Page 202 of Stick It
“Good, ’cause what I want is you, Finn. All of you.”
She turns away before I can tell her she already has all of me. She’s owned every part since that first day she knocked on our door.
Doing a loop around the ice, she sets herself up to do the move I so spectacularly failed at. I hold my breath as she goes in, unable to take my eyes off of her.
And then she does it—an effortless, elegant spin, lifting one leg in perfect symmetry. She looks like a ballerina on skates, and it’s a mental snapshot I’ll keep for the remainder of my days.
“What the hell? How did you do that?” I demand as she skates over to me, eyes ablaze with delight and a dazzling smile on her face.
“I took figure skating when I was a kid. My dad wanted me to try it. Pretty sure he was hoping I’d prefer it over hockey and go down that route—less violence and all that—but it wasn’treally my thing. I did keep at it for a few years, though. It helped my balance, sharpened my edgework. Made me better on the ice.”
“Tell me about him—your dad.” I pull her forward, maneuvering us around the ice and keeping her appropriately distracted while she opens up to me.
And she does. Little things at first. Trips to the rink at dawn. Him shouting encouragement from the stands. Silly rituals and game-day pancakes. She explains that the collection of mugs in her bedroom are ones he’d bring back from away games.
Her voice trembles once, but she keeps going, and I don’t say anything. I just skate with her, her fingers wrapped around mine, so she knows I’m here with her.
“I miss him,” she says eventually, emitting a heavy sigh, one laden with grief and loss. “So much that it hurts.”
I guide us to a gentle stop and pull her into my arms, wrapping her up in everything I have. She sinks into me like she’s finally found a safe space to land, and it does weird and wonderful things to me to know I make her feel that way. Make her feel safe. I don’t fully believe I’ve earned such a privilege, but it’s one I’ll accept regardless.
Tilting her chin up, I lower my lips to hers. It’s soft. Reverent. Nothing like the heat-fueled kisses we’ve shared in dark corners. It’s a whisper of a promise—of comfort, of presence.
“I needed this,” she murmurs, her breath dancing over my lips. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy, but she’s glowing.
“I know,” I reply, because I did too. I needed this time with her. One-on-one.
Pushing out of my hold, she grins. That spark is back in her eyes, lighting her up from within. “Bet you can’t catch me,” she teases.
She skates off before I can respond, laughter trailing behind her. My heart swells.
With abarked laugh, I push off, chasing after her.
We race. We dance across the ice, dodging and weaving, playful and breathless. And when I finally catch her, I spin her around, her laughter bursting against my throat.
This time, when I kiss her, it’s all fire and hunger and want. It’s everything I’ve been holding back. Everything she’s already claimed.
She’s mine.
And I’m so goddamn hers.
She’s still breathless, cheeks flushed, when we step off the ice. Her fingers are wrapped around mine, and I can feel the leftover tremor of laughter in them, the echo of something lighter. Freer.
But that weightlessness between us? It’s shifting. Morphing into something heavier, hungrier.
I tug her down the corridor, not toward the exit, but deeper into the arena. Into the locker room. Past the benches.
“Finn?” she asks, laughing, confused. “What are you?—”
I don’t give her time to finish.
With one hand on her hip, I back her into the tiled wall of the shower room and kiss her. Hard. Deep. Like I’ve been holding it in for far too long.
Because I have.
She gasps into my mouth, hands flying up to grab the front of my hoodie. My name—half moan, half plea—slips from her lips, and it wrecks me. Unravels whatever shred of restraint I’ve been holding on to.
“Finn.”
