The fog hovered low, swirling around her ankles as Clarke's blades bit into the ice. The rink was eerily silent; the only sound the slice and rip of her blades. This was Clarke's favorite time, when the rink transformed into an ice kingdom all her own. The staff hadn't arrived yet; the first hockey practice didn't begin for another hour. She was alone and the freedom of the ice spread before her.
Clarke couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips as she wove her way down the long axis, her blades sliding through the occasional back loop or rocker. The weight of regionals fell away, nothing but a wisp of fog at her feet. Inhaling deeply she pushed faster, relishing the cold wind caressing her flushed cheeks. She sunk into a series of deep crossovers, reaching down to touch her left hand to the ground as she deepened the edges.
She rose from the deep glide and used a simple Mohawk to slip backwards, digging even deeper as she accelerated. Her edges made a low groaning noise that echoed through the rink as she flew, pushing her skates to their maximum. Whenever she forgot why she was here, trying for some impossible dream, Clarke only had to listen to the groan of her blades and feel the wind in her hair. This was the freedom she was addicted to, the place that transported her beyond herself to a place where each movement was poetry and there was nothing to hold her down.
Clarke swung effortlessly into a string of waltz jumps, easy half turns that warmed her leg muscles. Laughing, she stepped into an Axel, the one and half turns floating through the air like clouds on the wind. Another backwards crossover and she was swinging into a double salchow, the landing hissing across the ice. She kept pushing, running through her doubles before vaulting even higher and twirling faster as she vaulted through her triples.
Her blood was pounding now, her cheeks flushed with heat instead of cold. The layers of clothing pilled up on the side of the boards as she worked harder and faster, spinning and leaping her way through her short and then her long program. The short felt better now, in the dawn with no one watching. She could be free to emote, to push herself, in ways she never dared with an audience. Now she was raw, an emotional wreck begging for the ice to fix her.
Clarke skated over to the music box, sliding the headphone jack into her phone. Bare fingers working quickly, her gloves long since discarded, she keyed up her long program music. The last strains of the violin piece caressed her ears. Clarke stuck her opening pose, her chin high and her right toe pick dug into the ice behind her. Her arms spread wide before rising above her head, reaching to the rafters. The last beat of the music thundered through the air and Clarke tensed, waiting for the track to begin its repeat.
The opening drumbeats spurred her into motion, striking poses jaggedly until the first swell of the violin brought softness cascading through her. Her movements became delicate, strong, but careful. Clarke swirled through the opening combination, a triple flip triple toe loop combination that sent her soaring. The layback spin she fell into afterward, head dropping and back bending, rushed blood to her head, leaving stars dancing in vision as she pushed out of it, digging her blades deeper, gaining speed into her double axel triple toe loop combination.
Each note was an extension of her muscles, a scrape of her blades. She merged with the music, her movements synchronized with the haunting violin and vibrating drums. The cold air rushed through her lungs, filling her with icy tendrils of joy. The triple loop vaulted her in time with the atmospheric wind catapulting the violin stains to an otherworldly level. Clarke bent and twisted as she made her way through the subsequent footwork sequence. Rockers, counters, twizzles and choctaws melded together into one sweet song. Her final flying camel spin, leg extend back behind her, arms weaving patterns through the air, was sweet release. Clarke sank into her final position, collapsed to the ice, arms twisted behind her head, muscles shaking and breath shuddering in her chest. She sank further, kneeling in surrender as euphoria coated her veins. She could barely remember the program she'd skated, seven triples and four spins, but she knew it was good, exactly what she'd been searching for.
After several minutes simply breathing, she rose to her feet, edges humming as she pushed across the ice. She looked toward the boards, searching her blue water bottle, but stopped short, her blades scraping sharply. Her muscles clenched and her jaw tightened, euphoria draining out of her in an instant. Wide brown eyes stared back at her, flickering rapidly across her face.
She stood frozen, mere feet from the box where he stood burning holes through her with his dark eyes. The weight of reality surged over her, drowning her and leaving her breathless. His jaw worked, but no words emerged from his full lips. He'd been cordial enough since her hard fought apology, but Bellamy Blake had also made ignoring her a full time profession. He'd greet her when Octavia joined her to study, but beyond that, there had been a deliberate radio silence between them. Now he stared at her like he wanted to consume her with his burning darkness.
The moment stretched on, chills racing down her spine and stealing her breath yet again. Finally his eyes shuttered and Clarke regained control. She closed the distance between them, fingers closing around the water bottle resting on the board beside him.
"A little early to be at work, isn't it Blake?"
Her voice sounded breathy, foreign. His eyes traced her features again, their intensity abating. "It's nearly five, hockey starts in less than five minutes."
"Five?" she murmured, turning her gaze the glowing clock on the scoreboard. The hour had flown by faster than she'd anticipated. "Shit. You need to do the ice, don't you?"
Bellamy looked at her oddly, his brow furrowing. "That's still Miller's job… I don't have Zamboni status."
Frowning, Clarke climbed into the box next to him, sinking to the bench as she slid her blades between her fingers, sending the built up ice splattering on the ground. "Oh," she glanced at him, expecting him to beat a hasty retreat as usual. Instead he stayed beside her, his dark eyes still searching her for some elusive answer. Clarke swallowed, turning away from him to study the melting mounds of ice decorating the rubber tiles.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was softer than she'd ever heard it, reverent even. "I had no idea."
Startled she swung back to him. Her breath caught, her fingers tightening in the air as he captured her with his eyes. No one had ever looked at her like he did now. Clarke forced air into her lungs, thankful for the sting of the cold against her throat. "About what?"
He shook his head, dark curls flying asunder, as he cut his eyes away from her. "You. I had no idea you were that…" He couldn't seem to find the words to finish the sentence. Instead, his hypnotizing gaze caught her once again, doing dangerous things to her pulse. His teeth worried his lips, drawing her gaze down. She tried to tear herself away, but a greater power fastened her eyes upon him. She drank in his features like a desert nomad at an oasis. Clarke had never really studied him before, never allowed her eyes to feast on the chiseled panes of his face or the dark flutter of his eyelashes. But she couldn't look away. No matter how hard her brain screamed that this was absurd, that he hated her, she couldn't break away from him.
The rink door clanged open, the echoes reverberating through her, and suddenly the ice was a swarm of hockey players, purple and gold jerseys glowing dully under fluorescent lights. Clarke blinked, free of the spell. She sucked in a deep breath and turned back to Bellamy, but he was gone, the swinging door to the lobby the only evidence he'd been beside her.
Groaning, she hauled herself upright, slipping on her hard guards to avoid damaging her blades. Gathering her clothes from the board, she turned away from the ice. The lobby was deserted except a handful of tardy hockey players, only Kane visible at the front desk. She untied her skates on autopilot, drying her blades and placing them back in her duffle bag.
Clarke had no idea what to think. She wasn't even sure the encounter hadn't simply been a figment of her imagination. In either case, she supposed this changed nothing. He'd still barely spoken to her and although his eyes had been arresting, she doubted it was anything but a fluke. Bellamy Blake hated her guts and Clarke had accepted that as part of reality several weeks ago. He probably just hadn't known she could skate, let alone do triples. It's not like he had ever watched her before. Ever since the first week she'd been hyper aware of his presence and he had never once looked her way while inside the rink. She nodded firmly to herself. It was nothing. She would just chalk it up to his surprise actually seeing her skate. Shoving her bag under the bench, Clarke pulled out her AP Physics homework. Best put it out of her mind and solve a few of these damn kinematics problems before Mrs. Kane arrived.