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

Anyagal is kindly pre-reading for me.

Cascade & Dip

"Heyyy, baby!"

I tap delete before I can hear the rest. Nonetheless, as I continue my usual morning stretches and warm-up, the slurred, singsong voice from my voicemail wreaks havoc on my brain.

Against my better judgment, I wonder where Mom's staying these days. I wonder if she's still with that guy she met last year down in Florida, or if she's moved on to someone new. Maybe she's finally found herself. Maybe she's happy now that she's not stuck here in the cold where she never wanted to be.

Giving myself a hard internal shake, I roll my eyes at my melodramatic ramblings, shove off the mat, and head over to the treadmill. The last thing I need is another distraction, and as much as I love her, my mom's always a distraction.

I set out at a decent clip, enough to get my slow, sleep-addled blood moving, but my wrist buzzes before I even hit mile two. Expecting to see yet another call I don't want to take, I glance down, ready to send it to voicemail. Instead, it's my alarm, and I almost trip.

"Shit! Damn it!"

With another sputtered curse, I hop down and grab my gear. Ignoring the curious stares, I detour into the locker room just long enough to swap to tights and a long-sleeve, fitted crop, and then make my way through the warren of hallways to the rink, scarfing down my morning cup of yogurt as I go. By the time I throw on my skates and step onto the ice, it's already a quarter after six.

"So… I see someone has finally decided to grace me with her presence." Cross-armed, with one toe impatiently tapping against the ice, Katya harrumphs. "Ty opozdala."

Grinning, I buzz by and blow her a squawky kiss. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" My diminutive coach cocks an elegantly sculpted blonde brow, and that red athletic shoe of hers taps even harder. "I will show you sorry. I think we do waltz today."

I skid to a halt, spraying ice, and let out an exaggerated groan because she doesn't mean any old waltz. No, she means Klimova and Ponomarenko's so-called Golden Waltz, complete with all its tedious steps and ridiculously intricate pattern.

"I thought we were working on an exhibition dance."

You know, something I could theoretically skate on my own.

"That's what you get for thinking." Katya raps her forehead, and that perfect bun quivers with her silent laughter. When she finally stops, she claps once, done and done. "Yes. We do waltz today. You need to practice technique. Your ankle work is getting sloppy."

Glaring daggers, I execute a trio of sharp rockers, alternating counterclockwise to clockwise to counter, all on my right. Just to prove my point, I repeat the sequence on my left. "My ankle work is not getting sloppy."

"Meh." Bright blue eyes gleam with mischief as they follow me around the rink. "I've seen better."

"Who?" I ask, still glaring even though I know exactly what's coming.

"Me, of course."

I roll my eyes. "Truly, your humility knows no bounds."

"What is this humility?" Incredulous, Katya snorts, then waves a haughty hand, jangling the stack of colorful bangles circling her wrist. "Win another championship, then we worry about such trivial things."

"Trivial?"

"Yes, trivial," she says, matter of fact, as she simultaneously motions to one of her juniors–a sweet little twelve-year-old with a mop of raven-colored curls–to hit the music. "Now, get into position."

"I don't have a partner." There's only a little whine in there. "In case you missed it, this is a partner skate."

"Excuses! Excuses is all I hear these days. Wah-wah-wah-blya-blya-blya." Scoffing like I've just insulted her and the scruffy little ankle-biter that guards her house, Katya waves both her hands in a wild display. "Jacob was useless partner. Just pretend." She spits. "Pretend partner will be better than that mudak anyway."

"Yeah?" Laughter and something almost tender bubbles inside my chest. Katya was never fond of Jake, although she was always careful not to show it when he was still around. "What about the dips? Or you know… balance."

Fisting her hips, she stomps her little red foot. "Do I have to put on my skates and be man for you?"

At that, I double over, damned near wheezing when she glowers. "No, no, that's really unnecessary. I'll…" Dry-washing my face, I reluctantly glide into position. "Fine, I'll pretend and try not to bust my ass. How's that?"

A smile briefly touches her crimson lips, then she nods at the raven-haired junior once more. A beat later, a bright, quick-paced Viennese waltz blares out of the overhead speakers. "Davai!"

By the fourth time around, beads of sweat dot my forehead, darkening my hairline. My joints ache, and my thigh muscles might as well be jello.

Whatever Katya intended, pretending is hard, requiring far more muscle control, balance, and concentration than with a partner. Of course, I'm not about to give in and stop, not until every step and every turn is executed with gracefulness and absolute precision.

See, Katya's not the only perfectionist around here.

As I come out of the corner, I vaguely note that I've gathered a small audience. Wedged between Katya and Eric, Angela's grinning like a crazy woman. A couple more juniors have stopped to watch, and a few feet down from them, I notice a man I've not seen before. Somewhere in his late-forties or early fifties, he's fit and handsome, with broad shoulders, a shock of salt and pepper hair, and just a touch of ash at temples.

And then, there's Edward Cullen. On the opposite side of the new guy, leaning across the boards with his hands casually clasped together, he watches me skate with an unnerving intentness.

It's tempting to stare back, but I've got work to do.

