I should have stood, muttered something neutral, and left. But my mouth betrayed me first. “That guy at the bar. You into him?”
Her head snapped up. “You asking as my coach?”
I met her stare. “No. I’m asking because I remember exactly how he looked at you.”
A spark moved between us, quick, electric. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, buying time. “And how did I look at him?”
The laugh that wanted to come out felt too bitter. “Like you were trying to forget me.”
The quiet went heavy; even the radiator seemed to hold its breath.
Her throat bobbed once, eyes dark now. “You don’t get to decide what I was trying to forget.”
I leaned forward anyway, elbows on my knees, the space between us shrinking until the scent of her shampoo cut through whatever restraint I had left. “You’re right. But I saw it, Billie. The way you smiled at him, all light until he touched you, then you froze. Like your body remembered something it shouldn’t.”
She blinked slow. “You were watching?”
“Couldn’t help it.”
Her voice dropped, low and sharp. “You always think you're in control, don’t you? Like you can bark an order and the rest of us just skate in formation.”
“Doesn’t look that way now.” My tone came out rough, wider than I meant it.
She pushed the notebook aside, stood up. We were close—too close. The air between us thinned until every exhale felt like a choice.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
I searched for the safe answer and couldn’t find it. “Because when he touched your arm, every muscle in me fired like I was on the ice again.”
Her breath hitched—that tiny, betraying sound that gave away more than words.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“I already did.”
The neon from the parking lot sign bled through the blinds, cutting a narrow stripe of red across her cheek. I watched the pulse there jump beneath her skin. Stupid detail to notice. Impossible to un-see.
“You think this fixes anything?” she asked.
“No. But lying sure as hell won’t either.”
She stared back, utterly still. The kind of stillness I’d only seen before a faceoff—every nerve focused, coiled, waiting for the puck to drop.
Neither of us moved. Not for a full heartbeat. Maybe two. My hands closed into fists just to keep from reaching.
Then I did move, slow and deliberate—standing, closing what little distance remained until her breath brushed my jaw.
Her eyes didn’t drop. They dared.
I crossed the line I’d spent weeks pretending didn’t exist.
I took one more step. Too close. The smell of her soap mixed with the faint bite of the rink still clinging to my jacket. The space shrank until my shadow covered hers.
Her knees brushed mine. A quiet, involuntary bump, barely pressure at all, but the touch jolted through me like hitting live wire. She drew in a quick breath, sharp, startled, not scared—just caught off guard. The sound of it tore whatever distance I’d been trying to keep.
