Page 67 of Puck Your Feelings
"Enough to know you need help."
He narrows his eyes. "I'm doing fine, thank you very much."
"If by 'fine' you mean 'not actively bleeding,' then sure."
He crosses his arms, defensive. "I'm just... practicing. For the thing tomorrow."
"The thing where Svetlana will publicly eviscerate anyone who hasn't improved? That thing?"
"Yeah, that thing." He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up in ridiculous spikes. "I don't like being bad at shit, okay?"
It's so unexpectedly honest that I'm momentarily thrown.
Becker usually deflects vulnerability with humor faster than Wall blocks shots.
"Want some actual help?"
He hesitates, then shrugs with forced nonchalance. "I mean, if you're offering."
I skate closer, trying to remember the basics my mother taught me years ago, before everything went to shit.
"Start with your feet like this," I demonstrate, positioning my skates in a T-formation. "Weight on your back foot."
Becker mimics me, his movements more controlled than I expected. He's a good skater—all hockey players are—but figure skating requires a different kind of precision.
"Now arms out to the sides, not flailing like you're being attacked by bees."
"I do not flail," he protests, definitely flailing.
"Sure." I skate behind him. "May I?" I gesture toward his arms.
He nods, and I reach out, adjusting his position. My hands on his forearms, guiding them into the proper form. His skin is warm even through the fabric of his hoodie.
"Like this," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. "Now when you turn, keep your core tight and your head spotting—pick a point and keep your eyes on it as long as possible before turning your head."
He attempts the spin, wobbling but staying upright. Barely.
"Not terrible," I concede.
"High praise from the Robot." But he's grinning, clearly pleased with himself. "Show me again?"
We spend the next hour like this—me demonstrating, him attempting, gradual improvement punctuated by creative cursing when he falls. The emergency lighting casts everything in a surreal blue glow, making the rink feel smaller, more intimate.
"Okay, I think I've got it this time," he says, setting up for another spin. "Witness greatness."
He pushes off, rotates once, twice—and then his edge catches. I see the moment he realizes he's going down, eyes widening in comical panic.
I move without thinking, skating forward to catch him. His momentum carries us both backward, my arms wrapping around his waist as I struggle to keep us upright.
For a moment, we're stable—his back pressed against my chest, my arms around him, both of us breathing hard from the near-fall.
Then he turns in my arms to face me, and suddenly we're chest to chest, faces inches apart.
"Nice catch," he says, voice uncharacteristically quiet.
I should step back. Put distance between us.
I don't move.
