Page 43 of The Pucking Date
He cuts in front of me, spins a little too close, sends up a spray of ice that dusts my leggings. He’s cocky. Fluid. Effortless.
He’s playing.
And worse, I start to play back.
He circles around me like a dare made flesh, a predator who knows his prey isn’t really running, just making the chase more interesting.
Then he bumps me, enough to make me wobble.
“Hey!” I snap, but I’m laughing in spite of myself. He’s already gliding away, smug as hell.
“I forgot how fun you are when you’re annoyed,” he calls.
“Keep pushing, and I’ll forget I like your face.”
“So you do like it?”
I groan. But my lips twitch. I chase him. He lets me catch him. We fall into sync, skating side by side. Fast. Easy. Free. It’s reckless. It’s stupid. And I don’t want to stop.
Glancing at me over his shoulder, he skates backward again, eyes locked on mine. “God, Red,” he murmurs. “You’re dangerous out here.”
I arch a brow. “Me?”
A nod. “Yeah. Because the second you let go? You’re unstoppable.”
Without thinking, I sink into a spiral, leg extended, arms out, the muscle memory taking over.
For a few seconds, I’m sixteen again.
When I straighten, he’s staring. “You miss it,” he says. Not a question.
I shrug, but my throat’s tight. “Sometimes.”
His expression softens. “Let’s try something,” he says, voice low, eyes locked on mine.
“No.”
“You haven’t even heard it yet.”
“It’s still a no. On principle.”
Slowing, he turns to face me. “Come on, Red. Don’t you trust me?”
I stop skating. He coasts to a clean, easy halt in front of me, blades whispering against the ice.
“One jump.” His hands are out, palms open. “Nothing fancy.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I look away. “Because I haven’t done it in years. I’m too tall.”
“Too scared,” he finishes softly.
My jaw clenches. The last time I did this, I was lighter. Dumber. Unbroken.
There’s barely a foot between us now. “It’s me, Red,” he drawls, low and easy. “Ain’t no way I’m lettin’ you fall.”
