“Didn't want to make it weird by announcing myself.” I kept my eyes on the ice because looking at him felt too hard right now. “Good game. You guys looked good out there.”
“Thanks.” He was quiet for a second, and I could feel him watching me. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I just—” I stopped, took a breath, and made myself say it before I lost my nerve. “I wanted to apologize. For the club. For being drunk and making it weird and putting you in that position. I shouldn't have kissed you like that.”
“Soren—”
“I know you were just trying to make sure I didn't do anything stupid, and I went and made it awkward anyway.” The words were coming out faster now, tripping over each other in my hurry to get them all out. “So I'm sorry. For all of it. The drinking, the mess, the—everything.”
Rook was quiet for long enough that I risked a glance at him, and the expression on his face was complicated in ways I couldn't read.
“I'm not mad about the kiss,” he said finally, and his voice was careful in ways that made my chest tighten. “But the drinking, Soren—that scared me. Seeing you that drunk, that out of it. I need you to know that's not okay.”
The shame came back in full force, hot and heavy and fucking awful. “I know. I'm working on it.”
“Are you?” There was no judgment in his voice, just concern that somehow made it worse. “Because Talia said this has been a pattern for a while, and I'm worried about you.”
“Talia talks too much.” I said it without heat because I knew she'd only told him because she cared, but it still stung that my coping mechanisms were now apparently public knowledge.
“She cares about you. So do I.” He shifted in his seat, and I felt his shoulder brush against mine. “I'm not trying to lecture you or make you feel like shit. I just need you to know that I'm here if you need help getting a handle on it.”
“I'll be more careful.” It wasn't a promise to stop, exactly, but it was the best I could offer right now. “I don't want you to have to worry about me like that.”
“Too late. I'm already worrying.” He said it simply, like it was just a fact, and I had to look away again before the warmth in my chest could turn into anything messier.
We sat there in silence for a while, and I let myself just exist next to him without needing to fill the quiet. The ice stretched out in front of us, clean and bright and empty, and I found myself staring at it with a longing I'd been trying to ignore for years.
“I miss it,” I said quietly. “Hockey. Being out there. I didn't realize how much until I watched you play today.”
“Yeah?” His voice had gone softer, and when I glanced at him his expression was gentle enough to make my throat tight.
“Yeah. Music's great, and I love it, but it's not the same. Hockey had a—I don't know, a violence to it that drumming doesn't. A physicality that made everything else disappear.” I laughed, but the sound came out hollow. “Probably sounds stupid.”
“It doesn't sound stupid at all.” He was quiet for a second, and then he said, “You know, we're sitting in an ice rink. We could skate. Right now, if you wanted.”
I turned to look at him fully, trying to figure out if he was serious. “What?”
“The rink's empty, nobody's using it, and I've got connections.” He grinned, and the expression was so open and genuine that I felt it like a punch to the chest. “When's the last time you were on the ice?”
“Years. I don't even know if I remember how.”
“Muscle memory's a hell of a thing.” He stood up and grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “Come on. Let's see if you're as rusty as you think you are.”
He started walking toward the benches, and I followed him because apparently I'd lost the ability to say no to him about anything. He dropped his bag on one of the benches and starteddigging through it, pulling out gear and setting it aside until he found what he was looking for.
A jersey. Number eleven. The same one he'd been wearing during the game.
“Here,” he said, holding it out to me. “Put this on.”
I took it from him with hands that weren't quite steady, and the fabric was soft and warm from being packed in his bag. It smelled like detergent and rink and something I couldn't name but recognized as distinctly Rook, and I had to resist the urge to press my face into it like a fucking creep.
I pulled it over my head, and it fit. A little loose in the shoulders, but close enough that it didn't feel ridiculous. I looked down at the number on my chest and felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes for reasons I didn't want to examine too closely.
“Looks good on you,” Rook said, and there was warmth in his voice that made the tightness in my chest spread wider. “Always did.”
We found spare skates and sticks in the equipment room, and I laced mine up with fingers that remembered the motion even though my brain was still catching up to the fact that this was happening. Rook finished first and stood up, testing his balance, and then he held out a hand to help me up.
I took it, and the contact sent a jolt through me that had nothing to do with static electricity.
