow made it worse.
“You were watching me at the bench,” he said.
“You were watching me spin.”
“You knew I was.”
“You made sure I saw you take your helmet off.”
His mouth curved.
“So you noticed.”
“I notice irritating things.”
“And the water?”
I hated him. I hated the amusement in his eyes. I hated the way my body responded when he placed one hand against the truck beside my head.
“You missed your mouth,” I said.
“Did I?”
“You did it on purpose.”
“Maybe.”
“For attention.”
“From you.”
The last two words erased the smile from my face. He had said them quietly. Without arrogance.
My pulse thudded.
“You’re still insufferable,” I whispered.
“You’re still here.”
“You’re blocking me.”
“You could tell me to move.”
“Move.”
He didn’t.
I didn’t make him. His eyes searched mine.
“Do you actually want me to?”
The question was no longer part of the game.
I could have ended it. I should have. Instead, I set my skate bag on the concrete.
“No.”
He kissed me.
The first contact was hard enough to knock my head lightly against the truck.
His hand moved behind it immediately, cushioning me before it could happen again.
That small instinctive care nearly undid me more than the kiss.
I caught the front of his shirt and pulled him closer.
Weeks of irritation turned into something hungry and graceless. We kissed like we were still arguing, mouths clashing, each of us trying to take control and neither willing to give it.
His hand slid around my waist.
Mine moved into his damp hair.
He tasted faintly of mint and whatever blue sports drink he had been drinking at the rink.
I bit his lower lip. He made a low sound and crowded me harder against the truck.
“You’re still irritating,” I said against his mouth.
His lips moved to my jaw.
“You’ve mentioned it.”
He kissed me again.
This time, slower. Deeper. The argument fell apart beneath it.
His thumb moved along my side, brushing the strip of skin exposed where my dress had shifted upward.
I pushed against his chest. He stepped back, breathing hard.
For one alarming second, I thought he was ending it.
Then he opened the passenger door.
I looked into the truck. The cab was enormous, with a wide front bench interrupted only by a folded center console. Then I looked back at him.
“You cannot be serious.”
His eyes moved down my body.
“I’ve been serious since the layback spin.”
“This is a public garage.”
“It’s seven floors underground.”
“Someone could come through that door.”
“Then we’ll be quiet.”
I laughed once.
There was nothing funny about the way he looked at me.
He stepped between my knees where I stood beside the open door.
“Get in.”
The command sent a pulse of heat through me. I climbed into the passenger side.
He followed into the driver’s side, pulling the door closed behind him.