“You’re ok,” he says, not asking, telling. His tone is steady, like this is a normal Tuesday problem he solves all the time.
I blink up at him.
He has kind eyes. That’s the first thing I notice. Not cocky, not pitying. Attentive. Focused on me, not the crowd.
“I meant to do that,” I say automatically.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Of course you did.”
I swallow. My face feels hot.
“I really wanted to test the ice.”
“Smart,” he agrees. “Very thorough.”
His humor is quiet, dry. Not a performance. Not something meant for the crowd. Just… between us.
He extends a hand toward me.
Again, not dramatic. Not like he’s rescuing a damsel. Just an offer. Take it or don’t.
I hesitate for half a second long enough to register the weight of the moment, then take it.
His grip is warm even through his glove. Solid. He braces himself, shifting his weight effortlessly, and then he pulls.
I rise.
Not all at once. Not yanked upright like a rag doll. He guides me up in stages, steadying my elbow, keeping me close enough that I don’t topple again but not so close that it feels invasive.
I’m standing.
I’m actually standing.
The crowd cheers again, louder this time. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and laugh slightly hysterical.
“Ok,” I say. “That was humbling.”
He smiles fully now, and something in my chest stutters.
“No one saw,” he says lightly.
I glance at the stands. At the phones. At the thousands of eyes currently locked on us.
“Bold claim,” I reply.
He shrugs. “I didn’t see anything.”
That makes me laugh again. Real laughter this time, the kind that loosens the knot in my chest instead of tightening it.
“Thanks,” I say. “For the assist.”
“Anytime.” He gestures subtly toward my skates. “You want to try again, or should we call this a strong opening act?”
I consider it.
My knee aches. My pride is bruised. My heart is still racing.
But I’m upright. I didn’t die. And for reasons I can’t quite explain, I don’t feel like a joke right now.
