“Come on, disaster.” Jamie tugged him toward the edge of the rink. “Let’s get some food before you break something important.”
Chapter Seven
Grease and salt perfumed the air around the concession stand. Behind smudged glass, pizza slices wilted under heat lamps, cheese congealing into abstract art. French fries sat in metal baskets, glistening with enough oil to fuel a small car. Everything looked questionable and perfect.
“A large pepperoni pizza, nachos, and two baskets of fries,” Jamie ordered then glanced at Sloane. “Unless you have standards?”
“Standards are for people who don’t appreciate fine dining.”
The teenager behind the counter—different from the one at admissions, this one sporting aggressive acne and a Metallica shirt—ran Sloane’s credit card. Jamie grabbed napkins while Sloane waved off his mate’s protests about paying for everything.
Finding an empty table required navigation through birthday party debris and abandoned cups. They claimed a corner booth with cracked vinyl seats and initials carved into the laminate tabletop. Jamie slid in first, and Sloane followed, their thighs pressing together in the narrow space.
Their pizza arrived at their table twenty minutes later, grease pooling on the paper plates, cheese stretching in long strings when they pulled slices apart. The fries were soggy, the nachos covered in fluorescent orange cheese product that probably wasn’t legally cheese, and Sloane couldn’t remember the last time food tasted this good.
“This is terrible,” Jamie announced, biting into his third slice. Orange cheese stuck to his fingers. “Absolutely awful. I want more.”
Sloane grabbed another handful of fries, salt coating his fingers. His hip still ached from the fall, but watching Jamie demolish bad pizza made the pain irrelevant.
Jamie took another bite. A drop of grease escaped, running down his chin.
Without thinking, Sloane reached across, thumb catching the drop before it could fall. Jamie’s breath hitched, eyes widening as Sloane’s thumb lingered against his skin for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“Thanks,” Jamie managed, voice rougher than before.
The music changed to something with heavy bass that vibrated through the booth. Kids shrieked on the rink, racing past in packs. Rainbow lights swept across their table in lazy circles, painting Jamie’s face in shifting colors—blue, then green, then gold.
Heat coiled through Sloane’s gut, his wolf purring at the contact. He pulled his hand back, focusing on his own pizza to give Jamie space to breathe.
“So,” Jamie said between bites, “what made you look up roller rinks? Besides temporary insanity?”
“You needed a distraction.” Sloane pushed his fries closer to Jamie, an invitation to steal more.
“Most people would’ve suggested a movie. Or drinks. Normal things.”
“Normal’s overrated.”
Jamie’s laugh came softer this time, almost wondering. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know.” Jamie dragged a fry through ketchup, considering. “Someone who’d disappear after that first night. Or turned out to be secretly terrible. That’s usually how it goes for me.”
The admission twisted something in Sloane’s gut. His mate expected disappointment, had been trained by experience to anticipate abandonment. William and whoever else had come before had carved those expectations deep.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Sloane said quietly. He said it like a fact. Like a bone-deep truth he couldn’t stop from spilling out.
Jamie’s gaze snapped to his, searching for the lie, the catch, the fine print. When he found none, his expression shifted into something vulnerable that made Sloane want to pull him close and never let go.
“We should skate more,” Jamie said, deflecting from the moment. “You’re finally getting the hang of it.”
They finished eating—or attempting to eat, since calling it food felt generous—and returned to the rink. Sloane’s muscles had stiffened during the break, making his movements even more awkward. But Jamie stayed close, one hand on Sloane’s elbow, steadying him through each wobble.
“Bend your knees more,” Jamie instructed, skating backward again. “And stop death-gripping my arm. I need circulation.”
“You’re my only lifeline between dignity and disaster.”
“Your dignity died the third time you hugged the wall.”
