“Oh, it’s like that?” I shouted, pushing off hard.
She was fast. Shockingly fast. All long legs and determination and pure joy.
She hit the far wall first, slapping it victoriously as I caught up. “I win!”
“You cheated,” I said, breathless, laughing.
“You hesitated,” she shot back.
I slid in behind her, arms going instinctively around her waist as the momentum brought us chest-to-back. She squealed with surprise, her laughter echoing through the rink as we spun a slow, messy half circle.
Her body fit against mine like it belonged there.
She turned in my arms, her braids brushing my shoulders, cheeks flushed, eyes glowing with pure happiness.
God.
I didn’t even have a choice. The emotion in her face was joy, pride, and openness, and pulled me forward until our lips met.
The kiss wasn’t careful or tentative this time.
She kissed me back immediately, hands gripping my shirt, skating us both backward until her shoulders met the padded wall. The sound was a soft thump, a gasp. And then her fingers slid into my hair, pulling me closer.
Her warmth, her softness, the quiet little sound she made when our mouths found the same rhythm, it all shot straight through me.
I deepened the kiss, bracing one hand beside her head, the other at her waist, steadying us as the wheels wanted to roll, but she wanted to stay right here.
Her joy, her strength, her excitement, it all poured into the kiss, and it was easily one of the best things I’d ever felt.
I pulled back just enough to breathe, foreheads touching, both of us smiling like idiots.
“Eleanor . . . ” I whispered, completely undone.
She laughed a little, breathless laugh. “I guess I didn’t need a rematch to beat you again.”
I shook my head, smiling so hard it almost hurt. “Trust me . . . you’re winning all day.”
“What do you say we get these skates off?” I asked.
She nodded as we skated hand in hand to the bench. There was something going on with her. I wasn’t sure what.
She sat down with a sigh as she started unlacing her skates. Her furrowed brow told me something had definitely shifted.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
She didn’t answer right away.
She gave her head a little shake. “It’s fine . . . I just feel so free when I’m here. It makes me dread going home. God, I sound like a petulant child. And quite frankly, I feel like one sometimes.”
I rubbed her back, trying to comfort her in any way I could. “Is it that bad?”
She stared down at her skates in her lap, twisting one of the laces between her fingers. When she finally spoke, her voice was small . . . too small for someone as bright and steady as she was.
“It’s . . . bad,” she whispered.
My chest tightened.
She didn’t look at me, so I stayed quiet, waiting, not pushing.
