Workable, I noted.Very workable.
I pretended that my mouth wasn’t still watering at the thought ofworkingwith Kardok.
Because then he hit the far corner and opened up his stride, and the analytical part of my brain went briefly and embarrassingly offline.
The problem—the entirely professional problem—was that Kardok in motion was something that demanded to belookedat. He was simply too large, too fluid, toothereto ignore. When he skated, he didn’t seem to be fighting the ice the way big men sometimes did, as though they resented having to compromise.
He seemed, instead, like something the ice had been waiting for.
Poetic, Lila.
I needed to stick to thinking about edges and transfer of weight, andonlyabout edges and transfer of weight…not about how Kardok looked like he was at home on my rink.
Or the way his shoulders had softened, and his lips curled on either side of his tusks, and the tension had drained from that scarred jawline.
Right.
Right.
I pressed my lips together and made a note in my head:stronger on his left edge, right needs work.
Useful. Clinical. Exactly the kind of observation that had nothing whatsoever to do with the way his shoulders moved, or the quality of his focus when he was doing something well and he knew it.
He completed the second lap and came to a stop in front of me with a precision that kicked up a small spray of ice across the toe of my skate.
The corner of his mouth moved. Just slightly.
He did that on purpose, a voice in my head announced. The same voice that had opinions about ridged anatomy and had absolutely no place on a professional ice rink.
Hush, I told it.
“Well,” I said instead, in my most measured tone. I nodded firmly. “You can skate.”
It wasn’t a compliment, exactly. But it wasn’t nothing, either, and from the way his chin lifted—just a fraction—I thought perhaps he understood the difference.
And that wasn’t the way to begin. “I mean, youcan skate.” He glanced at me, and I offered a small smile. “Very well. You’re not just trying to get somewhere, you’re moving like someone…”
At home.
But I trailed off because that sounded dumb. I mean,of coursehe was at home on the ice; this was his job!
Kardok held my gaze, then shrugged. “I grew up on the ice. Didn’t have skates—we didn’t need them back home—but shit gets clearer when I’m out there, you know?”
I saw the moment he realized he’d cursed, because his eyes widened just slightly, and he flicked his gaze over my shoulder and mumbled, “Sorry.”
To be honest, I was just happy he was opening up to me, so my smile and dismissive flick wasn’t feigned. “Don’t be. We’re going to be working together for the next few weeks, Kardok, and we should feel comfortable with each other.”
Then I did something stupid.
Phenomenally, unbelievably,wonderfullystupid.
I reached out and took his hand.
I’d held hundreds of hands on the ice.
Partners, students, the nervous seven-year-olds who needed someone to cling to on their first skate. It was themost unremarkable thing in my world—a hand was a hand, a point of contact, a tool.
I knew this. I reminded myself of this.
