Page 56 of Jack Frost
"No, I don't think my body wants to be taken apart and put back together any more today. We should just find like, a Comfort Inn or something, for the night."
Jack raises a dark eyebrow. "Uh, no. We'll be staying somewhere nicer than that. But first, we need a little magic. Is there any place in this town that you liked? Somewhere withgoodmemories?"
My eyes widen. "The skating rink! Oh, but they'll be closed. It's a family-run business—they don't open on Christmas. I used to work there, you know. They were sweet people—paid me more than I was worth, honestly. And they'd let me have free skate time now and then. I was pretty good."
"Were you?" Jack's grin turns wicked. "I'm pretty good myself. Care to do a little ice dancing?"
"I told you, they're closed."
"Oh, darling. As if that could stop us."
I lace on a pair of skates while Jack works on getting the music going. I'm not sure how I feel about the two of us breaking into the skating rink, but I'm sure my former employers would be happy for me if they knew I'd found love. Besides, Jack has already promised that we'll leave plenty of cash to compensate them for the use of the place. He picked the locks handily with a pair of tiny ice tools, and frosted over the security cameras so no one would be able to identify us.
And now he's got the music going—a stirring rendition of "Sleigh Ride." He joins me, thunking down a pair of his own skates.
"Wait, can't you just make yourself some skates out of ice?"
He looks up at me. "I suppose, but the blades would wear down way too fast. The real thing is better. You ready to show me what you've got?"
Casting him my most dazzling smile, I swing open the gate and step out onto the rink.
I've missed this sensation—the scrape and carve of blades over perfectly groomed ice. I used to watch ice skating movies and competitions whenever I wasn't working or plowing through homework, and I'd try to copy the moves. It was probably a dangerous way to learn, but I couldn't afford lessons or a coach, though more than one person told me I should pursue skating as a career. I always thought they were just being kind. Skating was a hobby, something I did to relax, to let out stress when my mother was being especially herself. I already had my sights sets on camera work, on recording the beautiful and terrible things of the world for the purpose of preserving nature and revealing human mismanagement.
I didn't have the time or resources to devote to a career in ice skating.
But as I glide along the edge of the rink, I remember the magic of it—the sensation of freedom, of flying, and of danger, because figure skating is like high-speed dancing with a pair of blades strapped to your feet. Savage and beautiful, a blend of control and daring.
How could I have forgotten how much I loved this?
"Sleigh Ride" ends, and Lindsey Stirling's version of "Carol of the Bells" soars from the speakers.
Jack and my mother and everything else vanish from my consciousness, and I simply let go.
My legs are stronger than ever, and they remember the angles, the sweep and glide of each sequence. Swift strokes across the ice, accelerating into a spin, and my body holds itself in just the right shape as I whirl, faster and faster, spinning away all the stress of the day. Zooming out of the spin, I flow into another sequence, one I practiced countless times as a teen. A jump, landing smoothly on one blade—skimming forward, sinking into another spin, opening up to the glee inside me, to the music and the flow of energy through myself.
I've always felt so at home here, on the ice.
Was there a deeper reason for that? Did I crave the cold and solidity of it because of some latent, lingering power inside me?
The violins sing higher and sweeter, and suddenly Jack is there, winging alongside me. His face is tense, focused, but his eyes glow with admiration and feral joy. He whirls with me, following my movements, and it's better than being perfectly synchronized because I'm leading a gorgeous ice god through a whimsical dance, and suddenly I'm happier than I have ever been.
Another song rolls out over the ice, a rock version of "Little Drummer Boy," and our energy shifts—more speed, sharper movements, wilder twirls. My heart is pumping hard, my blood racing hot through my veins. I feel the song building, and in a moment of daring I try for a double axel.
A moment of spinning suspension, every muscle and bone tight, under control.
My skate strikes ice again and I wobble, but I don't fall—I skim out of the jump and grin at Jack. He loops his arm through mine and we flow round and round, caught in the beautiful synchronicity of centrifugal force, our eyes locked in wordless communion. We swirl closer, nearer—Jack's smile is gone now, and he pulls me tight against him as the music fades.
Suspended in silence we wait, our chests swelling against each other with every panting inhale.
Jack gathers two fistfuls of my shirt's hem and draws it over my head. Then he pitches it away, into the rink-side seats.
His shirt is already halfway undone; it's the work of a moment to release the few remaining buttons, and I toss it aside. It doesn't clear the rink wall, but Jack sends a blast of wind after it, whisking it off the ice.
Slow and sinuous, we dance, the metal blades slicing patterns into the smooth surface. The ice seems to glow with a pulsing azure light, and when snowflakes begin to drift from the ceiling, I'm hardly surprised. Every time Jack whisks past me, his scent floods my nostrils with frost and wind and sea. The angles of his cheekbones sharpen, matching the wicked points of his ears. Hand in hand we twirl, and then he lifts me, and I revolve in midair for a moment before he sweeps me down again. He drags me close, my spine flush with his breastbone, and when his hand wraps between my legs, I arch into the touch. He dips his face to the curve of my neck, tracing my flesh with his cold sweet tongue.
Longing is turning my legs quivery. I twist in his arms and tug him back toward the rink wall, where we emerge through the gate and stagger to the seats. Without speaking we remove our skates, fingers tugging the laces in an agony of forced restraint. When I notice Jack undoing his pants, I strip mine off as well, keeping my mind carefully blank because if I begin to think about it, I won't do this.
I'm really doing this.
