8. CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER EIGHT
THEO
Connor takes his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying at it while he concentrates on keeping his balance.
I watch the skin pull beneath his teeth, already knowing exactly how it would feel beneath my thumb. Soft. Slightly damp. It would take nothing to reach up and tug it free, let my thumb sit against his mouth, and see what he would do with it.
Instead, my fingers press deeper into his hips, which does absolutely nothing to take the edge off the impulse.
“It’s like riding a bike,” I tell him, easing my grip before I leave marks.
I turn him carefully, guiding him around until his back settles against my chest and I’ve got him centred between my skates. His body presses along mine from shoulder to hip, heat bleeding easily through the thin compression shirt while my hands settle around his waist to keep him steady.
There’s no real reason to notice how well he fits there, but I do anyway, letting myself feel the weight of him against me for a moment before I shift my attention back to his skates.
“Skate.”
My eyes settle on the curve of Connor’s neck, where a fine line of goosebumps has risen beneath his hair.
He stiffens against me, the movement pressing him more firmly into my chest, and my fingers flex around his hips.
I feel every fucking inch of it.
“I’ve got you, princess, so skate,” I murmur, my mouth near enough to the back of his neck that my breath skims his skin.
The goosebumps spread.
His first push is tentative, barely enough weight behind it to catch the inside edge, and Connor immediately stiffens when his balance shifts. I keep my hands firm on his hips, letting him find it instead of correcting him, and the second push is better.
His blades start cutting cleaner lines through the ice, each stride a little less careful than the last. He’s still too stiff through his knees and thinking far too hard about something his body clearly remembers how to do, but I can feel the moment he stops fighting every shift of his weight.
His shoulders loosen against my chest, his strides lengthen.
I stay with him, keeping my hands firm at his hips without doing the work for him.
It would be easy enough to steer him from here, shift his weight when he gets it wrong and keep him moving exactly where I want him, but that wouldn’t teach him shit.
Connor needs to find his own edges, feel when his weight sits wrong and correct it before I have to.
He’s getting there.
I feel it through my hands before I see it in his skates, the tension slowly leaving his hips as he stops trying to control every inch of the movement.
His weight shifts more naturally with the next push, his body following the blade instead of bracing against it, and I loosen my grip enough to let him have it.
Then he pushes again, and his ass presses back into me.
My teeth sink into the inside of my cheek, losing track of what his skates are doing.
I drag my attention back where it belongs, following the cut of Connor’s blades across the ice instead. His stride is already cleaner than it was a minute ago, his knees finally loosening enough to let the edges do their job instead of trying to force them.
This is something I could pick apart in my fucking sleep, every mistake obvious the second the blade hits the ice, but having Connor pressed against me is making something that should be instinct require considerably more concentration than I’d like.
It takes another few strides before I realise I’m not doing anything anymore.
Connor’s carrying himself now, his blades holding steady beneath him while I’m still skating behind him with my hands on his hips.
He doesn’t need them.
I ease my palms away, keeping them close enough to catch him while Connor continues forward without seeming to notice. The next push opens a few inches between us, then another, until his back is no longer pressed along my chest and there’s cold air filling the space instead.
My skate starts forward after him, blade cutting half an inch across the ice before I stop it.
Connor keeps moving, his strides still rough around the edges, enough confidence creeping in that he’s starting to trust the blade instead of questioning every movement.
Then he starts to turn, putting too much weight through the inside edge, and I know he’s going down before Connor has any idea there’s a problem.
“Reid, don’t—”
His blade catches in one of the grooves carved through the ice.
I’m already moving when his balance goes, pushing hard off my outside edge and cutting across the space between us while Connor’s arms shoot out and his other skate scrapes uselessly for something to catch.
Two strides and I’m there.
I catch him before he gets anywhere near the ice, one arm hooking hard around his waist, pulling him back into me.
Connor hits my chest with enough force to drive me backwards, but my edges bite down automatically, knees bending to absorb the impact while I widen my stance and take his weight into mine.
His skates stop scrambling.
So does he.
Connor goes completely still against me, held tight beneath my arm with his feet safely between mine, and a long breath leaves him like he’s only just realised he can take one.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, keeping my arm locked around his middle until I’m sure his blades are sitting properly beneath him again.
A shaky laugh slips out of Connor, vibrating softly through him where he’s pressed against me, but the rest of him stays tense beneath my arm.
“I had it,” he grumbles, shifting his feet beneath him, only for one blade to slip slightly and his hand to close hard around my forearm.
I glance down at the fingers wrapped around me.
“Clearly.”
Connor makes an offended noise and twists around in my hold until he’s facing me, one hand still curled around my forearm while the other lands against my chest to steady himself.
Christ, he’s pretty when he’s pissed off.
The cold has dragged colour high across his cheeks, his lips parted around the last of those uneven breaths while he glares up at me through lashes still damp from the rink air.
