Page 50 of Love so Cold

We step out into the crisp evening air, and I guide her back to the car waiting at the curb. "To the rink, please," I tell Marcus, who nods and pulls smoothly into traffic.

Avery's quiet beside me, but there's a spark of curiosity in her eyes that wasn't there before. It's a start, I think. A small victory in breaking through the walls we've both built so high.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Avery

Stepping into the arena,the chill wraps around me. It's empty, echoes bouncing off the walls. I've never been here after hours. It has an almost eerie feeling to it. Victor pulls out his phone, and I watch, curious, as he dials a number with practiced ease.

"Hey, it's me," he says, his voice resonating in the hollow space. "Can you light up the rink? Yeah, now would be great."

Within minutes, a soft hum vibrates through the air as some of the overhead lights flicker on, casting long shadows across the ice. A guy pops up at the entrance, nodding at Victor before disappearing back into the dim corridors of the complex. I'm floored by how Victor's just a call away from bending the city to his whim.

"Come on," he urges, his voice a mix of excitement and that trademark brusqueness that somehow draws me closer rather than pushing me away.

We make our way further inside, the place still draped in semi-darkness, like we're stepping into a secret world. Victor strides over to the rental desk, rummaging behind it before emerging with two pairs of skates. The glint in his eye is something new, a spark of pure joy that seems so at odds with the hard edges I'm used to. This place, this ice—it’s stripping away layers, revealing bits of the boy who found solace skating on a frozen pond, hoping for a forever family that never came.

"Here you go." He tosses me a pair of white skates, and suddenly I’m the one feeling vulnerable.

"Thanks," I mumble, my fingers fumbling over the laces. It’s ridiculous how lost I am with these things, like I’ve been handed an alien artifact instead of a simple pair of shoes with blades.

We walk over to one of the benches next to the ice. I sit and stare at the skates, not sure where to even start.

Victor sets his skates down with a soft clink on the bench and turns to me, tilting his head to the side as though he’s deciphering a puzzle that I’m an unwitting piece of. The shadowed light from above catches the blue in his eyes, giving them an almost ethereal glow.

"Ever done this before?" he asks, the trace of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Uh, no. I’m a bit out of my element," I admit,holding out the skates to him like an offering. My hands are shaky, betraying how nervous I really am.

"Mind if I?" He gestures toward the ground, asking silently for permission to kneel before me.

"Sure," I say, feeling the heat rush to my cheeks as I sit on the cold, metal bleachers.

Methodically, Victor places each skate on the floor and motions for me to slide my foot in. His touch is surprisingly gentle, fingers deft as they loop the laces, weaving them into a snug embrace around my ankles. The skates feel foreign, but his presence, the way he hovers so attentively, is oddly comforting.

I’m quiet, watching him guide my hands, teaching me the basics of a world that’s second nature to him. It’s intimate, this little act of assistance, and it stirs something deep within me—a warmth that feels at odds with the cold of the rink.

"Pull here to tighten, then cross over like this..." he explains, demonstrating the technique. "See, not too hard."

"Thank you," I murmur, watching him stand and slip on his own skates with practiced ease. He moves with a sureness I envy, the kind born from countless hours on the ice.

"Ready?" He offers his hand, standing tall and steady.

"Guess so." I place my hand in his, noticing how mine disappears in the strength of his grasp.

Pushing off the bench, my legs wobble beneath me. A gasp escapes my lips as I sway, but Victor’s quick reflexes save me from kissing the cold floor.

"Whoa there," he chuckles, his arms a steel band around my waist. "It’s all about balance. Here, let me show you how to walk on these."

"Walk? I can barely stand," I half-joke, half-plead, the thought of actually skating seeming more distant than ever.

"Hey, I’ve got you." His voice is solid, reassuring. "Just take it slow. One step at a time."

"Okay, okay," I say, taking a tentative step forward, the blades scraping awkwardly against the rubber matting.

"See? You’re a natural," he teases, but the encouragement in his tone is real.

"Natural disaster, maybe," I shoot back, but I can’t suppress the grin tugging at my lips. There’s something infectious about his confidence.

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