"So you don't get cold," he said quietly.
"Put these on."
"I haven't skated in years?—"
"I know." His voice was soft, serious. "Trust me?"
The way he said it made her heart skip. She took the skates.
She pulled the jersey on over her sweater. When she looked up, Liam was watching her with an expression she couldn't read.
"That looks good on you," he said quietly, and somehow she knew he meant more than just the jersey. There was something proprietary in his gaze, something that saidmineeven though he had no right to think it.
The skates were another matter. She sat on the bench, lacing them up with muscle memory from youth hockey days, though it had been years since she'd been on ice.
"Too tight?" His hands hovered near hers, ready to help, but she had this.
She shook her head, not trusting her voice. He was so close she could feel the warmth radiating from him, could see the concern written across his face.
"Okay," he said, standing and offering her his hands. "Let's see what you got, Bennet."
Getting onto the ice was like riding a bike—if you hadn't ridden in a decade. Her muscle memory was there, but herankles were weak, her balance off. The first few strides were wobbly, uncertain.
"I've got you," he said, hands steady on her waist, and the words were loaded with meaning neither of them acknowledged.
"I'm fine, just rusty," she managed, finding her edges slowly. "Haven't done this since bantam level."
"You played?" His voice was surprised, pleased.
"Until I was fourteen. My dad coached youth hockey."
Every adjustment of her stance brought his hands to new places on her waist, her arms, guiding her back into proper form. When she caught an edge wrong and stumbled, he pulled her against him, steadying her. They stayed pressed together longer than necessary, both breathing a little too hard for the minimal physical exertion.
"Why did you bring me here?" she asked when he finally set her back at arm's length, her skating steadier now but still uncertain.
He was quiet for so long she thought he wouldn't answer.
"In Portland," he said slowly, "those hours in your room, playing cards, just... being. I've been telling myself the distance since then was for the best. That if we kept going down that path, things might get complicated." His voice turned grim. "I realized that we were becoming friends."
"And you think that would be a mistake."
"I thought it would be." His eyes met hers. "I was wrong."
He kept her moving slowly, his hands steady on her waist.
"My sister Georgia was fifteen when she made the Olympic development team for figure skating," he said quietly. "One of the youngest that year. The media loved her—'America's Ice Princess,' they called her. She was on every magazine cover, every talk show. The perfect D'Arcy daughter."
Libby had never heard him talk about his sister beyond polite mentions at family events.
"The pressure was insane. Every jump she missed was national news. Every pound she gained was photographed, analyzed, criticized. Social media made it worse—people felt entitled to comment on her body, her diet, her everything."
His voice grew rougher. "She started skipping meals. Then she started purging. She'd exercise for hours after practice, until she collapsed. I didn't know."
"Liam..."
"By the time we realized how bad it was, she'd already done permanent damage to her body. Her heart, her bones, her metabolism—all of it compromised. She was still a child and her body was shutting down."
His voice broke slightly. Libby instinctively reached for his hand, turning it palm up, interlacing their fingers. He gripped her hand like a lifeline.
