"Again," Helga huffs. Again.

"You did it wrong! Where is your head?" My coach demands in exasperation as Chloe and I skate to the edge of the rink.

"Sorry," I murmur.

"Don't be sorry. Do it right."

Chloe gives me a pointed sideways glance as we skate away from the side boards. "This is kind of a tricky lift. I'd very much appreciate it if you focused so I don't crack my head on the ice," she murmurs.

I flash her a cocky smile. "Have I ever let you down?"

A single eyebrow arches on her face. "Once," she quips with a troubling lack of hesitation. "And it hurt like hell."

Well, yeah, fine. But that was many years ago, we had just started practicing big lifts and it's kind of mean of her to bring it up.

We repeat the movement for our coach to see. Helga huffs and puffs and complains about all the things we're doing wrong, then orders us to "Do it right!" She eventually gives up and calls it a night. By the time she does, most other skaters have already gone home. 

Mack left with Natalie and Gus thirty minutes ago, twisting her nose at the idea of waiting indefinitely for us. Our practices have stretched farther and farther into the later hours of the evening, after I started working at my father's resort. These days, if I don't work after school, I work after practice. So I either follow up an afternoon practice with an evening shift, or an afternoon shift with an evening practice.

It's been fun.

"Do you have a ride home?" I ask Chloe as I accompany her to the side of the rink. 

Her eyebrows furrow as she takes a seat on the bench to unstrap her skates. "Aren't you going home now?" She asks.

"I was thinking about staying till closing time."

Her reaction is as expressive as I'd expect from Chloe and there are no follow-up questions. "I'll ask Helga for a ride," she says.

I grimace. Helga's old, green Bug is scary enough as it is, worn and cranky and in serious need of nearly a decade worth of postponed inspections. Pair it with Helga's driving skills and add snow-covered roads to the mix and you've got yourself the perfect death trap. 

But I guess it's better than walking back to Brunson alone at night.

It has only been a week since my dad forced me to work for him, but I can already feel it affect my physical form. Before, I lived for the rink. If I wasn't in school or with my friends, I was on the ice. Chloe and I often had independent training sessions without Helga and I had a habit of spending as much time on the rink as was physically possible. I've accustomed both my skating partner and my coach to always be at the top of my game. 

For this past week, however, I've been either too busy or too tired to put in extra hours.

Today was a particularly slow day at The Lodge, though, so I still feel fully energized even after my practice. Which makes it as good a time as any to get some extra practice in.

Perhaps even better than any other time...

I would be lying if I said I didn't notice one particular hockey player who stayed behind on his side of the Arenas.

I can hear the sound of his skates scraping across the ice, meshed with the quick rhythmic clatter of his stick as he runs some kind of drill through a trail of low-hanging bars. It echoes all around the near-empty arena and I feel like I'm not alone, even though we're in separate rinks. 

I never really liked being alone on the ice.

I look over my shoulder to watch him draw a perfect tight circle around a short orange cone, feet turned out and gloved hands on the ice while he keeps the puck locked in his stick's reach. He does another circle around a second cone, before shooting for the empty goal. His movements are fast and precise, even though the technique behind it isn't designed to be the most elegant. When the puck goes into the goal, he turns around and immediately catches me staring.

Not that I mind. In fact, the moment I have his attention, without even deciding that's what I was doing, I shoot my shot. A not-so-subtle shot, if I'm honest. More of an ostentatious asshole's shot.

I get some speed to show I'm about to show off, than go for the cheapest trick in the book. The simple backward spin, finishing off with my leg stretched back and my hands at my sides.

He tilts his head for a second, like a parent who's onto his attention-craving toddler, before shaking his head in dismissal and skating away.

But I am my father's son. Warren Astor would revoke the family name if he ever knew I'd given up a fight so soon. Even if it's this particular fight.

I watch Eli pick up a puck with the end of his stick in a steady flurry of movement. For a moment, I think he's going to repeat the same drill he did before, but this time he skates for the side of the rink, like he's planning on crashing into the boards. Just before that happens, he lowers his body towards the ice, with a single elbow supporting his weight while his stick arm holds the puck, elbow turned out, narrowly escaping the rink boards. He tops it off by scoring another point into the unmanned goal.

That's not exactly a move I remember seeing in any game — not that I've been known to watch an abundance of hockey games. Still. For all my limited knowledge of the sport is worth, I'm pretty sure that was a flex.

