The university's ice arena is impressively maintained, courtesy of the local NHL team, which needed a place to practice after its facility was destroyed by fire. Literal flames. It was a massive story at the time. Something about vandalism, a pissed off ex, and a rescue that sounds straight out of a Hallmark movie. Except it actually happened, which is wild.
Tonight it's filled with students taking advantage of a pre-exams open skate, with a section of benches reserved specifically for Delta Psi Omega and our "brotherhood bonding."
Hanging back as the others collect their rental skates, I eye them with suspicion. My previous experiences with ice skating have been limited and humiliating, usually ending with me sprawled on the ice while more coordinated people glide effortlessly past.
"You really don't skate, do you?" Caleb's voice comes from behind me. He's already laced up in a pair of sleek black skates that look well-worn and personal rather than rented.
"I already told you I didn't. " Reluctantly, I accept a pair of rental skates from the counter.
"Yeah, but…” He doesn’t finish whatever he was going to say. "You're looking at those like they're instruments of torture." He nods toward the skates, a hint of amusement in his eyes.
"In my experience, they are." Heavily, I drop onto the bench, time to face the evil skates.
Thread the lace through the next eyelet, and pull it tight.It immediately goes slack again.Perfect. Cross them, pull tight. No, that's not right. And Caleb's watching the entire struggle, silent, which somehow makes it worse than if he just said something.
"You're doing it wrong," he says after a moment. "You need to tighten them more at the ankle."
"Go ahead and show me how it's done." I sound more annoyed than I mean to.
To my surprise, he kneels down and takes over, his fingers moving efficiently as he adjusts the laces. "Too loose and you'll have no support. Too tight and you'll cut off circulation. There's a balance."
Where do my hands even go in this situation? Resting on my knees feels awkward. Hanging at my sides feels weirder. I kind of want to see if his hair is soft… Stop it, you idiot!
Caleb's bent over the skate, his fingers moving with practiced precision as he works through lacing the skates. I watch the careful way he handles each eyelet, how focused he looks. It's strange having someone this close, close enough that I can see the exact shade of his blonde hair. He's close enough that I can catch the faint scent of whatever detergent he uses on his clothes.
Stranger still that he's doing something this... helpful? Caleb Huntington the Third, perpetually grumpy law student, is kneeling on the floor, fixing my skates. If someone had toldme a month ago this would be happening, I would've laughed them out of the room. And yet here we are, and I'm finding it increasingly difficult to focus on anything other than the fact that he hasn't made a single sarcastic comment about my incompetence with basic footwear.
Giving my head a shake, I ask, "Where did you learn to skate?" Anything to fill the awkward silence.
At a rink near my parents' house," he says without looking up. "It kept me busy while Father attended political functions, and my mother was always at his side." There's a bitterness in his voice that makes me think the memories aren't entirely pleasant ones.
"Done," he says, standing up. "That should hold."
Before I can thank him, Gavin bounds over, already laced up and practically vibrating with enthusiasm. "You guys ready? This is gonna be awesome!"
"Not the word I'd use,"
"Come on, it'll be fun!" Gavin insists. "And look, you two are already hanging out. The Hunter-Huntington alliance continues!"
"Please stop calling us that." My jaw clenches at Gavin's annoying use of that stupid nickname.
"Why? It's perfect! Like a law firm or a superhero duo." Gavin grins broadly. "Hunter and Huntington: Defenders of Digital Virtue."
Caleb shoots me a look, annoyed yet maybe a bit amused. I think we are two people who've reached our mutual limit with Gavin's relentless cheerfulness and terrible naming conventions. Without needing to say anything, we both seem to arrive at the same conclusion: escape is the only viable option.
We turn at the same time and head toward the ice, our shoulders knocking together in what I can only describeas a united front against the onslaught of Golden Retriever enthusiasm behind us.
Gavin doesn't stop talking as we walk away, something about defending digital virtue, but we've effectively tuned him out. Getting on the ice, even if I'm going to make a complete fool of myself, sounds way better than listening to more of his fake superhero names.
As we approach the rink, my confidence disappears. The other guys are already on the ice, some gliding with decent skill, others clinging desperately to the wall. Tyler and Ethan are holding hands as they skate slowly but steadily together.
My shoulders are tight as I stop at the entrance to the ice. "I'll probably just watch."
Caleb, who's already stepped onto the frozen surface with practiced ease, turns back to look at me. He moves with a natural fluidity that speaks to years of training. "Giving up before you even try? That doesn't seem like you, Hunter."
The challenge in his voice irritates me enough to step forward, gripping the wall with white knuckles as my feet immediately try to slide in opposite directions.
"Bend your knees slightly," Caleb says, watching my struggle. "And stop looking so terrified. The ice can smell fear."
