The rest of the drive was quiet. Her hand in mine said everything we didn’t need to speak out loud.
When we pulled into the rink parking lot, she exhaled shakily.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
“I’ll be in the stands,” I told her. “Cheering. Very loudly.”
She rolled her eyes like she didn’t believe me, but the tiny smile tugging at her mouth said otherwise.
Inside, the rink was already buzzing with women in pads and helmets, voices echoing, wheels clattering on polished floor. Eleanor checked in with one of the Reapers, then disappeared into the locker room to change.
I found a seat on the bleachers close enough to watch her, far enough to pretend I wasn’t ready to fight anyone who looked at her wrong.
Five minutes later, the locker room door swung open, and the warm-up skaters trickled onto the floor. And then I saw her.
Eleanor glided out onto the rink, not wobbly anymore, finding her rhythm. The blue streaks flashed against her helmet. She looked determined. Focused. Beautiful.
She didn’t see me at first. She was too busy watching her feet, adjusting her pads, testing her edges.
Then her eyes lifted, scanning the bleachers . . .
And landed on me. Her face opened into a soft, surprised smile. My chest did something stupid in response.
I lifted my hand in a small wave.
She waved back, small, shy, but real.
From my spot on the bleachers, I could see everything. The warm-up laps, the drills being set up, the nervous clusters of women stretching or adjusting pads, all of it. But all I could really see washer.
Eleanor lined up with the others, her helmet slightly crooked, her mouth set in that determined line I’d come to recognize. Her first couple of strides were careful, the way someone checks for thin ice.
And then— She pushed off harder. Let herself move.
And damn.
She wasn’t just skating.
She wasflying.
A laugh escaped me, unexpected, soft. Because how was this the same woman I’d met at that park gathering? The one who’d tripped over a crack, skinned her knee, and insisted she was “fine” while I tried not to stare at her with obvious concern and obvious attraction.
I remembered how she’d winced when she sat on the picnic table bench, how I’d crouched down with Becca’s first-aid kit and gently cleaned the scrape on her knee. The way she’d tried to joke through the sting, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, telling me she wasn’t used to “being athletic in public.”
And now here she was, tearing around the rink like the whole world had finally decided to stop holding her back.
She took the corners tight. Confident. Strong. Her strides were even and powerful.
When Mel blew the whistle for backward skating, I held my breath.
Eleanor hesitated for half a heartbeat, then pivoted with surprising grace and took off skating backward like she’d been doing it for years. Her arms were steady, her face focused, her legs solid.
A few of the other skaters stumbled. One spun out completely.
But Eleanor?
She glided.
Next was the obstacle course, cones, hurdles, a tight weave, and a small ramp. I remembered the first time she faced a setup like that. She’d grinned at me right before tripping over the second cone and taking Belle down with her.
