Between Love and Skate 1/?
Author: dettiot
Rating: T
Summary: After an injury ends his chances for a career in professional hockey, Oliver Queen doesn't know what he's going to do. And then he gets an offer to become a figure skater and partner with a beautiful, babbling blonde skater: Felicity Smoak. With a gold medal at the Olympics on the line, can love stick its landing?
Disclaimer: I don't own Arrow. No copyright infringement intended.
Author's Note: Yes, this is an Olicity Cutting Edge AU. This fic is all MachaSWicket's fault. Oh, and Callistawolf's, too. They both highly encouraged me to write this, so here we are. Thanks to scu11y22 on Tumblr for being such a great cheerleader for this fic. I anticipate posting a chapter a day (excepting Monday) until I'm done, to help carry us through this dark period of no Olicity fluffiness on the show. I think this fic will definitely meet your USDA requirements for cheese and fluff. :-)

XXX

"It's one o'clock!"

The more he stared at his watch, the less the numbers changed. It was one o'clock in the afternoon, and he was supposed to be on the ice now, warming up before the US hockey team took on Russia in the Olympic semifinals.

"Mmmm?" murmured the girl next to him-a skier, if the posters on the wall were anything to judge by.

Oliver Queen, starting center of the US hockey team, leapt out of bed and started searching for his clothes and his athlete badge. "I'm late. I've got a game! A game I'm an hour late for, Mary."

Dimly, as he grabbed his jeans and yanked them on, he heard the girl say, in a German accent, "Mary?"

Oliver paused, frowning. "Carrie?"

The girl glared at him and Oliver went back to finding his clothes and putting them on, because he definitely did not have time for this conversation. But as he walked to the door, he stopped and looked at her. "Terri?"

If looks could kill, this girl was chopping up his body and feeding the pieces into a woodchipper. "Sherry!" she yelled, grabbing a glove and throwing it at him as he escaped.

XXX

He was okay, he was going to make it. Coach wouldn't bench him if he was a little late, right? Not for the semis, with the gold medal game on the line?

Hefting his gear bag, red-white-and-blue and emblazoned with his name and jersey number, Oliver ran for the player entrance to the ice complex. The security guard, who looked like a man born to be called Pops, stepped out of his booth and watched as Oliver approached.

"Queen, US Hockey!" he yelled as he ran past.

Distantly, he heard Pops say, "Damn, son , they're just 'bout to start!"

Yeah, tell me about it, he thought, running as fast as he could. On the bright side, it looked like he wouldn't need the second helmet he normally used before games.

Running flat-out like he was, it was natural that he wasn't able to stop when the tiny blonde turned the corner and came directly into his path.

They collided, Oliver falling to one knee as the blonde-some kind of figure skater, he knew from her skates-sprawled out on her back.

"Sorry!" he said, picking up her skates and handing them to her. "Has US vs. Russia started yet?"

"What?" she asked, blinking up at him with big blue eyes.

"US vs. Russia! Hockey! Now?" he snapped, feeling impatient.

"Oh-I don't know, I don't play hockey," she said, pushing herself to her feet gingerly. "Not exactly the body type for it. Not like you."

Oliver held back a snort. She barely came to his shoulder and looked as big around as his pinky-she definitely wasn't a hockey player.

"Sorry, I'm late," he said, taking off down the hall towards the locker rooms.

Later on, Oliver would realize that this was how he met Felicity Smoak.

XXX

As Ivanov-a real dick ever since junior hockey days-shoved him against the glass, Oliver wondered if they were going to get out of this game alive.

That made him grin. And it was the grin that put the Russian team on notice. Oliver Queen might be the best skater on the US team-but on a team full of badasses, he was also the ultimate badass.

The level of play became rougher, harder, as period two ended and period three began. Commentators said it was because Russia was hungry, having lost the gold medal three out of the last four Olympics, and was on the verge of being shut out of the gold medal game thanks to the play of Oliver Queen.

And then everything changed, when a Russian player slammed Oliver into the boards after he scored the game-winning goal.

Oliver felt his head whip to the side as he was checked. He had received too many concussions over the years to count, but this felt different. He felt woozy immediately, his vision doubling and his knees giving out. Another Russian checked him on the way down, and Oliver hazily realized his helmet had come off before his head hit the ice.

