Page 30 of Take Two

By the time we reach the last drill, there is sweat dampening the collar of his shirt and his breathing has deepened into something more substantial. His cheeks carry the particular color that cold air and sustained physical effort produce together.

“One more,” he says.

I laugh, checking my watch before I can stop myself. “We are already over time.”

He tips his chin down and looks at me through what I can only describe as a frankly unreasonable expression. “I almost had that last one.”

“You absolutely did not.”

“I was close.” He brings a forefinger and thumb together until they are nearly touching, leaving approximately no visible gap between them.

I stare at the space between his fingers. Then at him.

The competitive stubbornness written across his face is so completely at home there that it reminds me of the most difficult professionals I have ever shared a locker room with, the ones who will run the same drill until their legs give out before they will accept that good enough is good enough for today.

“Fine,” I say. “One more.”

His smile arrives instantly.

“Show-off,” I say, meaning considerably more than the word alone.

“I am literally failing.” Cyaire pulls to a stop beside me.

“You are failing enthusiastically,” I say with every ounce of gravity I possess.

“That still counts for something.” He nudges me with the shaft of his stick, light and familiar.

“It does not.” I laugh, and the sound surprises me a little because it is entirely unmanaged, no restraint applied, none attempted.

He pushes off with a grin and lines up for the final attempt, and I watch him set his weight and find his edge and I am, without question, enjoying this more than I was professionally prepared for.

Halfway through the drill his right skate catches a bad edge. Everything happens within the span of about one second. The puck slides free, Cyaire’s weight shifts wrong, and his arms go wide as balance disappears beneath him entirely.

Instinct takes over before thought has any opportunity to consult.

The moment his skate betrays him, I move. My glove shoots out, fingers splayed, but Cyaire’s already reaching too, his own reflexes sharp, desperate. We collide hard enough to send my skates sliding backward across the ice. I catch him around the waist before either of us goes down, planting my blades and absorbing his weight against my chest. His breath is warm and uneven against my neck, his hand fists the front of my jacket as he tries to steady himself. My arm tightens around his waist, holding him there until I’m sure we’ve both found our balance again.

The arena is too quiet. The kind of silence that swallows sound whole, leaving only the echo of our breathing, the scuff of skates against ice, the distant hum of the rink’s machinery. Somewhere beyond the boards, Cameron stands like a shadow, watching. I don’t look. I can’t. Not when Cyaire’s weight is still leaning into mine, not when the scent of him, sweat, cold air and something faintly citrus, fills my lungs.

His eyes lift to mine, Chocolate brown, rich and warm, flecked with gold in the arena lights. They’re the same eyes that have haunted me for months, the same ones that looked up at me from between my sheets, heavy-lidded and wanting. The same ones that locked onto mine in a crowded bar, dark with intent.

Just like that, the memories hit me like a body check.

The bar. The elevator ride up to my hotel room, the way his breath hitched when my hand slid up his thigh, the way he bit his lip when I pressed him against the wall. The hotel room itself, the way the sheets tangled around us, the way his skin burned under my palms, the way he arched into every touch like he was made for it.

The way he smiled against my mouth when we kissed for the first time, slow and deep, like he was savoring the taste of me. The way his legs wrapped around my waist, effortless, like he trusted me to hold him up. The sounds he made when I dragged my teeth along his collarbone, when I pushed inside him, when I whispered praises into his ear. The way his fingers clawed at my back, the way his voice broke when he came, the way his body trembled beneath mine like he was unraveling.

The heat of him reaches me, even through the layers of fabric between us. His chest rises and falls against mine, his heartbeat thudding where our bodies press together. His grip on my jacket tightens, just for a second, like he’s fighting the same pull I am.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy, until it’s almost unbearable. Then, slowly, his lips part. “Jamie,” he says, and my name sounds different on his tongue now, softer, rougher, like it’s been worn down by time and want.

I should let go. I should step back, but my hand is still splayed against his lower back, my fingers flexing against the damp fabric of his shirt, and I can’t make myself move. Not yet. Not when he’s looking at me like that. Not when every nerve in my body is screaming at me to close the distance between us again.

For one genuinely reckless second, neither of us moves. Neither of us says a word. The space between us reduces to nothing, and all I can think about with any real clarity is how little distance would actually be required.

His eyes drop briefly to my mouth and stay there, and I know with complete certainty that he is thinking the same thing I am.

Then something shifts. Cyaire takes a step back, looking somewhere past my left shoulder, and I release my hold on his waist as his hand falls away from my chest. The cold air moves into the space between us and it feels, briefly, more noticeable than it should.