Page 53 of Ice Dance

I had a feeling it wasn’t traffic.

Had he been awake all night too? Probably not. Had he packed his bags and bought a plane ticket home? More likely.

We ran the basics, each of us doing our own thing on opposite sides of the rink. Hasegawa didn’t say a single thing to me all morning. Dylan must have noticed, but knew not to poke at raw wounds. She knew him better than I did. If she wasn’t making a thing out of it, then neither was I.

After a break, in which he’d sat as far away as possible, we were back on the ice.

“Alright, now I want to see you synchronized. You’re both dancing this morning like you’re afraid of each other.”

Hello, last night. It was back in my head, just like that.

“So we’re going to fix that,” Dylan continued. “Closed hold. Choctaw into rocker, then straight into the curve lift entry. No daylight between you unless I ask for it.”

Great. I’d spent the morning the entire rink away from him, and now we were going to be chest to chest, hip close, hands locked in a proper dance hold. We weren’t going to be able to make this work unless we were in close synchronization. We’d have to change edges, cleanly, while our upper bodies stayed in contact. Then into the lift. The sequence was technically doable, but difficult.

“Fine,” Hasegawa said, hands on hips, with a stab of his blade’s toe picks into the ice.

There was no doubt. He hated me.

“We’re not lifting yet,” Dylan clarified. “Just drilling the entry. Ren, reset before Navarro gets skates off the ice.”

“So we take the hold on the slow count,” I said. “Come in on the left outside edge, you match me.”

“I know,” Hasegawa replied, tugging at his sleeves again.

Hasegawa lifted his hand. I took it. The contact landed wrong immediately. Too hard but somehow also too careful, like we were back to day one. His fingers closed around mine with all the warmth of someone signing a contract. This was going to be a disaster. His other hand came to my back.

Last night unhelpfully made itself felt. Heat, music, sweat, his breath in my hair catching when I’d rolled my hips against him. His fingers sinking low, over my hips, going lower. Mine on his ass, digging in, pulling him tighter.

His gaze went over my shoulder now, far, far away.

“Alright,” I said, too brightly. “Three-count approach. Don’t rush me.”

His jaw clenched. The anger was back. “I don’t rush you.”

We moved . . . The hiss of skates on ice, the cool air rushing by us. The first edge went shallow, because I was too damn aware of his firm chest against mine. The choctaw came late because he held his line like he was trying to force me along with him. I tried to soften through the turn, but he tensed, trying to correct, and our hips bumped awkwardly.

He pulled out. “Again.”

And back around we went.

I hated this. Hated that I’d done this to us.

Hands together. “Outside edge,” I breathed, to myself. “Hold. Change foot.” Don’t look at his mouth. “Rocker clean.”

His gaze flicked to mine.

“What?” I snapped.

“Nothing.”

His thumb shifted against my spine, hardly anything really. He’d probably done the same thing a hundred times already.

My weight tipped too far into the curve. The entry was suddenly there, his body close, my edge running away from me. I tried to save it, overcorrected, and my free foot skidded wide.

“Navarro—” he snarled, which helped nobody ever.

My skate went wherever the fuck it wanted. Hasegawa’s arm hooked around my waist, catching me before I could unceremoniously slam into the ice. My hand was still locked in his. For one stupid second, I hung against him, breath gone, blades scraping, his face inches from mine.