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

Anyagal is kindly prereading for me. Thank you, my friend!

Hello & Hope

"Hello? Earth to Bella?"

I jerk up from my phone as a tray scrapes across the table. A beat later, vinyl creaks as Angela and Eric slide into the other side of my booth. I grin at the two of them in their matching Team USA sweats. They're even sporting the same watches and bright blue adidas.

"Wait," I say, frowning at the piled-high plates. "Aren't you supposed to be meeting with Berty?"

"Ugh!" Ang unceremoniously swipes a crispy sweet potato fry off Eric's plate and crams it into her mouth. "That smug little jerkhole changed the dates on us–again. He's coming the day after tomorrow. Supposedly."

Eric's lips twitch, and he shoots me a knowing glance. "It's fine. Just the usual scheduling BS."

"It is not! You know it's just so he can spend even more time with Jane and Alec, like they need it," she says, huffing and puffing as she bats his hand away when he reaches for the ketchup. "Ew. You're going to ruin them!"

"Am not!" Long arm stretching past her, he plucks the bottle off the table and juggles it over her head. "Are these my fries or–"

Ang cuts him off with a too-sweet kiss on the cheek.

"Fine." Eric snorts, but then his lips twitch again, and he tosses a handful of fries onto her plate with a grumbled, "I knew I should have just ordered two."

Leaning into his side, Ang bats her pretty eyelashes and gives him a comically solemn expression. "But sharing is caring."

"Really?" Eric's face tips to the ceiling. "Please, just kill me now."

I shake my head as I watch Ang shove in another fry, barely suppressing a sigh of calorific relief. Meanwhile, I poke around at the remainder of my very boring, very bland grilled chicken and vegetable medley. I try–and fail–not to be jealous. "You nervous?"

"Yes? No?" Ang's forehead wrinkles, and her slim shoulders slump, folding inward. "I don't know anymore. I just want it to be over."

I know exactly what she means, too. Pre-season evaluations are a big deal. Useful, yes, but they're not exactly fun, and depending on which judge you draw, they can downright suck.

There's nothing quite like hearing your program needs reprogramming.

"You guys are going to do great," I tell her, throwing in as much reassurance as I can. "You're killing your lifts, and that new sequence in your rhythm dance is amazing. There's absolutely no way you won't get a GP slot this year."

"Thanks to you." A faint dusting of pink colors Ang's cheeks, and when she leans into Eric again, he lifts an arm over her shoulder and pulls her tight against his side. "Seriously, B, without you..."

"Stop." I shake my head again, this time seriously, and scoop up a forkful of sad, lukewarm broccoli. "That's all you."

"Ple–" Angela's mouth snaps shut, and her eyes pop, wide as saucers. "Surprise, surprise…"

"What?" I ask, automatically spinning in my seat to scan the cafeteria.

Of course, never mind the dozens still milling around, I spot him instantly.

Tall, lean, and decked out in his signature black and colorful ink, it's impossible for Edward Cullen to blend in. As he swipes his card, he glances over the curly blonde head of the teenage cashier.

He finds me as fast as I found him.

The second our eyes meet, my skin erupts in gooseflesh. For a moment, all I can think about is the other night when we skated. When he grabbed me by the hand. When he effortlessly swung me around until I could almost kiss the ice, like we'd practiced the move a thousand times. When he nimbly copied my steps, dancing with the grace and elegance I've missed for months.

How easy it was.

How we just fit.

How every time I think about my upcoming try out with Petro, a snarl of conflicting emotions fills my ribcage.

The cashier hands Edward his receipt, blushing all the while, and he hesitates before turning toward the exit. He checks his wrist with a frown, then abruptly crosses the tile toward us. Deftly weaving in between the tables, his long stride eats up the distance in no time, and a slow smile touches my lips before I can stop it.

"Hey."

Edward's smile mirrors mine. "Hey, yourself."

Beneath the table, an electric blue athletic shoe cracks my shin, jolting me to my senses. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Angela's brows disappearing behind her bangs, and when I look over, she mouths a silent, incredulous, "Hey?"

Yeah, that's not obvious at all.

Still smiling through gritted teeth, I kick her back and angle toward Edward. "What are you doing here?"

Shrugging, he holds up a beige-gray to-go box that smells vaguely of salmon and citrus. "Practice ran late. Garrett wouldn't let me go until I quit busting my ass." He flashes me a row of pearly teeth when I laugh. "Thought I'd better grab something before heading to the gym."