I can't help but smile. Especially when I see him slow down to look at me. I'm not fluent in telepathic means of communication, but I'm almost positive he means to say 'your move'.

I set myself up for the clean jump, taking off from the back outside edge of my skate to rotate three times and land on the same foot. 

If it weren't a notch too douchey, I would applaud myself. For the moment, it's enough knowing Eli is watching.

And he is watching.

To my honest surprise, once I get close enough to him, Eli looks like someone who didn't want to be caught staring. Or, better yet, like he didn't want to be staring in the first place. Even though our little game was obvious from the start.

It was obvious, right?

"Enjoying the sight of real athletic prowess on the ice?" I taunt.

He raises his eyebrows, the compromised look on his face from before melting away immediately.

"That?" He delivers flatly.

I rest my hands on my hips, challenging, "You think it's easy?"

"Easier than hockey," he muses.

I grin. "You could never do the stuff I do."

Eli shakes his head, face expertly guarded. "Everybody knows the girls do all the work in your rink," he says. If I didn't know any better, I'd say that's a playful lilt I just heard in his tone.

"The girls shine because of the guys' hard work," I tell him. "I'd like to see you lift another skater over your head while skating thirty miles an hour like it's nothing."

He lets himself skim closer to the edge of his rink. "I've seen the kind of girls that skate pairs," he says, unimpressed. "How much does Chloe Wong even weight? Two pounds a half?"

I narrow my eyes at him through a smile. "Okay. First things first — never ask a skater how much they weight. Or any woman, for that matter. And I'd like to see you try a single move."

He crosses his arms over his chest. "Ice dancing's got nothing on two hundred pound guys trying to smash your skull into the safety glass while you handle a three inches-wide puck with your stick."

"Ice dancing is a technically demanding activity, and one of the few Olympic sports that could also class as an art form," I correct matter-of-factly. "What I do, though, is pairs skating," I finish with a goading smile.

He shrugs. "What's the difference?"

I know that's meant to be provocative. Or, at least, I think it is. It has to be. How could he not know the difference after practicing in this rink for almost eighteen years?

Of course, I've lived in Lake City for the same time and I can't say I know my way around ice hockey. Although, it is worth pointing out figure skating is a substantially more interesting sport.

"Ice dancing focuses on creating footwork and movement that imitates dance on ice. Like tango, the waltz... No overhead lifts, throws or twists allowed. Pairs skating is the sport, performed in pairs," I explain.

He nods slowly, face unchanged. "Basically lifting a pound and a half girl in the air while she looks pretty, then jump and twirl a little for theatrics."

My jaw slacks in mock horror, and the edges of his lips twist just the subtlest bit upward. I'll definitely count that as win.

"I'd like to see you try it," I scoff.

"Try what?" He asks, masking the humor breaking through in his expression with a neutral tone.

"Anything," I dare. "One jump."

His eyes glint with a bright tint of challenge and he skates away in a curve. In the wide, empty arena, the sound of his blades on the dry ice echoes through the air. He slows down to prepare, then charges forward, edging off his skates to lift barely an inch off the ice and land awkwardly after a half-turn rotation.

He looks kind of smug when he skates back towards me. I won't lie. It's hot.

"There's a little more technique to it than just jumping on the ice," I muse.

"Oh, really?" He crosses his arms again. 

I roll my eyes. "Obviously, we wouldn't have a whole-ass panel of judges just to watch people aimlessly skip and twirl on the ice," I deadpan. 

He fully smiles. 

I give myself a mental high-five.

"You have your toe jumps and your edge jumps," I tell him, lifting a finger as I name each. "Of course, for that, you'd need a decent pair of skates." I shoot his feet a look of heartfelt aversion.

"These are perfectly fine," he counters, looking down at his hockey skates. Clunky things with huge blades.

"Those are hideous," I counter.

He rolls his eyes. I bite back a grin and skate away before I have time to process my newest idea. I often find that thinking things through can ruin a perfectly good moment of accidental fun.

"What are you doing?" Eli asks as I step onto his rink.

I smile unapologetically, completing a wide circle around the color-lined hockey rink, reveling in the knowledge that his eyes follow me thhe whole way.

"I've never been on this side," I muse.

