Page 19 of Thin Ice

"You've done this before," I said.

"Never."

"Nobody plays this cleanly in twenty minutes."

"I'm not clean. I've just stopped running into walls."

I put him in a game with me after that, the two of us on a squad against strangers. I carried him. He was the worst player in the room by a distance. He knew it, and he didn't care.

Elias called out what he saw while I did the shooting—left side, two of them, window above you—and he was never wrong. He couldn't hit anything, but he saw everything.

"Brick and I do this on the road a lot," I said. "We've said more to each other while gaming than everywhere else combined."

Elias looked over at me. The screens moved a little light across his face.

"That doesn't surprise me at all," he said.

We played until almost two. The menu music softened, and the screens dimmed to their standby mode.

Elias set his controller on the arm of the chair. I reached over to take it, but his fingers were still there, and my hand landed on his.

He turned his head. In the dim light I could see maybe a third of his face: the long line of his jaw and one eye steady on me. He didn't say anything or move his hand. He was waiting for my next move.

I leaned across the gap between the chairs and kissed him.

It wasn't long. His mouth was warm, and his lips parted slightly.

I pulled back. My heart raced as it did in a tie game with thirty seconds to go. I knew better.

"That was—" I started. Out of line. A mistake. I'm sorry. I had all three in my mouth.

"Don't." His hand stayed still under mine. "If you apologize," he said, "then we both have to pretend it was a mistake. It doesn't look like that from where I'm sitting."

I had nothing.

He paused for a moment, and then slowly turned his hand over in mine, palm up. For a second, we held hands like teenagers in a movie theater. Then he pressed my knuckles once and let go.

"It's late," he said. Elias stood, unfolding himself out of the chair. He racked his controller and got the alignment right, first try.

At the door, he stopped. The hall light silhouetted his long, lean body.

"Thank you for teaching me the game," he said. "You're a good coach."

His phone went off in his pocket.

He checked the screen, and the ease left his posture. "Seattle," he said. "I have to take it."

"It's almost two."

"They're two hours behind. They forget that other people sleep." He stepped into the hall, and I tried to listen to the shape of the call without deciphering specific words.

He was back in a few minutes, leaning in the doorframe.

"Everything boring?" I asked.

"The firm's sending me out tomorrow to look at a facility. It's elite rehab and recovery—the founder was at that medical thing the other night. He offered me a tour of his shop, and Seattle is vetting it before I take him up on it." It was more than he'd told me about any of his calls. "The owners have a brand name, Tarn."

I froze, and Elias noticed.