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

Anyagal is kindly pre-reading for me.

I really, truly appreciate all of you reading and I hope to hear from you.

Meet & Greet

Mid-lunge, an unfortunately familiar boisterous laugh comes from the other side of the gym.

I cringe internally, and for all of about three seconds, I debate whether or not I can get this barbell back on the rack and sneak out before he notices me. I'm not a coward. I just don't think I have the patience to deal with Tyler Crowley today. When I spot him past my shoulder in the mirror, laughing with bleach-blonde Mike while blatantly staring at my ass, I let out a long sigh.

Great.

"Bells!" He saunters over like God's gift.

I swap to my left and give him a bland, closed-lipped smile while continuing my reps. "Hey, Ty."

Hands shoved in his pockets, Ty props himself against the weight rack in an obnoxious look-at-me pose. "You should know, I'm really hurt."

"Why's that?" I ask, opting to watch my form instead of him.

"You've been back for, what, three days?"

"Your point?"

Weights clank as Ty shoves off the rack. Without bothering to hide his ogling, he circles me as I slowly descend into a controlled lunge. An inch above the mat, my knee wobbles, and I curse under my breath. When I stand, he gives me a pout and sad, puppy-dog eyes before flashing me what I'm assuming he thinks is a flirtatious grin. "You haven't called me once."

I barely suppress the urge to roll my eyes. "Why would I do that?"

He tsks. "Before you left, I thought we'd come to an understanding."

Now, I do roll my eyes. I huff, too. "Yeah, that's not happening. Ever."

"Aw, come on." Stopping dead in front of me to block my view, Ty swipes a hand through dark, curly hair. His baby-smooth jawline tenses, and the flirtatious grin slips. It's a subtle shift, but I catch it nonetheless, along with the masked undercurrent of anger that colors his tone. "Why do you always have to be like this?"

It's not the first time he's asked. Or the second.

Why he can't seem to get the message is beyond me.

Then again, Ty's the quintessential skating brat. Good-looking, talented, athletic, and bolstered by mom and dad's money, he's always acted like he was the center of the universe. For some, maybe he is, but definitely not for me. Either way, on and off the ice, he doesn't handle losing well.

And while I'm irritated, I really don't feel like a scene today.

"Seriously, what's your problem?" He waves a random hand at himself. "You realize that most women would kill for a shot with me, right?" Something resembling a sneer replaces his smile. "Or… maybe you're just still waiting around for Jake. Is that it?"

It's not the jab he thinks it is because I'm not, but that's not a discussion I'm having with him. Here, or anywhere else.

"Look," I say, plastering another bland, bored smile, "I really need to finish my workout. I have ballroom tonight, and I have to find Katya before I head out."

Ty lets out an indignant scoff. He hesitates, no doubt, debating just how far he can push me. When my brows climb in expectation, he eyes me up and down one last time before finally stepping to the left. Satisfied, I glance back to the mirror, ready to resume my lunges.

A tiny spark of awareness zings down my spine, and I blink.

Standing cross-armed at the back of the gym and dressed again in black fitted joggers and a matching tee, new guy Edward Cullen silently watches our exchange. His expression's flat, bored-almost. Vaguely, I notice that his hair's mussed and a little darker, like he's just come in from a run. But as he observes us, his upper body doesn't move at all, telling me he's nowhere close to being winded.

He catches me staring, too. Like the other day across the ice, our eyes lock through the mirror, and for just a moment, the weights, the machines, and dumbass Tyler disappear.

This time, I look away first.

Shaking my head, ignoring the warmth that threatens to climb my cheeks, I reset the bar across my shoulders and grimace. After weeks of tryouts and half-assed workouts, I probably added too much weight. I should have worn more than a tank, too, because the non-slip cross-hatching is digging into my skin. Either way, I grit my teeth and move on.

Right about the time I start to descend, a pair of hands land on my hips. Long fingers spread, bracketing my waist in an intimate hold, and my whole body freezes as a male voice purrs in my ear.

"You're going to hurt yourself," he says, and my heart rate soars as musky cologne tinged with sweat washes over me. "Your form's shit today. Let me show you."

A shriek of anger comes out of me, and I do exactly what I didn't want to do.

I make a scene.

"For the last time, no!" I snap, swinging the barbell around, just missing Ty's stupid, bulbous head. "And get your hands off me, you fucking creep!"

"What the–" Ty yells, letting me go as he dances out of the way when I swing around again. His Nikes squeak across the mat, and his palms fly up in mock surrender. All the while, he cuts me a furious glare. Like it's somehow my fault. "Jesus, what's your problem? Stop being such a bitch. I was just trying to help you!"

I let go of the bar, and the weight slides down my back, crashing into the mat as I round on him. "Are you kidding me?"

"Come on, Bells," he says, hands still up and now cajoling. He has the nerve to grin like nothing's wrong, and he steps into me. And damn it, I despise that nickname. I shake him off when he tries to finger my ponytail. "You know I just want to hang out with you. Calm down and give me a cha–"

A throat clears.