XXX

"Oliver, you've experienced a fifty percent loss of the peripheral vision in your right eye."

"Yeah?" he asked, feeling his mother squeeze his hand from the seat next to his. "But it's temporary, right?"

"It's a permanent injury, I'm sorry to say." The doctor, white-coated and bearded, looked perplexed. "Oliver, this injury-for normal people, it's difficult. But for a hockey player . . ."

"So what?" Oliver asked, leaning forward. "There's gotta be something. Stem cells, you shoot seaweed up my nose-"

"Oliver," his mother said, looking apologetically at the doctor.

"I'm just saying, there has to be some treatment, right? A cure?"

The pause before the doctor spoke-how long it was, how weighed with something unspoken-made fear creep into Oliver's heart for the first time since he hit the ice.

"I'm sorry, Oliver."

Oliver looked at his mother, then back to the doctor. "Are you saying . . . ?"

The doctor took a deep breath. "In my professional opinion, your eyesight won't allow you to play hockey at a competitive level. I know this is hard to hear, Oliver, but . . ."

As the doctor kept speaking, Oliver felt himself zone out. Because how could this be happening? He was Oliver Queen, hockey player. Eleven different NHL clubs had been jockeying to acquire him even before the Olympics, where he had been having a career series. He had scored the fucking game-winning goal in the Olympic semifinals!

This couldn't be the end, right?

XXX

Two Years Later

Oliver hoisted his battered USA Hockey bag out of the bed of Chad's pickup truck, calling out that he'd be ready at seven, before he headed over to the Penalty Box. It wasn't much, but it was the best hockey bar in the whole state of Minnesota. And his best friend ran it.

Pushing open the front door and heading for the back room, Oliver waved to Helena and called out to Tommy, "Make me a sandwich, okay?"

Instead of getting to work on the sandwich, Tommy followed Oliver. "Listen, buddy . . ."

"What, Tommy?" Oliver asked as he opened his bag, pulling out his supplies to prep for tonight's game.

"You know things haven't been so good lately . . ." Tommy began.

"You run a bar in Minnesota, Tommy," Oliver pointed out. "Business will only get better after we win the league championship tonight, too. You get like this every year around now."

"Yeah, well, this year is worse," Tommy said, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Between the tire plant closing and my dad dying . . . I'm tapped out. I can't keep the team going."

Oliver blinked, dropping his stick and standing to look Tommy in the eye. "What are you saying?"

Tommy looked back at Oliver, his face resolute. "I'm saying the team's done. Tonight's your last game." He paused and stepped towards Oliver. "I know how much it means to you, but c'mon, Oliver, it's just a bar team-you should be playing for the North Stars. Even the Kings," he said with a lopsided smile, referring to Oliver's favorite team and Tommy's most-hated team.

Oliver swallowed, feeling his throat tighten. "Tommy . . ."

"It's a damn bar league," Tommy said. "Even with your eye, you're better than this. You're meant for something more."

"No NHL team will even give me a tryout!" Oliver exploded. "I spent over a year chasing a dream I couldn't have anymore-and now that I'm finally in a good place, you're gonna take away one of the only things I've got left?"

"Not all of us have mommies supporting us, Oliver!" Tommy snapped, only to immediately look contrite. "I didn't mean that."

"No, you did-I know you did," Oliver said coldly. "If you can't keep the team going, that's that." He picked up his bag, heading for the door.

"Oliver! Don't be like this," Tommy said. "I'm your oldest friend."

"Yeah, you're my oldest friend," Oliver said, pausing to look back at Tommy. "Doesn't mean you're my only friend."

XXX

With a grimace, Oliver picked up a hammer and got to work.

Ever since he had burned his bridges with Tommy, nothing had gone his way. Life was pretty boring without his best friend. He got up, went to work on whatever construction job the company had booked, came home, ate some Dinty Moore, then hit the ice. Hours of speed work, stick drills-anything to keep himself in condition. Just in case one of his letters or emails paid off.

There had to be some team willing to take a flyer on him. He'd even take a minor league team. Anything-just as long as he was playing hockey.

