But when he cut open his head, I think all those things bled out onto the ice and he faded away, something a bit like a ghost.
And I don’t know anything about ghosts.
But when he grins at me, under the sunlight and just one person in a sea of people, he doesn’t look like a ghost. He looksmore corporeal than I’ve seen him in the last three years. “Do you think I have a sensuous mouth, Sloan?”
“I don’t think there’s anything sensuous about you.” I angle my head. “Everything was always quite ... hard.”
His grin shifts to a smirk. “It’s a good thing we scrapped the strike system. You’d be losing.”
“Shut up.” I smile softly, and I wonder if he can see the way the corners furl downward, a bit wilted, a bit sad.
Because I did lose.
So did he.
Another teenager knocks into me, sprinting by with a pool floatie around their waist. Bohdan’s hands find my shoulders again, his jaw tenses, and he looks like he’s about to tell them off, but they’re already gone.
“You okay?” His thumb presses into my shoulder, and I feel it—the electricity that might live in him, maybe his eyes, because they’re the colour of a storm, after all, going through all my limbs.
“Fine.” I nod, offering him a tight smile and stepping back from his grip a bit later than I should. “We should move. It’s growing hazardous just standing here.”
Bohdan’s fingers flex against the empty space I used to occupy, and he nods, shoving his hands in his pockets again.
But when we round the corner, we come to the end of this section of the deck.
And there’s a giant neon sign flashing above the thoroughfare.
Below Zero
Ice Skating
It’s just a skating rink on a cruise ship. Something for children, probably.
Nothing like the arenas we spent time in.
But my eyes find Bohdan, and it hurts all the same.
He rolls his shoulders back, eyes flashing with something that looks a lot like pain, and he stands, stoic and still, wonderful and lovely, but horrible all the same, looking back at something he used to have.
“Do you want to go in?” I whisper.
He nods, muscles in his neck taut, and one hand hovers above his sunglasses still hanging on the collar of his shirt, like he’s debating putting them back on. He runs it through his hair instead, sending the golden-brown waves everywhere, one curling over his ear and another dropping down on his forehead right along the scar.
It’s a practiced move. Intentional, and I know he must do it a lot—know just how to hide it in plain sight whenever he needs to.
The cool air and distinct smell of ice permeates everything when Bohdan pushes the door open. One palm against the glass, his arm angled upwards and all the muscles tense.
I smile gently at him, and duck under his arm, careful not to breathe. The last thing I need is to smell him, too.
It’s a small rink in comparison to what Bohdan was used to, just a pad of circular ice with surrounding stands and banners hanging down from the ceiling, advertising the different events and shows they host. Enough room to move, but I can’t imagine how crowded it gets.
And somehow, maybe because we’re at a popular port destination or there’s a talent show happening on board somewhere—right now, it’s empty.
There’s a skate rental stand to our left, with an employee in the standard black polo, the cruise line embroidered on the left breast in gold stitching.
He’s got his feet kicked up, one hand behind his head, the other scrolling aimlessly on his phone. His eyes flick to us when the door shuts quietly, and he has to do a double take, practicallyfalling when he hurries to sit up, straightening papers on his desk.
“Sorry—sorry. We haven’t been busy today.” He flushes, sitting up straight and folding his hands demurely. He can’t be more than eighteen.
