Page 141 of The Pucking Date
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just skates alongside me, keeping the pace slow, letting me find my groove.
“I feel like Bambi,” I mutter.
He grins. “You look like poetry.”
I arch a brow. “You rehearse that, Carolina?”
“Had seven weeks of late-night bottle duty to come up with something good. Don’t ruin my moment.”
I laugh, easing into a small loop, testing my edges. They’re not sharp yet, but they’re not gone either. It’s not the same body I had before, but it’s still mine. And it still moves.
Finn trails behind me, easy and smooth for a guy whose skating style could best be described as weaponized momentum. “You sure you’re cleared for this?” he calls.
I glance over my shoulder. “Cleared? No.”
He blinks. “Wait, what?—”
“But I feel good. And I’m not doing a triple axel, just a glide and vibe. Stop panicking.”
“Wasn’t panicking,” he says, defensive.
“You flinched.”
“I did not.”
I coast backward, smirking. He skates up close, dropping his voice. “You’re gonna make me tackle you on the ice, Red. Don’t think I won’t.”
“Save it for later,” I whisper, just loud enough to make him swallow.
And there it is, that fire in his eyes. The same one that lit up the first time I ever stepped onto the ice with him. Only now, it’s deeper. Solid. Real.
We skate a few more lazy loops in silence. The rink is ours. The world is quiet. And for the first time since labor, lactation, and the chaos that is twin newborns, I feel…like me again.
Maybe a new version. But still me. Still us.
I glide to the edge of the rink and pull my phone from the bench. A few taps, and the speakers overhead hum to life with the deep, teasing bass line of “Buttons.”
Finn lifts his head at the first notes, already grinning. “Oh hell,” he mutters, eyes tracking me. “You’re really gonna do this to me again?”
“I promised you a date, didn’t I?” I push off from the boards and let the music catch me. It’s not the same dance as last time, not the spin-heavy, high-energy show-off from Montreal. This is slower. Silkier. My body curves into the beat, hips swaying, arms loose and deliberate as I skate past him with a pointed arch of my brow.
He turns with me, watching like he forgot how to blink.
I glide backward, slow and smooth, letting my fingertips skim the air like I’m undressing invisible tension. Then I drop into a shallow knee bend, roll my hips, and rise again, all without breaking stride.
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “Christ, Red…”
I circle him once, twice, then come in close enough that I could kiss him, but don’t. I just smirk and whisper, “Just a little something to keep your blood pressure up?”
He chokes out a laugh, breath ragged. “I think you just broke my entire cardiovascular system.”
I roll away again, one hand trailing behind me in a loose arc. The song climbs into the chorus, and I give him one last twirl, not fast, not technical. Just enough to let my hair fly, my legs flex, my body speak.
He leans forward like he’s about to drop to his knees on the ice.
“Remind me what I did to deserve this,” he says, voice gravel.
I stop right in front of him and lean in. “You showed up.”
