Chapter 24 Soft Serve & Sharp Edges #2
Etienne recoils in visible horror.
"How the hell did you BITE into that without freezing your teeth?" He stares at my mouth like I have just performed an act of witchcraft. "That is not normal. That is physically concerning. Are your nerve endings functional? Should I be worried about you?"
I giggle with the chunk of ice cream still lodged in my mouth, my words muffled and probably unintelligible.
"Ih mah thuperpower," I mumble through the frozen mouthful, puffing my cheeks out for emphasis.
He groans, dragging his palm down his face in exasperation.
"You are going to get a brain freeze doing that. Your body is not designed to process ice cream at that velocity. There are biological consequences to shoving frozen dairy into your face like a competitive eater."
"NEVAH!" I declare, throwing my fist into the air with theatrical defiance. "I am immune! I have transcended the limitations of the human nervous system! I am the chosen one! The prophecy foretold of an Omega who could consume soft serve without consequence and that Omega is ME!"
The brain freeze hits approximately four seconds after my proclamation.
It slams into my temples with the force of a freight train, a sharp, stabbing cold that radiates from the roof of my mouth straight into the center of my skull.
My triumphant expression crumbles. My hands fly to my head, pressing against my temples as if I can physically hold my brain together while it attempts to split in half.
"AH!" I shriek, stomping my foot on the pavement. "You CURSED me! What in the manifestations! You literally spoke this into existence!"
Etienne chuckles.
The sound is low and warm, spilling from his chest with an ease that tells me he has been holding it in, and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs sends a wave of warmth through my frozen suffering that almost makes the brain freeze worth it. Almost.
"I did not curse you," he says, shaking his head with the fond exasperation of a man who has accepted that the girl he is on a date with is clinically unhinged.
"That was cause and effect. Basic thermodynamics.
You shoved a frozen object into your warm mouth and your body responded accordingly. I merely predicted the outcome."
"You MANIFESTED it!" I insist, pressing harder against my temples. "You put the energy into the universe and the universe delivered! That is how manifestation works, Etienne! Your negative ice cream energy disrupted my positive ice cream energy and now I am paying the price!"
"That is not how any form of science or spirituality works."
"It is how MY science works. My personal science. Which is valid."
He laughs again, fuller this time, the kind of genuine amusement that transforms his entire face from guarded and handsome to open and breathtaking.
He reaches over, gently pulling one of my hands away from my temple and replacing it with his own, his palm broad and warm against the side of my head.
"Press your tongue to the roof of your mouth," he instructs, his thumb tracing a slow circle against my temple. "It warms the blood vessels and stops the freeze faster."
I obey, pressing my tongue upward while glaring at him with all the indignation of a betrayed warrior.
"Traitor blood vessels," I mutter.
He smiles. Soft. Private. The kind of smile that is not performing for anyone, that exists solely in the space between two people standing too close on a winter sidewalk with ice cream on their lips and warmth pooling in the gaps between their fingers.
The brain freeze fades, retreating as quickly as it arrived, leaving behind a dull ache and the pleasant realization that Etienne's hand is still cradling the side of my face.
"Better?" he asks.
"Marginally." I sniff with mock dignity. "My pride may never recover."
He drops his hand, and I miss the contact instantly, the absence of his warmth registering like a draft through an open window.
"Do you want another ice cream?" he offers.
The temptation is real. My taste buds are screaming yes while my temples are screaming absolutely not, and the resulting internal conflict plays out across my face in what I imagine is a deeply entertaining display of indecision.
"No," I decide reluctantly. "If I keep coming here I will get tired of it too quickly, and I refuse to ruin this for myself.
This place is sacred. I need to ration my visits to preserve the magic.
" I look up at him, the idea forming as I speak.
"So why do we not just come more often? Together? Make it a regular thing?"
The suggestion leaves my mouth before my brain has a chance to review it for implications.
