I push off and glide toward him, body already humming with the rhythm I’ve missed. Every curve of the track is as familiar as home. I weave toward him, then dodge at the last second, making him laugh.
We loop around together, lazy at first. A few warm-up laps, our fingers grazing every so often, our shoulders brushing on the curves. The tension builds slowly, the heat simmering under the surface.
And then he reaches for my hand—lacing our fingers together—and the contact steals my breath more than any spin or sprint ever has.
“You seem all better,” he murmurs.
I look up at him through my lashes. “I think I am ready for action, Coach.”
“Yeah?” he asks, voice rougher now. “What kind of action?”
I hum a non-answer, and he releases my hand. He skates ahead of me, then circles back, catching me off guard. His hand finds my waist, guiding me backward, slow but sure, until my back touches the cool cinderblock wall at the edge of the rink.
He doesn’t crowd me. He leans in just enough for the air to go thick.
“I’ve dreamed of this,” he says quietly. “Of you. Skates on. Flushed cheeks. That mouth.”
My breath catches.
“I used to imagine skating with you all the time,” I admit, heart racing. “After I found out you did derby? My brain practically wrote fanfiction.”
That makes him grin, soft and surprised. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His fingers slide down my arms, slow, reverent. Then he cups my face with both hands, thumbs brushing my cheekbones.
“And what happened in your daydreams?” he practically whispers against my mouth.
“I don’t know,” I lie, breathless. “Why don’t you show me?”
His lips crash into mine before I finish the sentence.
He kisses the same way he skates—confident, commanding, and devastating in all the right ways. My hands grip the front of his shirt as his mouth moves over mine, deepening the kiss until I forget where we are, who might be watching, what time it is.
When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathless. His forehead rests against mine.
“I missed you,” he whispers.
“I missed you, too,” I say. “Even when I hated you a little.”
He grins. “Fair. I deserved that.”
“I’m still keeping score.”
“Good,” he says, brushing a kiss to the tip of my nose. “I plan on making it up to you. Every point.”
His hands stay on my waist, fingers flexing into me, memorizing the curve of me. I can feel the heat in him, barely contained under that easy grin. But it’s in his eyes too. Something deeper. Something aching.
“I meant it,” I whisper. “About wanting more moments like this.”
He leans in again, mouth brushing my jaw, down to the soft place under my ear. “Tell me how many,” he murmurs. “How many do you want?”
“All of them,” I breathe. “Every one I thought I lost.”
He groans softly, as though I’ve hit something raw inside him. One hand slides under the hem of my top, spreading wide against my bare back. His palm is warm—steadying—but his mouth is pure sin. He kisses down the column of my throat, slow and careful, savoring everything he’s missed.
“You still smell like mine,” he says, voice rough against my skin. “Even with their marks. Even with everything.”