Ignoring him and the rest of the crowd, I go onto my right for the Cascade and Dip. In perfect time, for all fifteen long-ass counts on a single foot, I perform the three-turn, the twizzle, and the scoop down into a modified back dip. I finish with another quick twizzle, only to immediately transition into the final pattern.

And then I do it all again, adding in my own little embellishments and flourishes along the way.

The whole routine is a blurry, dreamy swirl of motion, and as I complete the last three lobes and the Choctaws, an unexpectedly genuine smile stretches my cheeks.

As I glide to center ice and still, the music stops, and the abrupt silence feels almost jarring. The only sound that touches my ears is the air sawing in and out of my chest. Folding in half, elbows on my knees, I stare at the overlapping swirls etched into the ice for just a second, just long enough to recalibrate, to remember where I am and what I'm doing.

Shaking my head to clear it, I push off and skate toward the wall, only to slow and divert when I see Katya talking to the new guy. Judging by the balled fists and deep furrow bisecting her forehead, she's not happy about it either.

Nope, no thank you. I don't want any part of that woman's fury.

Whatever Katya lacks in size, she makes up in volume.

Apparently, Angela and Eric have the same idea. Snickering at something Katya says, they grin and wave and then scurry out onto the ice, leaving me with alone with Edward.

"Hey," I say, still catching my breath as I stop on the opposite side of the wall.

"Hey, yourself." Edward's lips twitch. Still leaning across the boards, he's quiet, contemplative almost as he stares out across the ice. Just when I start to speak, he glances over. "You're an exceptional skater."

Pink climbs my cheeks. Avoiding his gaze, I scrub my face with my sleeve.

"Eh, I'm alright." I shrug, then sigh. "Katya tells me I'm getting sloppy."

"Jesus Christ." Shaking his head, he lets out a soft laugh. He dry-washes his hands, and my eyes involuntarily drift down his black tee to his bare forearms, where cords of lean, multi-colored muscle twist and flex. "She's as rough as Garrett said she was."

"Nah, she's right more often than not." It takes me a second, and then my head jerks up. "Wait, Garrett. You mean, Garrett Hamilton?"

"Yeah, he's my coach…" Edward thumbs over to Katya and the new guy and nods. "Most days, at least."

I don't know what to do with that last bit, but like Katya, Garrett Hamilton's skating royalty. I just didn't recognize the salt and pepper hair.

We watch them for a second. Without warning, Katya's furrow deepens. With Garrett's back turned to us, I can't hear what he's saying, but whatever it is, it makes Katya huff. Her bright blue eyes narrow into angry slits, and a sharp, very rude insult dances across her lips.

Angling back to Edward, I ask, "So… why are they fighting?"

"Hell, if I know," he says, shrugging, then straightening off the boards. "I think they may have dated at one point or another."

My eyes nearly pop out of my head. "You're kidding me."

Shrugging again, he throws me a stupidly attractive lop-sided smile. "At least that's what my sister says."

"Your sister?"

"Step-sister, I guess. Or something like that." Edward's features pinch into an almost comically sour expression. "Rosalie Hale. She used to skate singles before she retired."

Holy shit.

"I know exactly who she is," I tell him, barely suppressing a mischievous smile when I picture the blonde, statuesque goddess with a tongue as sharp as her blades. "We used to call her the Ice Queen."

Eyes crinkling, Edward braces his hands against the boards, stretching the muscles and tendons. "On the rare occasion we were on the same continent, I used to call her the Ice Bitch."

I laugh at that, harder than maybe I should. "Come on, that's not fair. She was amazing, maybe a little… competitive."

Okay, that's an understatement.

In her prime, Rosalie Hale mowed down the competition. And enjoyed it.

One brow lifts, disappearing beneath his messy, bed-head hair, as if to dare me. "Okay, fine. She's not quite as hateful as she used to be."

I shake my head at him, and then we're quiet for a little while. In the background, I pick up the rhythmic scratch of Eric and Angela's blades, along with Katya and Garrett's muted conversation.

Edward breaks the silence first. "It's been a while since I saw someone do a real waltz routine like that."

He doesn't need to say alone.

No, that echoes in my head like a gong.

"Yeah?" Humming, I watch Eric effortlessly flip Angela onto his shoulder. She extends like an elegant swan before he swings her down into a graceful curve lift.

I love seeing them skate, even if a small part of me cries with envy. As they pass by, I wave and give them a quick thumbs-up.

"Years ago, it used to be a regular compulsory dance for us," I tell him. "I guess I forgot it's never been a pairs exercise."

"Nope." Edward's gaze travels down to my skates, momentarily catching on my bare midriff before returning to the couples and singles circling the rink. When Ty hops the wall on the opposite side, his lips mash together into a hard line. "It looked difficult."

My shoulders rise and fall. "It's not the easiest."

"There you go being modest again."

Another round of pink climbs my cheeks. "Yeah, I guess."

When I reach for my water bottle, he plucks it off the rail and hands it over. His thumb ghosts across the backs of my fingers, and when I look up, he winks. "Well, you shouldn't be."

My stomach dips as I war between pride, embarrassment, and something else altogether. "Thanks, but you sound like Katya."

Flashing me a quick, laid-back smile, Edward slips out of the gate onto the ice, and as he glides out to the center to start his warm-up, I can't help but imagine what it'd be like to skate with him.

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