A regular thing. Together. As in, repeated dates. As in, a pattern. As in, the kind of commitment that goes beyond a single Friday afternoon and plants roots into future Fridays that stretch out ahead of us like a promise neither of us has officially made.
Etienne smirks.
Not a full grin. That barely-there upturn at the corner of his lips that I have learned to read like a private language, the expression that means he is pleased but too composed to broadcast it.
"Okay," he says simply.
He holds out his hand.
I take it, threading my fingers between his, and we resume walking down the lamp-lit street with the easy rhythm of two people who have done this a hundred times before, even though this is the first. His cedar and pine scent mingles with the lingering sweetness of soft serve in the cold air, creating a fragrance combination that my brain will probably associate with happiness for the rest of my life.
"So," he begins, his voice settling into that conversational cadence that tells me he is genuinely curious and not just filling silence, "you really like desserts?"
"Guilty." I sigh with the dramatic weight of a confession.
"I have a sweet tooth that could qualify as a medical condition.
Cakes, pastries, ice cream, anything with chocolate, anything with frosting, anything that would make a nutritionist weep into their celery juice.
It is my fatal flaw. My Achilles heel. My delicious, sugary downfall. "
I pause.
The shift from playful to serious happens in the space between one footstep and the next, the levity draining from my voice like water through cupped hands.
"But I actually have to slow down if I want to audition for the figure skating team."
Etienne glances at me, his brow lifting slightly.
"Coach Lizzy has been on me about trying out," I continue, keeping my gaze forward because looking at him while talking about my ambitions makes me feel too exposed, like standing on a stage under a spotlight with no choreography prepared.
"She really wants me to go for it. And I told her I would prep, which means I have to lock in.
At least for four weeks. Strict diet, disciplined training schedule, no more spontaneous soft serve detours.
Well. Maybe fewer spontaneous soft serve detours. "
He nods, his thumb tracing a slow pattern against the back of my hand as we walk.
"What does that entail for a figure skater? The training."
"A lot." I tick the items off mentally. "Cardio conditioning, flexibility work, on-ice practice at least five times a week if I can get the rink time.
Strength training focused on my core and legs because the jumps require explosive power from the ground up.
Off-ice ballet for the artistry components, because figure skating is half athletics and half performance art, and the judges care about both equally.
" I exhale, the breath forming a cloud in the cold air.
"It is also tricky because figure skating can be solo as well as partnered.
I am not sure which division Coach Lizzy wants me to aim for, and if it is pairs, I will need a partner to train with. Which I do not have."
"Can Raphael help?"
I blink, turning to look at him.
"Raphael?"
"He is a coach abroad," Etienne reasons, his tone measured and logical in that way that reminds me he processes the world through careful analysis before speaking.
"International programs want coaches who bring diversity in skill sets.
The more you can offer outside of just hockey, the more valuable you become.
He has probably expanded his expertise beyond just coaching hockey players at this point. It would not hurt to ask him."
I chew my bottom lip, considering this.
Raphael. The man whose vanilla ice cream and sandalwood scent still makes my pulse stutter every time he enters a room.
My scent match who kissed me in a nurse's office and turned my biology inside out and upside down within seven minutes of our first meeting.
Asking him for figure skating help feels intimate in a way I cannot fully articulate, like inviting someone into a part of my life that I have kept guarded for years.
"That, or you could train with Sage and Archie," Etienne adds, reading my hesitation with the quiet perceptiveness that defines him.
"Yeah." I nod, latching onto the alternative. "I need to catch up with them anyway. I have been meaning to, but they are rooming together now since their room got flooded or some wild situation, and honestly..."
I trail off.
Etienne waits. Patient. He never rushes me when I am working through my thoughts, never fills the silences with noise the way most people do when quiet makes them uncomfortable. He just holds the space open and trusts that I will fill it when I am ready.
"I have been wanting them to have some time together, honestly," I admit.
"Why?" His head tilts. "Are they dating?"