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

Anyagal is kindly prereading for me.

Stretch & Reach

"So, you're following me now?"

"Fuck!" I jump like a rabbit, looking up just in time to avoid collision with a wall of black. My phone's not so lucky. It slips through my fingertips, and I watch in slow motion as it bounces off my knee and clatters against the concrete floor. Tilting my face toward the ceiling, I squeeze my eyes shut and sigh. "Crap."

Because, seriously, the last thing I need is another broken phone, especially since I just ordered a new pair of skates.

Good God, they're expensive.

Before I can lament the loss, my phone finds its way back to my hand, and I crack one eye open as the scent of soap layered with something faint, warm, and masculine washes over me.

"Shit, sorry about that," Edward says as long fingers comb through bed-head hair. "I didn't mean to scare you. Thought you saw me."

I glance down, flooded with instant relief when all I see is a tiny divot in the corner of the case.

"No, it's my fault." It comes out automatically, the apology drilled into my consciousness after years of dealing with Jake. Trying to ignore the sudden warmth in my cheeks, I wave a random hand, barely missing Jess as she squeezes by. I definitely ignore her sky-high brows and pouty, puckered lips. "I just wasn't paying attention."

Casually leaning against the wall, seemingly oblivious to the appraising looks thrown his way, Edward frowns, then thumbs to the open door and the rows of reformers and mats spread across the bamboo floor. "You in here, too?"

"Twice a week." I nod, and when Edward's frown turns almost comically sour, I can't help but grin. "What's that face for?"

"Necessary evil," he says with a loose, lazy shrug. His gaze drops, taking in my matching leggings, sports bra, and jacket, and one brow cocks high. "But let me guess, you're a Pilates princess."

My grin widens, stretching my cheeks.

"So, you are."

"No, not really," I tell him, lying through my teeth. When he eyes me askance, I laugh and throw my palms up in surrender. "Okay, fine, maybe a little bit."

"Thought so."

I roll my eyes at the dry, sarcastic delivery. "Yeah, whatever."

"So, does everyone come here? Is this like," Edward asks, lips twitching, "the place to be on a Tuesday night?"

Peeking inside the room, I tag the usual crew. "Pretty much. Wasn't it like that where you trained before?"

It takes him a second to answer, and when he does, those pretty green eyes lose some of their luster. "No, not really. Tanya was… picky."

I have no idea how to respond—what subtext I should be reading—but I do know something about difficult partners. So, instead of pressing, since he always seems to stick to himself, I take it upon myself to do a few quick, surreptitious introductions.

"Over there in the corner by the windows," I say, pointing to graceful, willowy Ang in her pale blue leggings, "that's Angela Weber. No clue where Eric's at. They're long-term dance partners, usually joined at the hip. But they're absolutely amazing together, and they're also not jerks."

Edward's lips twitch again. "That's good to know."

"The brunette with the resting, well…" I scowl, "you know, face is Lauren Mallory."

He laughs at that, and it's a startlingly attractive sound. "Personality to go with it, I take it?"

"Unfortunately." I nod because, wow, Lauren is… a lot, and that's on a good day. "She's currently skating singles, but she's been having some trouble consistently landing the big jumps. Rumor mill's saying she wants to swap to pairs… if she can find someone who'll put up with her."

The instant it comes out of my mouth, I regret it. My heart freezes inside my chest, and for a second, a fourteen-year-old blonde outside a locker room whispers in my ear, turning my stomach to lead.

It was her fault, though. She totally deserved it... Maybe she's done.

Pretending to check the strap on my bag, I blink against the sudden sting in my eyes and swallow past the lump at the base of my throat. "Look, I really shouldn't have said that."

Edward's forehead creases. "What?"

"Never mind." Shaking my head, ignoring the ache behind my ribs, I take a shallow, shaky breath before angling toward the opposite end of the studio. Not quite meeting his gaze, I plaster on a performance smile and tip my chin toward a pair of matching blonds in coordinating gym clothes. "Pairs. The guy with the spiky highlights is Mike Newton, and you just saw his partner, Jessica Stanley."

"Yeah." Edward draws it out, grimacing when Jess bends over in her very short shorts. "She introduced herself already."

"That bad, huh?" My performance smile widens into something a little more genuine. I almost feel sorry for him. "Want me to invite her over?"

That grimace deepens. "How about let's not."

"You sure about that?" I ask, snickering when he cuts me a pissy glare.

"Whatever." He sweeps an elegant hand toward the door, gesturing for me to enter. "Let's just get this over with."

We file into the room right as tall, svelte Siobhan steps to the front to start the class. I park on my usual machine, and when Edward takes the one next to me, I'd be lying if I said a tiny thrill didn't shoot through my veins.

"Assigned seats or anything?" Edward asks as he strips off his hoodie, revealing yet another layer of midnight fabric.

