I skated a little closer. “Just you?”
“Yeah.” He looked down at the cracked concrete. “I’d pretend scouts were watching.”
“NHC scouts?”
“Anyone.” A slow exhale. “I’d pretend I mattered.”
The slight edge on that last word landed hard. I tried to imagine him as that kid who’d stuffed newspaper in his skates, and now he was standing next to me with a pro contract in hispocket, still carrying every sacrifice his mother made without asking anyone to help hold the burden.
I skated a tight loop around him. “So you were out here pretending to be famous. While I was stuck in figure skating lessons, disliking every minute of it,” I joked.
“Yeah, but those lessons gave you the edge work you kept rubbing in my face on the ice.”
“Still do.” I grinned as I began skating backward, pulling my arms in tight. The spin came easily, even while wearing in-line skates, as muscle memory from years of lessons I’d pretended to hate, kicked in. I landed clean on one foot and spread my arms wide.
“Show-off.”
“You said that last time.” I glided closer and grabbed his hands before he could pull away. “Come on. Waltz turn. Let’s see if you remember.”
“No way.”
“Aw, come on. You’re less stiff than last time. That’s progress.”
His eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “This again?”
“Yes, this again.” I tugged his left hand. “Cross your left foot over your right.”
He let loose an annoyed groan, but still let me guide him, his grip on my hands staying light. He crossed one skate over the other with an intense focus, and then his wheels clipped mine and he stumbled forward, catching himself on my shoulder.
A laugh broke out of him before he could choke it back.
I grinned. “Better. You didn’t tackle me this time.”
“Give me a minute.”
His hands found my waist. Mine slid up to his shoulders. We weren’t doing anything that looked like a waltz anymore, just aslow, aimless drift across the cracked concrete until we came to a stop.
Aleksey tilted his head as his fingers tightened on my waist, thumbs pressing into the dip above my hip bones through my damp shirt. The shift in his grip sent a slow ripple of heat up my spine.
I slid my palm to the back of his neck, thumb brushing the short hair at his nape. The scar on his jaw was a pale line inches from my mouth, and I caught the scent of soap on his skin, the faint trace of stew still clinging to his collar.
“You know that you matter to me,” I said. My words were quiet, with no pressure behind them. Just a statement of fact. “You always have, from the moment I saw you.”
His exhale hit my lips a second before his mouth found mine. Slow at first, just the dry press of his lips and the scratch of stubble against my chin. Then his hands fisted in the back of my shirt and hauled me closer, and the kiss turned searching, his tongue sliding against mine.
I twisted my fingers into his hair and held on.
An hour later, we changed out of our skates, the concrete still warm under my bare feet. By the time I cranked the engine and pulled off the gravel shoulder, Aleksey had his head tipped back against the passenger seat, one arm hanging out the open window, his fingers drumming a slow beat against the door.
Half a mile into the drive back to the apartment, he broke the silence. “Mama told me my old man watched the championship game.”
I glanced over. “On TV?”
“Yeah. She said he seemed happy.” His voice stayed steady, but his thumb had stopped tapping.
“And?”
“And nothing.” He shifted in his seat, his jaw ticking once. “I don’t know if I’ll ever visit him. But I’m not pissed about itanymore. Being angry at him takes too much goddamn energy, and I’m done spending it.”
