Page 8 of The Pucking Date
Finally, he starts to close the distance. His shoulder brushes mine, his breath warm as he passes.
My pulse jumps. My body hums. I slow near the edge of the rink, chest rising fast. He glides in behind me, his presence curling around me like smoke. For a second, I think he’ll grab my waist. Pull me against him. But he just hovers. And then, low and rough:
“You done makin’ me crazy yet?”
The words slide under my skin. I don’t turn right away, letting the weight of him settle behind me like gravity.
Then I glance over my shoulder, voice soft, teasing. “This is just a warm-up.”
He laughs, quiet and wrecked.
“Is that what this is?” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine. “Teasin’ me? Dancin’ for me?”
“I’m skating,” I say, backing away a step.
“Not anymore, you’re not,” he says, voice molten. “Now you’re runnin’. And darlin’…” his gaze drops, loaded, “I love a chase.”
I turn, breath catching. And then I do the only thing I can.
I push off toward the exit. Legs shaking, heart in my throat.
At the edge, he helps me down without asking. His hand brushes mine, steady and warm and strong.
I don’t thank him. Because if I say anything now, it’ll come out wrong.
He walks beside me, fingers lightly on my wrist. “Hell of a first date, darlin’.”
I snort, still breathless, trying to mask it as confidence. “This wasn’t a date.”
“No?” he asks, tilting his head.
“No,” I say, firm. “This was a...detour.”
He lets the silence sit there, heavy and amused. “Right,” he finally drawls, low and easy. “A detour.”
But his eyes say something else entirely. Because he knows damn well we’re not going back the way we came.
We trade skates for shoes in silence, the cool night air curling around us as we step back into the Montreal night. Finn reaches for my hand again, and I don’t even hesitate.
The city is quiet. Streets hushed. Lights low. But every brush of his fingers against mine feels loud. Every step he takes closer, every slow slide of his thumb along the inside of my wrist liquefies me.
Something shifted between us on that ice. Not just attraction; that’s been simmering for months. This is recognition. Like we’re finally seeing each other without all the noise, all the reasons why we shouldn’t. And for the first time, the reasons why we should feel stronger.
When he finally speaks, it’s a low rumble. “You’re awfully quiet, Novak.”
I keep my eyes on the sidewalk. “Just tired.”
“Mmhmm.” That sound again—half laugh, half challenge. “Or maybe you’re trying to talk yourself out of what happens next.”
My pulse flutters. “What makes you think something happens next?”
He looks over, all lazy smirk and midnight confidence. “Because your body’s tellin’ me everything your mouth won’t.”
Words are stuck in my throat, my pulse thundering so loud I think he must hear it.
We reach the hotel, the glow from the awning casting long shadows across the pavement. Finn pulls the door open, guiding me inside, walking me through the lobby. We reach the elevators, and he presses the call button. The gold doors part with a soft chime.
“I’m on the fifth floor,” I say, voice barely above a whisper as I step forward.
