“On ice!” Adler retorts.
“You’re just scared you’ll fall on your butt,” Marissa says with a chuckle. “I, for one, am an excellent skater. And it’s been a while since I’ve roller-skated. Besides, we practically live at the rink.”
“Yeah, because welikeit,” Adler insists.
We head inside, and it’s immediately clear that this istheplace to be around here. People of every age are skating in a clockwise flow around the ring, although most of them look to be about half ours. The rink is a huge oval, with a DJ booth in the middle under a disco ball, neon lights flashing, lasers cutting through a light haze—it’s like an oversized teenage house party frozen in time.
“This place is so cute,” Alice squeals, eyes gleaming.
“Should we get drinks first?” Auston suggests, and we head toward the bar.
I pay for the first round, and we grab a table overlooking the rink. Couples skate past hand in hand, teenagers wobble dramatically, and pint-sized kids zoom across the acrylic floor like they were born on wheels. To the left, a guy in short shorts and a headband spins confidently to the music.
Beth finishes off her drink. “So, are we just going to watch them, or do we join the fun?”
Despite a few groans from Deacon, Adler, and Miles, we all eventually end up in line to get our skates. And let me tell you something—these things arehorrible. Branding aside, I’m pretty sure these quads were actually made in the 80s. We’re talkingscuffed leather, stiff tongues, and laces that feel like they’ve survived several decades of abuse.
“These aren’t skates, they’re torture devices,” Adler says, holding his skate by the laces and staring at the antique footwear with pure disdain. “If none of us breaks a knee, we’ll be lucky.”
Beth winces as she puts hers on. “They’re not that bad. Come on—you’re tough hockey players. Skates are your thing.”
“They’re quads!” Miles exclaims.
“Are you whining because you’re used to your custom-made pro skates or whatever?” Harper asks, lacing hers.
“Well, it certainly doesn’t hurt to have skates molded to your feet,” Miles says. “Given the amount of time we spend on them, it’s a necessity, not a luxury.”
“Oh, you’ll be fine,” Marissa says, shaking her head.
“Maybe Deacon and I can just watch you guys,” Auston suggests, adjusting his ballcap. “You know, take pictures.”
“Don’t worry,” Emma reassures him. “I’m not a skater either. We can just stick to the rails.”
Eventually, everyone gets their skates laced up, and we painfully hobble toward the rink. The sensation is so strange. It’s a little like ice skating, sure, but the differences are striking. There’s less grip, for one, like someone made it their mission to polish the floor to be as slippery as possible. You virtually have no control over your own feet. Turning feels floaty and unpredictable, like I’m being dragged behind my own movements. The only real similarity is balance—stay centered, or you’re done for.
“This floor feels like it’s been buttered,” Adler mutters, slipping past me.
Miles pushes off carefully, testing his balance, then breaks into an offended scowl when the wheels don’t respond the way blades would. “This is… wrong,” he says.
Marissa skates past him with practiced confidence. “You’ll survive.”
Adler gains momentum too quickly, which results in a dramatic wobble and a near collision with Alice, who shrieks and grabs on to Deacon’s arm.
“Nope. Absolutely not,” Deacon grunts. “I’m out.”
Beth and Emma cling to the railing at first, laughing, and Harper is clutching my hands for dear life. I’m not even that stable myself, but I focus all my efforts on keeping both of us from falling flat on this floor, which somehow seems more unforgiving than the ice.
Harper’s fingers tighten around mine every time one of her wheels skids unexpectedly, her grip instinctive, trusting. I adjust my stance, widening it just enough to steady us both, my thumb brushing over the back of her hand.
“Okay,” she says through a breathy laugh, eyes fixed on her feet. “This is worse than I imagined.”
“You’re doing great,” I tell her, even though my own legs are screaminglies. “Just—don’t think too much.”
She glances up at me then, cheeks flushed, a few wavy tresses escaping her ponytail. “Says the guy who looks like he’s defusing a bomb.”
I huff out a laugh. “I am. And you’re the bomb.”
Her mouth curves up, and for a second she seems to forget about her feet. Big mistake.
