I walk again. Behind me, distantly, I hear his laugh. Full and real and carrying all the way down the hall, the way it does when nobody’s watching and he stops performing and it justcomes out of him. I have never once, in a week of trying, managed to forget that sound.
I’m not going to start now.
I’m done with work and meetings. I need exercise to stretch out my legs. The place is empty, and I decide to skate. I move fast until I break a sweat and breathe heavily. The wind in my hair and the icy breeze on my cheeks always give me fresh energy. I stop and sit in the box, elbows on my knees, eyes on the arena.
I’ve learned quickly that the rink is never truly empty. Even long after the media clears out and the cleaning crew finishes its slow, methodical circuits. What lingers is sound, cold, memory. That’s cut short when I can sense him near.
“You’re trespassing again,” I say without turning.
Skates glide over ice. Closer.
“You left your office light on,” Max says. “Figured you were still working and I’m your number one assignment.”
“I didn’t invite you.”
“You didn’t stop me either.”
I look up. Mistake. He’s already on the ice. No helmet. Hair damp from a shower that didn’t fully tame it. Gray sweats. Black T-shirt. Casual and dangerous and too human about it. I hate that combination. “You should be resting,”I say.
“You should be home on the weekend watching rom-coms, but here we are.”
“Unlike you, I have discipline.”
He smirks faintly. “Debatable.” Silence stretches. Cold air wraps around us. I step down onto the ice before I can talk myself out of it. My heels click once against the rubber mat before steel replaces it. The chill bites instantly. I don’t move closer. He doesn’t move away. He pushes off slowly, closing the distance between us. Close enough that I notice the cut on his lip. So near I feel the heat off him. When I don’t step back, his breathing alters. “You want perfect?” he says evenly. “Go watch highlight reels.”
“I want consistency.”
“You want control.”
“Yes.”
His mouth tilts. “I don’t think you do.”
My pulse spikes. “You don’t get to tell me what I want.”
“No?” he murmurs. He moves again. One slow glide. Now he’s directly in front of me. No space left.
“You didn’t walk away this morning,” he says.
My throat tightens. “That was observational.”
“You didn’t walk away last night either.”
“I’m working.”
“Bullshit.” The word hits. Certain.
I take a sharp breath in. “You’re crossing a line.”
“You drew it.” His hand lifts. Not touching. Hovering near my wrist, close enough to register heat, not enough to break the rules. “You keep putting me in a box,” he says. “Bad boy. Problem.Risk. Then you switch gears and tell me positive things too. Pick a side, An-ton-i-a.”
“You are all of those things.” I turn away, avoiding his eyes.
“And you still watch.”
I don’t answer. Because I do. He knows it. And that’s the problem.
His tone drops. “You saw me with the kids.”
