Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm now apparently making them ice skate.

Anyagal is kindly prereading for me.

Try & Try Again

"Again!"

I pull away from the sandy-haired man still gripping my waist to look at the diminutive woman stalking out onto the ice in bright red athletic shoes.

"This isn't working," I say, dry-washing my face as I skate a random, lazy circle. Frustration and something worse–hints of desolation–thread through my veins. "We don't move anything alike."

Katya glares at me, then at Marek.

The twenty-two-year-old with ice-blue eyes is a phenomenal skater, with more than enough speed, strength, and power to go around. Marek's attractive, too, with strong angular features and the typical lean, limber body of a top-tier male skater. He's as pale as I am, but his lighter hair and eyes contrast sharply with my darker features, and even I have to admit that we look good together.

But he doesn't move right.

There's no emotive quality to his movements, none of the inherent fluidity and passion required to succeed in dance. Sure, he can do the lifts, probably blindfolded, but Marek's built for acrobatics, a pairs skater through and through, and no matter what his coach thinks he can do, it's just not the same.

She jabs a finger at us both. "Try harder! Do again! Yeshche raz!"

With a soft chuff, I skate back into position. Marek's palms frame my hips a beat later, and as he lines up behind me, heat from his chest bleeds through the thin fabric of my top, warming my back. It's a familiar, reassuring sensation, yet when I breathe in, I taste hints of a cologne I don't recognize. His fingertips are bonier, too, and the pressure is all wrong. I don't say a word, and as Katya begins the count, "Raz... dva... tri..." I tell myself that I can make this work.

I have to.

"Ready?" he quietly asks.

As I reach back to grasp the side of his neck, guiding him into a more sensual embrace, I nod. "Let's go."

We push off in unison, shifting into a long serpentine glide. Joined at the hip, we execute a series of slow, easy turns–rockers, a Choctaw, another rocker–and then another long glide that turns into a clockwise loop. Our shotgun spins suck. Our step sequence isn't much better. And as we transition from a mediocre spread eagle to a low assisted cantilever, we're nowhere close to being in sync.

Arching, I start to come out of position in preparation for the next connection. Halfway up, Marek's grip on my forearm slips. We falter, and I just manage not to crack the back of my skull. Instead, my shoulder takes the brunt of the fall, smacking against the ice, and as momentum sends me skidding, the skin on my back burns like fire.

I really shouldn't have worn such a low-backed top.

Either way, for the next four hours, we skate. Like yesterday and the day before, we repeat the same sequences over and over and over. We attempt the simple short lifts we'd practiced on the mats. We adjust our grips and stances in dozens of ways. We desperately try to figure out a way to make this somehow work.

At quarter to five, I smack the ice again, this time knocking the wind out of me.

"Stop!"

I glance over at a fuming Katya as Marek offers me his hand, along with a sweetly sincere, apologetic smile.

"Ah, shit. I'm sorry about that." His eyes scan my face. "Are you all right?"

As he pulls me up, I attempt a smile in return, but all I can manage is a tight, winded, "It's fine. Not your fault."

"Yes, of course, it is," he says, shaking his head. Marek's voice is soft, his Czech accent light, gentle, and rolling. His apologetic smile turns a little wry. "My last partner was a little taller than you. There was… more of her to hold on to, as well."

I grin, and an involuntary chuckle spills out, even though I still don't have the breath for it. "I have no idea how to take that."

Marek laughs when I shrug. Then, hand in hand, we skate back to the center, where Katya and burly, bearded Dima in his ever-present navy tracksuit stand cross-armed and waiting.

"At least it was better than last time," I say, stretching and rolling my bruised, aching shoulder. While I do my best not to show it, that earlier hint of desolation turns into a flood.

Katya's bright blue gaze narrows, and I catch her tugging at the hem of her fuzzy sweater in irritation. "Well?"

I glance up at the man beside me, letting out a long sigh. "What do you think?"

Marek turns pensive and doesn't answer for a moment.

"I would love to skate with you, Bella," he finally says. "Nothing would make me happier." His Adam's apple dips below the collar of his dark, fitted quarter-zip. The Czech palms the back of his neck, now red and damp, and his pale eyes bounce between me and his coach. "But…" He frowns, and his thumb brushes across the back of my hand. "But you were right. There is something missing between us."

Even though it's exactly what I was thinking–what I knew deep down–hearing it spoken out loud for the fifth time in the span of a month still hits like a punch to the chest.

Dropping his hand, I scrub my face with the bottom of my shirt. When I come up, I plaster on an easy smile and thread an arm around his waist. He's leaner than Jake, and I curse myself for even noticing. When I lift on my toes to kiss his cheek, Marek hugs me back, almost fiercely and whispers, "I wanted this to work so very much."

"Me, too," I say, and I mean it, probably more than he'll ever know. "Come see me next time you're in the US."

"I would like that." He nods. "I hope you find who you're looking for."

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