I need to do this.
“I can try again,” I say.
His eyebrows lift slightly, impressed.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I confirm. “But slower. And maybe… with less falling.”
He nods. “I can work with that.”
He shifts to my side, close enough that our shoulders almost brush, and gestures forward.
“All you have to do is follow me,” he says. “Small steps. Don’t fight the ice.”
I snort. “That’s not my natural instinct.”
“For most people, it isn’t.”
We move together, inch by careful inch. He doesn’t hold me the whole time; he just checks in with a light touch on my elbow when my balance wavers, his presence a quiet anchor.
I become acutely aware of him in a deeply inconvenient way, of how easy this is for him, of how unhurried he seems, of how he never once looks out at the crowd.
It’s like, for him, this moment only exists right here. With me.
Behind the boards, Leo is watching us with an expression I can’t quite read. Tess stands beside him, arms crossed, her expression equal parts fond and murderous.
I catch Leo’s eye.
He mouths, You’re doing great.
I mouth back, You’re dead.
He beams.
I turn my attention back to the man skating beside me, the Grizzlies player whose name I don’t know, and at that exact moment, my blade slips again.
This time, I don’t panic.
Because before I even fully register the fall, his hand is there, firm and grounding, keeping me upright.
“I’ve got you,” he says quietly.
Then, because I have never once in my life known when to stop talking, I say, “I would like to formally apologize for whatever just happened to your evening.”
That does it.
He laughs.
Not politely. Not quietly.
A real laugh that crinkles his eyes and makes something warm bloom in my chest, like I’ve been hit with a heat lamp.
“No harm done,” he says. “You’re doing great.”
“I am absolutely not,” I reply as my ankles betray me again.
The second fall is less dramatic. Which is not to say it’s graceful. It’s just… quieter. Slower. Like my body has accepted that ice is, in fact, a hostile environment and has adjusted its expectations accordingly.
