Page 110 of Ice Dance

Are you alone?

It took five minutes for him to reply.

Yeah.

May I come over?

to my place?

Yes.

it’s a mess

“I love your mess,” I typed, then deleted it. Not the correct tone at all.

That’s fine

ok i guess

He sent the address, and I grabbed a taxi.

Half an hour later, I was climbing a set of steps on the outside of a tired apartment block far from the city center. I had never been here. He’d never invited me. The building was old, five floors of aged brick and rusted outside stairs. He answered after a few knocks, and stepped back, letting me in without meeting my gaze. His shaggy, torn and faded jogging clothes hung off him. His hair was its typical messy mop, but his eyes were dull and red rimmed.

“Don’t judge my home, okay? I can’t deal with you being judgy right now.”

“I like it, actually.” It was very him. One open-plan kitchen and living area, with the bedroom and bathroom down a short hall. A mess, of course, but each chaotic pile had its place, just like his London apartment. But here there were family photos on the wall, of him and his parents at a house I assumed was where he’d grown up.

I shrugged off my coat and looked for somewhere to put it.

“Just leave it on the hook by the door.” His voice had lost all its warmth. He didn’t want me here. But I had no intention of leaving.

“Beer?” he asked. “It’s not the fancy type you like.”

“Thank you.”

He dug out two beers, popped them open, and handed me one.

I sat at the kitchen island, living room side, while he stood by the sink, the entire kitchen space and its island between us.

We drank, and sat in silence.

He stared at the floor and picked at his beer’s label. “I guess this is Alisha all over again for you, huh?”

I hadn’t even drawn the comparison. I’d cared for Alisha in the professional sense, but her withdrawal hadn’t left my heart hurting like this. There had been others. So many dance partners. None of them had left me wrecked, emotionally and physically, like Cam did.

“Perhaps it’s not meant to be,” I said quietly, thinking aloud.

“Fuck,” he muttered, head down and cheek flickering. “I didn’t mean to do this to you, Ren.”

“Injuries happen to everyone.”

He lifted his gaze. “Not to you.”

“They do⁠—”

“Yeah? When?”

I sipped my beer. “Before the Grand Prix in Vancouver, hairline fracture. I danced through it, but I was terrible.”