Page 29 of Make Me Mean It

“Reid, don’t—”

His blade catches in one of the grooves carved through the ice.

I’m already moving when his balance goes, pushing hard off my outside edge and cutting across the space between us while Connor’s arms shoot out and his other skate scrapes uselessly for something to catch.

Two strides and I’m there.

I catch him before he gets anywhere near the ice, one arm hooking hard around his waist, pulling him back into me. Connor hits my chest with enough force to drive me backwards, but my edges bite down automatically, knees bending to absorb the impact while I widen my stance and take his weight into mine.

His skates stop scrambling.

So does he.

Connor goes completely still against me, held tight beneath my arm with his feet safely between mine, and a long breath leaves him like he’s only just realised he can take one.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, keeping my arm locked around his middle until I’m sure his blades are sitting properly beneath him again.

A shaky laugh slips out of Connor, vibrating softly through him where he’s pressed against me, but the rest of him stays tense beneath my arm.

“I had it,” he grumbles, shifting his feet beneath him, only for one blade to slip slightly and his hand to close hard around my forearm.

I glance down at the fingers wrapped around me.

“Clearly.”

Connor makes an offended noise and twists around in my hold until he’s facing me, one hand still curled around my forearm while the other lands against my chest to steady himself.

Christ, he’s pretty when he’s pissed off.

The cold has dragged colour high across his cheeks, his lips parted around the last of those uneven breaths while he glares up at me through lashes still damp from the rink air. He looks like he wants to argue, probably does, but his fingers are still curled around my arm, the contradiction making it difficult to look anywhere else.

My eyes drop to his mouth again.

Again.

I loosen my arm from around his waist, letting my hand fall away once I’m sure he’s steady, though I keep it close enough to catch him when he inevitably tries to prove he doesn’t need me and nearly eats shit again.

“You done trying to kill yourself?” I ask, giving him enough space that my voice finally starts sounding like mine again.

Connor rolls his eyes. “Bit dramatic.”

He folds his arms across his chest, apparently forgetting that those arms have been doing half the work of keeping him upright because his left skate immediately slips sideways.

I catch the back of his shirt, tugging him straight again while a grin pulls at my mouth.

Connor very deliberately unfolds his arms.

“Not a word.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, princess.”

His eyes narrow, but at least the flush across his cheeks looks a hell of a lot easier to deal with when he’s glaring at me.

“I had it,” he mutters.

“Yeah, we’ve established your definition of having it needs some work.”

The rink door slams open before Connor can argue, the sound cracking through the empty space and sending a jolt through him beside me.