Without hockey, his life didn't make sense. He'd been playing since he was five years old, when his dad had put him in his first pair of skates and handed him a stick. Robert Queen's dreams had only extended to his son playing for Harvard-but Oliver's dreams were much, much bigger.

But ever since the Olympics, ever since the bronze medal the team had won in his absence, the medal he had thrown into the Mississippi because it wasn't gold-Oliver knew he was destined to win gold at the Olympics. He just needed someone to take a chance on him.

But until then . . . he had to finish framing in this sunroom addition, so the drywall guys could get to work. Pulling himself up and wrapping his legs around the beam, Oliver lifted the hammer and banged it against a nail half-heartedly.

"You're bigger than I thought."

It was a male voice, which made Oliver pause. "Sorry, buddy, only girls are allowed to tell me that." He turned his head, catching sight of the man who went with the voice. A man who was frankly massive. "Although I could say the same thing about you."

Lowering himself down, Oliver faced the man who had interrupted his work. Whoever he was, he made Oliver feel puny. His arms looked like tree trunks and his shoulders were so broad, he wasn't sure how the man got through doorways. But his face was impassive as he looked back at Oliver.

Something about him seemed a bit familiar. "Are you the Wolf?" Oliver asked, feeling a glimmer of hope.

The man chuckled. "No, I'm the медведь-the Bear. John Diggle," he said, holding his hand out to Oliver.

"The Bear?" Oliver asked, shaking his head. "What team are you with?"

"I'm not with a NHL team, Mr. Queen," Mr. Diggle said, eyeing Oliver. "But I am here with an opportunity for you."

Oliver frowned. "An opportunity."

Mr. Diggle smiled a little. "Could be nothing. Or could be everything."

With that cryptic statement, John Diggle opened up the duffle bag he was carrying and pulled out a pair of skates. Oliver was ready to protest that he had skates when he realized-

"Those are figure skates."

XXX

As the limo pulled up in front of the house that was really a mansion, Oliver felt his jaw drop. Sure, he'd moved in some rich circles back in the day, partying with kids whose fathers were execs at Best Buy and General Mills and had the houses to go with that, but it was nothing like this East Coast wealth.

Mr. Diggle, who Oliver had taken to calling Digg, grinned at him. "It's something, isn't it?"

Oliver nodded slowly. "Yeah."

"Just wait until you see the rink," Digg said. "Private ice, right on the property."

Glancing over at him, Oliver wondered what Digg's story was. When what Digg was offering had sunk in, Oliver had a lot of questions. Digg had answered them, but when it came to his own history and credentials, he had dodged the questions. So Oliver had looked him up. John Diggle, known as the Bear. Only American to hold a coaching position with the Moscow Ice Ballet, widely reputed to be one of the finest judges of skating talent and ability on Earth.

For a hockey player, Oliver always had a reputation as a really good skater. It was something he had taken pride in, something he had worked on up till now. Because skating didn't depend on his eye.

And that was why Digg had approached him.

"I coach a female pairs skater who needs a partner. Someone special, someone unique. If you're willing to work-to learn how to be a pairs skater-I think you could go far. Certainly a lot farther than you have so far," Digg had said, eyeing Oliver's tool box. "You'd get a free trip to Westchester, New York for your troubles. What do you say?"

Putting it like that, Oliver couldn't really come up with an objection. So what if he lost his job with the construction company? It was just a way to fill his days. And yeah, figure skating was pretty lame for a hockey player . . . but it wasn't like anyone was beating down his door for him to play hockey.

So he'd agreed to try out. To put on a new kind of skates, to come to New York and meet this girl who couldn't keep a partner, to let Digg see him in action. No one else had ever given him that much in the last two years-what did he have to lose?

Digg stepped out of the limo, gesturing for Oliver to follow him. "Your bag will get taken to your room in the guest house. Let's go to the rink so you can meet Felicity."

Nodding, Oliver got out of the car and followed Digg. "What's the story on this chick? Why can't she hold on to a partner?"

Giving him a long look, Digg spoke slowly. "I think you should draw your own conclusions about Felicity. Although you should know she's the closest thing to a daughter I've ever found in all the skaters I've coached."

