I push hard into the first few laps, building speed. The rhythm of it soothes something raw. Muscles burn, lungs tighten, sweat beads along my spine, finally, something that makes sense. Something that hurts the way it should.
I'm halfway through another lap when the door clicks open.
I don’t look at first.
But I know it’s her. There is a pull inside my chest that tells me before even seeing her. A constant reminder that she’s my scent match.
She drops her duffel bag and snags out her skates, slipping off her tennis shoes and replacing them with her wheels. I do another lap as she silently prepares to come out on the rink. She didn’t say hi; hell, she probably didn’t even look in my direction.
I slow instinctively, coasting along the curve of the rink as she steps on. Her long legs are fluid and sure. Her pink hair’s tucked under a beanie, two pigtails sticking out, not caring how ridiculous she looks. Slouchy sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, helmet still on the bench. Pads in place.
But it’s the gloves that catch my eye.
Black with pink accents. Reinforced palms. Her name stitched into the wrist.
The ones I had delivered this morning.
She doesn’t look at me, but she knows I’ve seen them.
“Hey,” I offer, skating backward to match her approach. “You came early.”
“Wanted some extra laps,” she says, adjusting her wrist guards like they need more attention than they do.
My gaze drops to her hands.
“Do you like them?” I ask.
Her fingers curl slightly, just enough to press into the palms. Her eyes flick up to mine—then drop again.
“I do,” she says softly.
It’s just two words. But they mean everything. I want to say more. Ask her if she wore them because she knew I’d be here. If she misses me the way I miss her.
But I don’t push.
I skate beside her in silence, matching her pace. My eyes find one of her guys on the side of the rink, top row of the bleachers, silently watching us. I’m pretty sure it’s Graham. He doesn’t pretend not to watch us. I’m pretty sure he wants me to know he’s there. I swallow and clear my throat.
“Did you get the flowers?”
A small smile tries to pull at her lips. “I did.”
I press my lips together, holding back a smile of my own. “They are the start of the real apology that I owe you.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps skating—one, two, three more strides—before glancing sideways at me.
“They were dramatic,” she says, a teasing lilt in her voice. “You trying to win me back or start a florist side hustle?”
Relief kicks in, light and dizzying. “Only if the florist specializes in second chances,” I say, eyes locked on her face. “Was it too much?”
She rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t skate away. And that feels big.
She lets out a soft breath that’s almost a laugh. “Maybe. But…it was you. In a ‘crash-through-the-door, bury-me-in-carnations’ kind of way.”
My grin escapes before I can stop it. “I don’t really do subtle.”
“No,” she says, and this time she’s smiling too. “You don’t.”
She holds my gaze for half a beat longer than necessary. It’s not forgiveness. Not even close. But it’s something.