He looks like he wants to argue, probably does, but his fingers are still curled around my arm, the contradiction making it difficult to look anywhere else.
My eyes drop to his mouth again.
Again.
I loosen my arm from around his waist, letting my hand fall away once I’m sure he’s steady, though I keep it close enough to catch him when he inevitably tries to prove he doesn’t need me and nearly eats shit again.
“You done trying to kill yourself?” I ask, giving him enough space that my voice finally starts sounding like mine again.
Connor rolls his eyes. “Bit dramatic.”
He folds his arms across his chest, apparently forgetting that those arms have been doing half the work of keeping him upright because his left skate immediately slips sideways.
I catch the back of his shirt, tugging him straight again while a grin pulls at my mouth.
Connor very deliberately unfolds his arms.
“Not a word.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, princess.”
His eyes narrow, but at least the flush across his cheeks looks a hell of a lot easier to deal with when he’s glaring at me.
“I had it,” he mutters.
“Yeah, we’ve established your definition of having it needs some work.”
The rink door slams open before Connor can argue, the sound cracking through the empty space and sending a jolt through him beside me.
I turn towards the entrance as Marcus steps into view with his bag slung over one shoulder, lifting a hand when he spots us.
“Yo,” he calls, dropping his bag beside the gate before leaning over it with his arms folded across the top.
His eyes shift to Connor and his brows pull together, surprise flickering across his face while Connor goes increasingly rigid beside me.
I look from one Reid to the other, feeling like I’ve missed a fairly important piece of information.
Connor has shifted closer to my back, only a few inches, but enough that part of him has disappeared behind my shoulder. I don’t think he even realises he’s done it, too busy staring at the ice.
“You’re early,” I call.
Marcus shrugs, barely looking at me. “How the fuck did you get him on the ice?”
Connor moves again, except this time it’s away from me, pulling my attention from Marcus completely.
His shoulders are rigid, colour climbing steadily along his neck while he concentrates far too hard on keeping his skates still. Nothing like the flush I’ve been enjoying putting there all night.
Marcus is still staring at Connor, and the longer he does, the more Connor seems to draw into himself beside me.
“You know,” I say, keeping my eyes on him. “Blackmail, mild threats, the usual.”
Connor’s head snaps towards me, surprise flashing across his face at the lie, his shoulders loosening just slightly.
Marcus laughs, dragging my attention back to him. “How many times did he eat shit?”
The question earns the smallest flinch from Connor, barely more than a twitch through his shoulders before he rolls his eyes and lifts his chin.
“I was fine.”
I almost snort because he absolutely wasn’t. He nearly went down twice, and the last time would’ve put him flat on his ass if I hadn’t caught him, but the correction dies before I can give it to him.
Connor is watching me, his chin still tipped up, already preparing to argue with whatever comes out of my mouth, except his eyes don’t match the attitude.
They stay fixed on mine, waiting, and I get the distinct feeling that proving him wrong in front of Marcus would mean something I don’t understand.
“He did alright.”
Connor blinks, his shoulders dropping. It’s small enough that Marcus probably wouldn’t notice, but I’ve spent the last half hour with my hands on Connor, learning exactly how much tension that deceptively muscular body can hold.
Marcus grins, looking between us, but there’s none of the usual shit-eating edge to it. His whole face has softened, eyes lingering on Connor like seeing him standing out here has made his night.
“And you enjoyed it?” he pushes.
Connor sighs and shoves his hands into his pockets, which would be fine if he wasn’t still standing on skates.
His balance tips, and I bump my shoulder into his, catching the weight before it can take him with it.
Connor jerks away so quickly he nearly sends himself off balance all over again, and it stings more than it has any right to.
“Don’t make it a thing,” Connor mutters, his eyes still fixed stubbornly on the ice, and after the way he just ripped himself out of my reach, I’m not entirely sure which one of us he’s talking to.
Marcus apparently has no problem deciding.
“Would I do that?”
“Marcus,” Connor warns, finally lifting his eyes to his brother while I stay quiet beside him, waiting for even the slightest glance in my direction.
It doesn’t come.
Marcus mimes zipping his lips shut, the grin staying firmly in place as he vaults over the boards and lands cleanly on the ice, barely breaking stride before he pushes towards us.
“You coming back though?”
The question is quieter than everything else Marcus has thrown at him, careful in a way I’m not used to hearing from the guy who spends most of his life yelling across a rink.
“Yeah,” I answer for him.
His head swings towards me. “I didn’t say that.”
“No,” I say, holding his stare. “You didn’t.”
His eyes narrow, that stubborn little crease appearing between his brows, and I have to fight the urge to skate straight back over there just to see how much deeper I can make it.
Instead, I push backwards towards the players’ bench.
“You will,” I drawl.
Connor’s glare follows me the whole way.
I fucking love when he does that.