Hmmm. Oliver nodded again, keeping his thoughts to himself. Namely that this Felicity was probably some rich bitch with a chip on her shoulder and an indulgent daddy-someone who couldn't skate and had enough money to surround herself with people willing to lie to her. She probably had a fancy wooden box designed for an Olympic gold medal, Oliver thought as they approached the long, low building that held the rink.

With his massive arms, Digg easily slid open the door to the rink. Soft classical music met Oliver's ears as he stepped inside. He was about to say something to Digg about how pristine the ice was, when his words-and everything else-was arrested by the skater on the ice.

First off, she was tiny. Thin, with delicate-looking arms and a swan-like neck. Then Oliver noticed the blonde hair, a mess of curls pulled back into a ponytail, and her bright pink lips. Last but certainly not least was the dreamy expression on her face as she glided over the ice, her blue eyes soft and unfocused.

There was none of the edge that he had seen in other elite athletes. Nothing sharp or hard in her. She was all curves and softness, and Oliver had to wonder how this girl was as good as Digg had hinted she was.

The music drew to a close as the girl-Felicity-struck her final pose. She saw Digg and her face lit up. "You're back! Yay! Now I can figure out why-"

Her eyes met his and her voice immediately went silent. For a long moment, Oliver looked right at her and she looked back at him. Then she sighed and turned to Digg. "I thought you agreed with Mom and Dad that it was time to give up."

"It's more I let them think that," Digg said, walking on the ice and resting a large hand on her shoulder. "But I don't think it's time to give up yet. Let's take a chance."

Oliver watched as Felicity looked up at Digg, chewing on her lower lip. Then she sighed, nodded, and turned to look at Oliver. "Hi. You're probably going to regret this. So much."

Regret spending two days with a pretty blonde? Not likely, Oliver thought.

With a grin, he walked towards her and held his hand out. "Hi. I'm Oliver Queen." He let his eyes flick over her, trying to see how she would react.

"Felicity Smoak," she said, shaking his hand and looking right at him, even though she had to crane her neck to do so. "You're that hockey player, right?"

As always, Oliver felt a stab at her words. No matter how things had changed, he couldn't help identifying himself as a hockey player first and foremost. He nodded. "Yeah, that's me."

"Not anymore, of course," Felicity said, dropping his hand. "'Cause of your eye. Which is a shame, having an injury and not being able to play-I mean, at least you didn't lose the whole eye. With eyes like yours, that would be a tragedy." As if she suddenly realized what she had said, Felicity huffed out a breath. "Which I will stop talking about in three-two-one. Hi."

For some strange reason, Oliver found himself smiling at her. He had definitely been wrong about who she was. There was something disarming about Felicity. Even with having just met her, Oliver couldn't be offended by her. Perhaps because she seemed so transparent. She thought it, she said it.

It was pretty adorable.

"Thanks," Oliver said, his smile still in place.

"Why don't we see what you've got?" Digg suggested.

Oliver nodded and moved to a big overstuffed chair at the end of the rink to put on his new skates. He was out of earshot, but he could tell Digg was giving some kind of pep talk to Felicity. Reassuring her.

She was supposed to be one of the best skaters in America, for chrissakes. Didn't she have any confidence?

Once the skates were laced as Digg had shown him-figure skates were a far cry from hockey skates-Oliver stepped onto the ice. He pushed off, savoring the puff of air against his face as he moved across the ice, then turned to throw up some shavings as he stopped in front of Digg and Felicity . . . only to misjudge how the blades gripped the ice and fall flat on his back.

Digg looked amused. Felicity looked worried. He wasn't sure if it was for himself or for her-if she was now wondering what kind of partner he might be. Which was getting ahead of things. They were only getting started.

Grimacing a little, he started to push himself up. "Use your toe pick," Felicity said, offering a hand to him.

"Toe pick?" he asked, not bothering to accept her hand. It was more likely he'd pull her down to the ice with him than she would be able to help him up.

He could see her paste a smile on her face. Her voice was pleasant as she said, "The claws on the front tip of your skate blade."

Looking down, he saw what she meant. "Huh. Hockey skates don't have those. Wonder what they're for."

"You'll see," Felicity muttered as Digg stepped forward, moving them into position.

"Right, Oliver, take Felicity's hand in yours, and put your other hand on her hip. Let's just take a few laps around the rink."