Ty and I both still as a smooth, quiet voice with an indeterminable accent cuts in. "Are you about done with the bar?"

We pivot, and the second Ty sees who's there, he wheels away from me like he's been shocked.

"Oh, hey, man," he says, suddenly sheepish as he scratches the back of his head. After a too-long beat, he finally recovers, awkwardly extending his right. "Edward, right?"

"Yeah." Now mere feet away, Cullen watches us with the same bored, impassive expression. He studies Ty's offered hand for a second before casually shaking it. "You are?"

"Tyler… Crowley, but most people just call me Ty." His lips mash into a semblance of an apologetic smile. "Sorry it's taken me so long to introduce myself, but… you know how it gets sometimes."

"I do."

Ty's gaze drops to Cullen's forearms and the tattoos that wind from his wrists to his elbows. They're intricate and darkly vibrant, some kind of gothic horror theme with skulls, a ferryman, and screaming trees. He even has ink on the knuckles of his thumbs–some script I can't quite read. But where I'm fascinated, Ty's instantly discomfited.

"You used to skate with Tanya Volkova, right?" Ty asks, and his voice drops, turning sly and calculating. "Heard she was a handful…"

"Voronova," Cullen corrects. His lips twitch, and I get the sense he's vaguely amused by Ty's innuendo. But all he says is a politely neutral, "Tanya's excellent skater."

Tyler's features pinch in obvious disappointment, but then his eyes betray him and slip to me. He fidgets with his cuff. "Anyway, so what made you decide to move to Colorado Springs?"

"Took a break for a little while." Beneath the fitted tee, Cullen's shoulders rise and fall in a loose, easy shrug. "My coach moved back to the US while I was out."

"Huh. So, why'd you stop?"

Rude, but honestly, after Angela's gossiping, I wouldn't mind hearing the answer myself.

"Different priorities. Just wasn't sure if it was something I still wanted to do." Cullen shrugs again, then laughs, and it's a soft, relaxed sound that has a bizarrely tranquilizing effect on my earlier fury. "But I realized I liked competing. Thought I might give singles a shot."

Tyler stiffens at that. He–along with everyone else–has seen Cullen out on the ice, and I know Ty well enough to know when he's intimidated. He chuckles, but unlike Cullen's, it's dry and brittle. "Well, good luck with that. It's gotta be tough, you know, coming back so… late and all."

Again, rude, but statistically, Ty's not wrong.

Men's singles is a brutal discipline, and, Ty notwithstanding, it's dominated by skinny guys, most of whom can't even drink yet. It's the same reason I laugh when Eric encourages me to do the same.

Cullen's eyes dance, and this close, I realize his irises are a strikingly vibrant emerald green. "I guess we'll see how it goes."

"Guess so. Anyway..." Ty turns his smile on me, only it's shallow, like the put-on fake smiles he always throws on before a performance. Lurking beneath, hiding in narrowed dark brown eyes and the tight line of his jaw, are hints of his earlier anger. "We'll talk later after you've had some time to cool off." Before I can respond, arrogant as always, he spins on his heel, gesturing over his shoulder to the man beside me. "Nice to meet you, bro. I'm sure I'll see ya around."

Cullen hums something that might pass as agreement and then quietly watches Tyler leave. When Ty angrily yanks his bag off the floor and it gets hung up on a nearby elliptical, one corner of his mouth tugs up into what I belatedly recognize as genuine amusement.

A beat later, Tyler disappears around the corner, and my body instantly relaxes. Ignoring the handful of curious stares, my cheeks puff out, and I let out a long, tired sigh. "I'm done. It's all yours."

"What?" Cullen angles toward me, and when I start toward the barbell, he shakes his head. "Nah, I'm good."

I arch a brow.

"I'm surprised you didn't actually hit him," he says, quiet enough that only I can hear. That slight, crooked smile lifts a little higher, then vanishes altogether. Something flickers in his gaze, darkening the green as he tips his chin toward the exit. "That kind of thing normal around here?"

I peer up. Cullen's tall for pairs–singles, too–topping me by nearly a foot. But my earlier assessment was spot on. He's lithe and leanly muscled, with little to no fat anywhere to be seen. And he's stupidly attractive, with the kind of sharp, chiseled, symmetrical features you only see in magazines. But unlike Ty, he wears his pretty face with ease, like he's not even aware.

Or maybe he just doesn't care.

"No, not really," I say, then my nose scrunches because I suck at lying. "Maybe. Okay, yes. Ty's…"

"A basement-dwelling incel?"

A laugh tumbles out of my mouth. "How about a basement-dwelling incel who routinely medals and whose dad owns like, I don't know, half of Colorado Springs."

"So?" When I don't answer, Cullen turns and offers me his hand. I take it, but unlike Tyler's aggressive grabbing, his grip is warm, reassuring, and somehow both soft and firm. "I'm Edward."

My lips curve, even as butterflies flutter my stomach. "Bella."

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