“This is stupid,” I whisper.
His fingers pause. “Do you want me to stop?”
I should say yes. We’re in a rink. The door isn’t locked. Anyone could walk in. Anynumberof things could go wrong.
“No.”
He exhales, and then he’s pulling the fabric down - not far, just enough - and the cold air hits me but his mouth follows so fast I don’t have time to feel it.
“Oh my God-” My hand slams back against the boards. The other one stays twisted in his hair, not pulling him away, holding himthere.
He works his mouth like he skates. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing and he’s in no hurry to be done with it. My skates slip against the ice - there’s no grip, nothing to braceagainst, just him and the cold and the impossible heat of his tongue.
“Russo, I can’t - I’m going to fall-”
His hands catch my hips, hold me steady, pull me closer. He doesn’t stop. Instead, he doubles down. Something is winding tight in my belly, tighter than it’s ever been, and my thighs are shaking and my skates are still sliding out from under me and he’s the only thing keeping me upright.
I’m so close. I can feel it cresting, breaking over me-
A door slams somewhere in the building.
We both freeze.
“What was that?” His voice is rough, muffled against me.
Footsteps. Somewhere down the concourse. Distant but coming closer.
I shove at his shoulders and scramble to pull my clothes back up, my fingers clumsy and useless. He’s already on his feet, positioned in front of me like he can hide what just happened. Like his face isn’t flushed and his jersey isn’t crooked, and I’m not standing here trembling with a near-orgasm that was two seconds away that I didn’t get.
The rink door bangs open.
Tara’s voice, bright and carrying. “Elida? Calloway said you were still - oh.”
Silence.
I step out from behind Russo, which achieves nothing because Tara has already seen everything she needs to see, and I attempt to look like a person who has been doing nothing except standing against the boards having a normal conversation.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” Tara says carefully.
She takes in the situation - the flushed faces, the crooked jersey, the fact that we’re standing three inches apart at the boards in an empty rink - and she pulls her clipboard to herchest and says, “I came to grab my - I’ll just-” She gestures vaguely at nothing. “I’ll come back.”
The door closes behind her.
I close my eyes.
“Elida.” Russo’s voice. Low.
“Don’t.” I open my eyes and look at the ice and not at him. “Please don’t.”
I can feel him beside me. I’ve been so aware of his presence ever since the first morning.
I step away from the boards.
“Saturday,” I say, which is the most professional thing I can locate right now. “Scouts. Focus on that.”
“That’s really what you want to say right now.”
