I push off again, skating a slow loop, trying to shake the tightness in my chest loose. I focus on the sound of my blades. On the cold air. On the way the ice takes my weight without judgment. Halfway through the lap, I glance back toward the bench. Grayson is sitting now, elbows on his knees, watching the ice like he’s considering stepping onto it but can’t quite commit.
He looks…tired. Not exhausted-tired. Restless-tired. The kind that lives in your bones.
I shouldn’t care.
I do anyway.
I complete another lap and then slow near the boards. Not too close. Just close enough that I don’t have to raise my voice.
“You’re not going to skate?” I ask.
Grayson looks up, startled, like he forgot I existed for a second. “Maybe.”
“That’s not a real answer,” I tell him.
His mouth twitches. “It’s the only one I’ve got.”
I hesitate, then nod toward the ice. “You could do a few laps.”
Grayson studies me. “You giving me permission?”
I blink. “It’s not my rink.”
He shrugs. “Feels like it is this morning. You’re great out there.”
The words land weirdly in my chest. No one has seen me skate in years, but hearing a compliment is something I wasn’t mentally prepared for. I don’t know what to do with that, so I do what I always do when sincerity corners me.
I take the direct route, with no filter or fluff.
“You should skate,” I say. “Or don’t. But sitting there staring at the ice like it personally wronged you is a bit dramatic.”
Grayson laughs—quick, real, and surprised. “Dramatic, huh?”
“Yes,” I confirm. “It’s giving tortured artist.”
His eyes flick over me like he’s deciding if I’m joking.
I hold his gaze, because if I look away first, it feels like losing.
“Fine,” he says finally, standing. “I’ll skate.”
He pulls hockey skates from his bag and laces them with practiced speed. His movements are easy, efficient. Like his hands have done this a thousand times. Because they have. Hesteps onto the ice without hesitation, gliding out like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Of course it is.
He starts slow—shoulders loose, testing his edges, stopping cleanly, pivoting like his body was designed for it. Watching him skate is different than watching him at the barbecue.
At the barbecue he was a person in a room. Here, he looks like he belongs to the ice.
I push off and return to my routine, telling myself to focus. I do footwork while he does laps, and somehow the rhythm settles into something that feels…balanced. Two people moving in the same space without colliding, without forcing the other to adjust. It’s oddly calming.
After a few minutes, Grayson slows near the boards again.
“You’re good,” he says, like it slips out before he can stop it.
I stiffen. Compliments make my skin itch.
“I know,” I say automatically. Then immediately regret it because it sounds arrogant, and I don’t want him to think I’m arrogant. I just…don’t know how to accept praise without feeling like I owe something back.