Nodding, Oliver did as instructed, reaching down to grasp her hip. She gave a little shiver and Oliver couldn't help grinning slightly. So Felicity was the sweet, innocent type. He took her hand and waited for Digg to count a beat. Then they both pushed off.

Man, she was fast, Oliver thought. She might be little, but she could fly across the ice. He was having to go at nearly his top speed to keep up with her, especially with the new skates and unfamiliar position he was skating in. It was a hell of a lot nicer holding a girl in his hands than a hockey stick, but the hockey stick couldn't try and get away from him.

Felicity picked up the pace and his hand slipped off her hip. She moved smoothly forward, transferring her hand into his other hand, the one that had been on her hip.

What-what was she doing? Oh, Jesus, she was going faster.

Oliver tried to keep up, but his skates slipped out from underneath him and he crashed, on his face this time, onto the cold ice.

There was the sound of metal hitting frozen water and he looked up to see Felicity using the front of her blade-the toe pick-to stop, turn and skate over towards him.

"Toe pick," she said sweetly, holding up her skate for his inspection, before she skated away, breezing past Diggle. The coach had an 'awww, shit' look on his face. One that probably matched the look on Oliver's face.

Okay, mental note: don't piss off Felicity Smoak by turning down her help.

XXX

"We're going to start with the basics: figures," Digg said, standing in front of Oliver and Felicity.

"Really?" Felicity asked, sounding amused.

"You know a better way to teach edge control, Coach Smoak?" he asked, shooting her a look as Oliver looked back and forth between them.

Felicity held her hands up and Digg continued. "All right, Oliver, the blade of your skate has two edges: inside and outside. Everything in figure skating is about your edges. You do everything on either the inside or outside edge. So it's all about transferring your weight from one edge to the other. And to learn how to do that, there's figures."

"I suppose that's where figure skating comes from, huh?" Oliver asked, glancing at Felicity.

"Digg loves figures. He's still sad they're not required anymore," Felicity said, showing a flash of snark.

Digg raised an eyebrow. "Miss Smoak, please perform a circle eight for Mr. Queen here."

With a deep, put-upon sigh, one that contrasted with the way she smiled at Digg, Felicity moved to the middle of the ice. She looked around for a moment, then she moved across the ice, making two circles.

"All right, Oliver, let's take a closer look," Digg said, sounding pleased. He led Oliver onto the ice and they crouched down, Digg going on and on about lobes and tangents and the axis.

He tried to listen and understand, he really did. But the longer Digg kept talking, the less he understood.

"Digg, Digg," Felicity said, leaning down and putting her hand on his arm. "Let's try something else." She turned to Oliver and gestured for him to stand up. "When you needed to learn something for hockey, how'd you learn?"

Where was this coming from? Blinking, Oliver looked at Digg, who shrugged his shoulders. Turning back to Felicity, he said slowly, "I just picked up a stick and tried it until it worked."

A smile flashed across her face. "Just like I thought-he's a kinesthetic learner," Felicity said to Digg.

"I'm a what?" Oliver asked, as Felicity took his arm and pulled him over to a clean patch of ice.

"You learn things by doing something, using your body to absorb the information," Felicity said. "So try to skate a circle. Just skate."

Not really sure what she was getting at, Oliver looked at her for a long moment. After all the falling he had already done, he wasn't sure if he was ready to face more humiliation. But then Felicity gave him a cheerful little punch to his shoulder, with about as much force as a kitten, and he chuckled.

"I guess I have to listen to you, huh?"

"No . . . although you have to learn this. There's no way around it." She paused, then said slowly, "There's a rink in town with a beginning skating class."

Felicity looked over at Digg, a small grin on her face. "Don't you think Oliver could learn a lot with the other six-year-olds?"

Digg snorted and Oliver felt his eyes go wide. "You wouldn't."

"Oh, I would," Digg said, smiling widely. "In a heartbeat."

So he was stuck. But there was no way in hell he was going to back down, not after they threatened him with six-year-olds.

"Here goes nothing, then," he said, pushing off and doing his best attempt at making a circle, feeling foolish.

When he finished, he came to a stop and looked at Digg and Felicity. They both bent down to look at the circle, then turned to look at each other.