With his eyes still on me, I decide to go for the biggest flex in my trick book. I complete another circle before supporting my weight on the forward outside edge of my skate to jump, landing on the opposite foot after three and half rotations. Inside my head, I sigh in relief at the smooth execution. I don't always land that jump so well. Sometimes I land on my ass. It's an artistic choice, of course.

"That was a triple axle," I tell him. "In case you couldn't tell, it's kind of a big deal move."

He raises his eyebrows, arms still tightly crossed.

"What you got to do for that," I start, with his eyes still on me, only me, and just me, "is charge forward, lean into the front of your blade and take the jump head-on, then switch feet in the air."

His eyebrows reach further up, towards the damp clumps of sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. "Are you expecting me to actually try that?"

I tilt my head innocently. "I tried washing dishes for you."

He snorts. "That was different," he argues, uncrossing his arms to let them hang at his sides.

"Because only one of us isn't afraid to try new things?" I try, knowing that will have an effect. 

I'm starting to get the idea that cookie-cutter, small-town-bred Eli Blake is chronically competitive. For all his general front of polished indifference, he can't sit back when he's challenged.

So, it's not a surprise when I see him narrow his eyes — because he knows exactly what I'm trying to achieve — then move to center ice. He glances at me, half-resentfully and half-amused, then skates forward attempting a single rotation jump. For a second, I think he got it. But it's the feet switch that trips him up in the end.

Literally.

He lands on his side, with the practiced ease of someone who's learned to avoid death and critical injury when falling on ice.

The first quarter-of-a-second reaction I have is concerned shock. Then, as he rolls on his back, I laugh. Like, stomach-aching, back-bending laughter. I have to put my hands on my knees to keep from falling. The sound of it echoes all around the arena.

"Wanna help me up?" Eli asks, resigned but with a smile on his face.

I wipe the tears from my eyes and move in his direction. He extends his hand and I take it. The concealed glimmer of planned mischief in his eyes burns brighter with a sense of accomplishment the moment we touch, and I only add two and two together when it's too late. He tugs firmly on my arm to pull me down over him.

"Oh, fuck," I hiss as my knees hit the ice and our chests collide.

Laughter comes spilling out of him, first as a long snort, then in full hearty cackles. I can't help but laugh too.

It takes me a few seconds to recover and finally push onto my hands and knees. I swear my plan was to get up and off him. But our eyes meet and I linger.

It's reckless and futile, but I do it anyway. The laughter dies on his throat, along with mine, but the smile doesn't go away from his eyes. I've only just now noticed the complexity of his eyes. They're mostly hazel — that light, warm, mesmerizing shade  of brown that glows golden in the sun— but there are some bolts of silvery grey reaching outward, toward the darker line along the edge of his irises.

I'm not the kind of guy to get fixated on another boy's eyes, but this particular boy has a fresh citrusy scent to him, meshed with a light natural musk from sweat. And his lips are surprisingly full and appealing. And his cheeks are flushed, from several hours of practice most likely, but my filthy mind makes other connections. And the outside of his thighs is warm where it touches the insides of my knees, and his breathing seems to have gotten deeper and faster, and I swear I can hear his speeding heartbeat.

I gulp.

Get a grip, Liam. Get up, give him space, get over yourself. More importantly, get off the straight boy who dated your friend.

Eli's not helping, though.

That's another thing about the intriguing Eli Blake. He's not exactly the most helpful. When I try to will him to look my way, he ignores me. When I need him to look away, he keeps those silver-hazel eyes fixed on mine, parted lips breathing out soft gushes of warm air.

Dear God.

My heart nearly shoots out of my chest when I see him lean in. It is so unexpected, so shocking, I think I got it wrong. It's got to be my head playing tricks on me. I pull away, confused and surprised. My head goes into mayhem.

I shouldn't have pulled away, though. Because, if I wasn't sure whether I'd really seen it, I am when see his expression change.

His whole body stiffens. A dark veil falls over his face and he pulls away from me, forcing me to shift to the side so he can get up.

For someone who always has a comeback, who never shuts up even when he should, I can't for the life of me come up with something to say now. 

I watch Eli skate away and step out of the rink in silence. He doesn't even sit down to remove his skates, he does it on the move. Which is remarkable.

A remarkable sign of just how badly he wants to get away from me.

Even as he leaves and I am alone in the arena, I still can't really make sense of the last few seconds.

***

... thoughts?

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