"No, not at all." It's not the complete truth. While there are no assigned positions, we do tend to be creatures of habit, and as I scan the room, I'm relieved that Ty hasn't bothered to show. I ignore the wide-eyed stares. "Be my guest."

"You sure? Who's normally here?"

"Tyler usually." My nose crinkles as I recall how quickly and eagerly Ty stepped in once Jake disappeared. "Trust me, you're a welcome substitution."

Another shadow passes across Edward's face, darkening his irises to a twilight forest. But it's gone so quickly that I wonder if I just imagined it.

"All right then," he says, flashing me a vague, lop-sided smile as he stretches his arms over his head. His t-shirt creeps up, exposing a sliver of skin and in the process, answering one of my earlier questions. He wears ink there, too. "Show me how it's done, Princess."

Fifty minutes later, I don't feel like a princess. My body might as well be jello. Between doubling up on my usual run, my morning workout, then practice, and now Siobhan the Sadist's power flex routine, my muscles are a sore, quivering mess, and as I sit up, all I can think about is drowning in a scalding shower before falling into bed.

Well, that, and the man next to me.

Sprawled out across the carriage, Edward squints at the overhead fluorescents and grunts. "Okay, I take it back."

I grab a towel out of my bag to mop my face. "Take what back?"

"You're not a princess. You're something else entirely." He looks over, still squinting. "Are you sure you're human?"

I laugh, and something warm and fuzzy tugs at my chest. "Most days. But don't worry, you'll get used to Siobhan. She's intense, but it's worth it."

"I don't believe you. I'm dying right now." Shaking his head, Edward heaves himself into a sitting position opposite me. He slugs back half a bottle of water, then props his elbows on his knees as he watches me dry my arms and chest. "So, where were you this morning?"

Nerves flutter my stomach.

"Okay, now, who's the stalker?" I ask, shoving loose strands of hair out of my face. When they just fall again, I pull out my ponytail and sweep it all up into a damp, lazy knot. "Do I need to call the police or something?"

Edward rolls his eyes.

When I laugh again, I spy Ang staring at me from her corner of the room. Her eyes are as wide as saucers, and as she tiptoes by, Eric in tow–he did make it after all–she grins like the Cheshire Cat. Shooting me a sneaky double thumbs up, she mouths a silent, "You better call me! Tonight."

Sighing, I wave her off, then yell right before she hits the door, "Tell your mom hey! And I'll talk to you… tomorrow!"

Angela's features pinch into a sad moue of disappointment, but then her grin comes roaring back. Spinning on her heel, she calls over her shoulder, "Fine! You so owe me lunch!"

As I angle back to Edward, my gaze momentarily slips to his hands, catching on the calligraphed letters on the knuckles of his thumbs. My mouth opens before I even know what I'm saying. "Did that hurt?"

"No, not really," Edward says, not skipping a beat. He smirks when I look up. "My ribs hurt worse."

I startle, just a little, surprised for some strange reason. "I had a meeting with my choreography coach this morning."

"Oh, yeah?" he asks, still wearing that little smirk, like he knows something I don't. "Who are you working with this season?"

"Alice Brandon." I shrug on my wrap, trying not to fumble the tie at the waist when I see him watching. "She's been doing my choreography for a few years now."

"Never met her." Like a typical guy, Edward yanks on his hoodie. His tee rides up, flashing me another sliver of skin, along with a maze of sculpted lines and muscle. "I've heard she's really good."

"One of the best," I say, looking away. "Sometimes, she can be a lot, but she's very creative and she understands what I can do and what I can't."

"Can't?" He snorts. "There's something you can't do?"

I don't know how to take that, but when I turn back, I can't find a hint of sarcasm in his expression. My cheeks burn like fire. "Lots… trust me."

"If you say so." Shrugging, he stands and then offers me his hand. "Who's your lift coach?"

I freeze as that now-familiar ache thrums against my ribs. Lifts are the last thing I want to talk about, with him or anyone else, not now, not when my ice dance career is effectively over.

"Jake and I used to work with Jasper Whitlock," I say, my voice unusually quiet and small. "Right now… who knows. I doubt I'll need one."

Warm fingers envelop mine, gripping with familiar, reassuring surety and firmness, and when Edward pulls me up, it's effortless, almost as natural as breathing.

.

.

.

Notes:

Since a couple people have mentioned it, ice dance (Bella) and pairs (Edward's former discipline) are similar yet different disciplines. The focus is different. The elements are different. The rules are different. Even the blades on their skates are different! So while some do swap from one to the other, it's not an immediate or necessarily easy thing to do. Plus, as far as Bella is aware, Edward is there to train for singles. :)

Thank you for reading! I'm tickled you're all along for the ride, and I really love hearing from you!