"Well?" he asked, hoping he didn't sound as nervous as he felt.

"Not bad," Digg said with a grin. "Looks like Felicity was right about you."

Oliver looked at Felicity, who had stood up and folded her arms over her chest. Her smile was just a hair past cocky, and she tossed her head, her ponytail bouncing a little.

"We've got a lot more, though. Let's keep going," Digg said, standing up and gesturing for Oliver to move with him to another part of the rink.

As he skated past her, Oliver locked eyes with Felicity, wondering just who this girl was.

XXX

With a groan, Oliver took the last step down the staircase from his room. Diggle grinned at him. "Sore?"

"How many times were you gonna let me fall on my face, huh?" Oliver asked, trying to move without making his body protest.

"Big bad hockey player like you, I thought you could handle what the hundred-pound blonde was dishing out," Diggle said with a smirk. "Guess I was wrong."

Sighing, Oliver slowly followed Digg out of the guest house, heading towards the mansion for dinner.

"You still not gonna tell me why Felicity can't find a partner?" Oliver asked as they walked. "She seems like she's really good."

Digg nodded. "She is good. You may have noticed the babbling, though."

"Um, yeah," Oliver said, unable to hold back a grin. 'Babbling' was an understatement for what Felicity did. 'Word vomit' was more accurate.

"Imagine her doing that on camera, talking about her partner's butt and how much she appreciated the costume for showing it off, just before skating the long program at the US National Championships," Diggle said. "The Internet went crazy with it. People started documenting all the times she went on tangents like that, turning her into a joke. Her partner-the second one in a year-dumped her a month after Nationals, and we've been looking for someone ever since."

"Huh," Oliver said, thinking that over.

Digg nodded, remaining silent and leaving Oliver to his thoughts.

Even with all the falling on his face-Felicity sure knew how to hold a grudge while seeming like she wasn't-Oliver thought this first day had gone okay. At least he was starting to understand some of the stuff that Digg and Felicity talked about. He was just glad something was going well.

Unlike forming a relationship with Felicity, who was definitely a tough nut to crack. Because while she was warm and cheerful with Digg, she was unpredictable when it came to interacting with him. He didn't know what to expect: silent ice princess or babbling skating genius.

The only thing he really knew about her, from listening when she talked to Digg, was that she had a boyfriend-a boyfriend named Ray who lived in Switzerland. Maybe this Ray liked Felicity better from thousands of miles away? Which was his loss: it wasn't like Felicity wasn't pretty.

And she was a damn good skater, he thought. He'd think that would be enough for someone to partner with her, her talking problem notwithstanding. But it didn't look that way, since he was here.

"So tonight, it will be me, you, Felicity, and Felicity's parents," Digg said as they entered the house. "Donna Smoak-Lance and Quentin Lance." He paused, looking at Oliver. "You know who he is?"

"Quentin Lance?" Oliver shook his head. "Never heard of him."

"Hmmm," Digg said. "Well, you'll find out. This way."

Oliver pursed his lips as he followed Digg. The different last names caught his attention. Combined with Digg's Mr. Miyagi-type statement, he guessed he was in for an interesting dinner.

Suddenly, Digg held up a hand, stopping Oliver. "Wait out here a minute, okay? I want to check their temperature."

Shrugging, Oliver watched as Digg entered the room at the end of the hall. Raised voices leaked out when he opened the door, then cut off when the door closed.

He slid his hands into his pockets and looked up and down the hall. It seemed to be some kind of gallery: the walls were covered in photos and framed newspaper and magazine articles. He slowly walked down one side, reading and looking, as a few pieces started to fall into place.

There was some coverage of Felicity, going back to her childhood. There was one shot of her, wearing glasses and dressed in a sparkly pink costume that was half-covered by a ratty purple sweater. She looked very young-maybe seven or so-but the concentration and determination on her face made her seem older than her years.

For some reason, he gazed at the photo for a few moments before moving on-and then he started to realize who Quentin Lance was.

Former cop. Former figure skater.

There were dozens of photos of the young man who would become Felicity's stepfather: on the ice, performing charity work, appearing with the celebrities of the day, smiling with a boy who looked similar to him. And at the end of the hall, he found what he had suspected he'd find. A glass and wood display case, empty.

