He swallows, finally letting go of one of my hands to scrub his jaw, but he doesn’t slow down our speed. We loop past Enrique at the desk, back on his phone again, when Bohdan says, “It wasn’t what you think. The worst thing that happened to me wasn’t losing my career, Sloan. It was losing you.” He jerks his head, grabbing my hand again. “If I had one wish, it wouldn’t be to skate again. It wouldn’t be for hockey. It wouldn’t be for a stupid fucking game. It would be for you.”
I can’t breathe.
Or maybe I just don’t.
But I do manage to say, “I’m sorry—sorry, I’m just—no.”
And then I run.
Sloan
At least, I try in the skates.
He’s always been quicker than me—an above-average muscle composition will do that to a person—and he’s on me in a second, beside me with a hand suspended in midair just above my lower back so he can catch me if I fall, and I might, the way I’m stumbling around, just trying to get back to the bench.
“Breathe,” he instructs when I take a shaky inhale.
I don’t want to listen to him, but I do because my body has only ever been able to respond to two things: whatever vitriol my brain likes to spew, and Bohdan Novotnak’s voice.
The tip of my skate catches as I step off the ice, and before I can even brace myself against the boards, he’s got an arm around my stomach, the other hand pressing against my low back when I stumble towards the bench.
“Breathe, Zlatícko,” he whispers, and he’s much too close. I can feel the ghost of his mouth kiss my ear.
“Don’t.” I push away, hands scrambling at his arms and trying to get so far away from him but it hurts so much, and the only place I can really go is the bench.
I sit down, fingers wrapping around the edge of the wood instead of trying to untie my skates. It’s cool against my palms, and I try to focus on that, but it’s impossible when he’s right here and every bad thing I’ve ever thought about myself sits so heavy on my chest it might as well be a piano.
Instead, it’s the wordsI love you, followed byI’m leavingover and over and over again.
“Okay.” He nods, dropping into a crouch in front of the bench and getting to work on my skates.
I love you.
I’m leaving.
I love you.
I’m leaving.
I love you.
I’m leaving.
“Woah—is she—are you alright? Do you need an incident form?” I think Enrique stands to attention again, legs swinging off his desk and scrambling through stacks of paper on his desk.
“We’re fine.” Bohdan doesn’t look away from me.
He unties my laces in movements of three—a tug in the middle, and one more on either end, right by the eye.
I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it—it becomes unconscious when you know someone the way we know each other, to mirror them the way he mirrors my breathing. Three seconds in, three seconds out.
He’s gentle when he pulls my skates off, careful like he always was with me except for that one time, and his rough hands feel soft when he rolls the socks off, they’re reverent almost, when he slides my sandals back on.
I go to stand when he’s done—but he sits beside me, stretching his own legs out, and he places a hand over mine, still white-knuckling the edge of the bench. “Wait, please.”
I nod, blinking.
I should go—I shouldn’t wait for him. I should run, leave him behind the way he did me.