"You look long enough at that, you'll see an Olympic gold medal."

The mix of emotions in Felicity's voice was complex. He couldn't begin to untangle it all, so he turned to look at her as she walked down the hall towards him.

Dressed in a thick brown sweater and cream-colored pants, her hair in loose curls and a pair of glasses on her nose, this was a much more relaxed Felicity Smoak. She drew up beside him, her arms wrapped around herself. "And if you're me, you see two gold medals," she said. "One for me and one for my dad."

"What happened?" Oliver asked, turning to face her.

Felicity gazed down at the case. "His partner died. But she wasn't just his partner-she was his wife, too." Her eyes were filled with sadness when she lifted them to Oliver's. "It was a drunk driver."

Nodding slowly, Oliver watched as Felicity pulled herself together. She cleared her throat and pushed up her glasses. "He missed out on the Olympics, and then he was too grief-stricken to try skating with another partner. So he became a cop."

"That's different," Oliver said, trying to sound light. "Kind of like hockey player to figure skater."

She smiled a little before shrugging. "Yeah."

"So . . . I noticed he's Lance, your mom is Smoak-Lance, and you're Smoak." Oliver tucked his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels.

Another shrug. "When they got married, I was eight. It wasn't long after that picture-the one you were looking at," Felicity said, gesturing towards the photo of her younger self. "I was already competing as Felicity Smoak, so he thought it would be best if I didn't change it."

Oliver frowned. It made sense . . . but it sounded like a pretty cold attitude to take towards an eight-year-old.

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because he could see the shutters go down over her eyes. "We should go in for dinner," she said, turning and walking towards the room that Digg had entered earlier.

It was her family. He shouldn't feel like he had to warn her off. But Oliver didn't want her to deal with whatever argument was going on, all by herself.

So with his long legs, he caught up with her just as she opened the door.

XXX

Most awkward dinner ever?

Oliver was pretty sure the answer was yes.

There was Felicity's mother, who Felicity took after in looks but not personality. As soon as he walked into the room, Donna had beamed at him.

"Well, you don't look like a figure skater!" She turned to her daughter. "At least there will be no worries about this one dropping you, Felicity." Then she turned back to Oliver and started up a stream of chatter, slipping in plenty of compliments about his muscles.

Donna was a lot easier to interact with than Mr. Lance. When he laid eyes on Oliver, he immediately stiffened, looking angry. And throughout dinner, he had alternated between grilling Oliver and then Digg, a sour look on his face. What were the chances of a hockey player becoming a figure skater, what Oliver's background was, whether Digg had really thought this through, did they have enough time . . . ?

The questions left him with a pounding headache before dinner was half-over. But he'd done his best to respond with sincerity, taking Mr. Lance's questions seriously. Because he knew this was the only chance he was going to get. And it was a good one. A tough one, too-the toughest thing he'd ever attempt, Oliver thought. But another reason?

If he bailed out, it wouldn't just affect him.

All during dinner, Felicity had stayed quiet, exchanging a few quiet words with her mother. It was only at the end, when Mr. Lance turned to her, that she spoke up.

"Felicity, sweetheart, are you okay with all this?" Mr. Lance's voice softened when he talked to her. "This is gonna be just as hard on you as it is on Mr. Queen here."

As he waited for her answer, Oliver found himself wondering how this was going to go. Because he couldn't get a read on Felicity Smoak. She could be utterly reserved and proper one moment, then relaxed and babbling the next. He didn't know which one was the real Felicity.

And he found himself wanting to know.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, looking nervous. "Well-I mean . . . I trust Digg."

"And I'm grateful for that," Digg said. "But put your cards on the table."

The smile that briefly lit up her face made Felicity Smoak appear so much happier. It must be some shared joke, something that put her at ease.

Oliver saw Felicity square her shoulders a little as she turned back to her stepfather. "I'm up for it. I know now I'm not ready to quit and if Oliver's willing, I'm willing."

Mr. Lance still looked worried. Donna appeared excited. Digg had an air of confidence.

And Felicity looked at him, her chin lifted, her eyes gazing into his.

This might just work.

End, Chapter 1