"You want to sit down?" Angela blurts, beaming like a crazy woman.

Beside her, Eric stuffs his face and avoids me by staring a hole into his phone. His shoulders shake with silent laughter, though, and all I want is to sink into the floor.

Traitor.

Oblivious–or more likely, politely ignoring my red-hot neck and cheeks–Edward looks from me to Angela, then back to me and the half-finished plate on my tray. "Nah, it's fine. I didn't mean to interrupt. Just thought I'd come over and sa–"

"No, no. Sit." Swallowing my embarrassment, I scoot over to make room. "We don't bite."

One brow arches. "You sure about that?"

"Well… I don't," I say, drawing it out with huffy faux indignation. His brow climbs even higher, and I crack and laugh, momentarily forgetting that Angela has no idea about our late-night skates. Across the table, her lips part into a small, surprised O, so I kick her again, just because. "Although, I can't be held responsible for anything these two might say or do."

Eric snickers, and there's a second of silence. I internally brace as I watch the wheels turn in my best friend's head. She squints at me, scowling, then abruptly mouths, "You freaking heifer!"

Shaking his head, Edward laughs under his breath as he drops his box onto the table and slides in. The booths here in the cafeteria aren't big ones, and as he settles in, his thigh brushes, then casually rests against mine with easy familiarity. On contact, furnace-like heat radiates through the thin fabric of my tights. Without my permission, a tiny shiver races down my spine, and when I look over, it's just in time to witness the muscle running down Edward's bare forearm flex in a near-identical response.

Neither of us acknowledges it. Nor do we make any effort to move. As he digs into his fish, I pretend like everything is normal, and since I know that–with the exception of me–Edward has pretty much kept to himself, I do a round of quick introductions.

"So, how'd you land here in Colorado anyway?" Eric asks, finally looking up from whatever dumb video game he's been playing. Unlike his partner, nothing really fazes him, and to him, Edward's just another guy.

Edward pauses mid-bite. "It was either here or Reston."

Angela nods sagely. "DC sucks."

"Garrett'd probably disagree with you," Edward says, smiling, and he motions to the massive window beside me and the towering, snow-kissed ridgeline just outside of town. "Elevation's good for training, though. And I like the mountains, so… I managed to convince him."

I vaguely wonder if Edward's coach knew that Katya was here when he agreed. Other than that one conversation/argument, I've not seen them on the same side of the rink. Katya's not even said his name.

"You like to hike?" Angela's tone sparks with mischief, and I immediately fear whatever's about to come out of her mouth. "I absolutely hate it, but Bella here…" She jabs an accusing fry in my general direction before snapping it off. "She's always trying to get me to go out with her. Maybe you two could…"

Before I can kick her again, Edward looks over. "Yeah?"

"I like the scenery. And the quiet… Ang." I shrug, and then my nose crinkles. "I can't stand camping, though."

Edward's gaze dips down to the collar of my pristine white zip-up, and his irises glitter. "Let me guess, don't like going to sleep dirty?"

I don't miss the unspoken"Princess" embedded there at the end, and I just roll my eyes and cram in another bite of boring broccoli. "Whatever. You know there's wild animals here, too."

Shoulders shaking, Edward bumps me–just a subtle little knock of his elbow–and beneath the table, his thigh presses against mine a little tighter. "I thought so."

I throw him my best Katya-esque glare and stick out my tongue, which only makes him laugh harder.

"Who'd you skate for in Europe?" Eric asks, saving me before Ang can strike again. "Before, that is."

Edward forks another bite of salmon and studies it. "Italy."

I don't know why, but that surprises me, and my mouth runs off before I can stop it. "Italy? Really?"

"Si, davvero," he replies, pouring on the accent. "It's where my uncle lived." Edward glances over and searches my face. "I went to live with him and my aunt after my parents died."

I wince as icy tendrils of dread sweep through my body and squeeze. "Crap, I'm really sorry."

And I mean that, too. As problematic as my fickle mom and absentee dad might be, at least they're still alive and around to love me, albeit in their own dysfunctional way.

"It's fine." Edward's smile turns distant and maybe a little melancholy. "I was pretty young when it happened."

"How did you wind up skating?" Angela asks, quieter, and when I blink, Mrs. Weber's sweet round face floats behind my lids. Despite her mom's positive prognosis, Ang's teeth worry her bottom lip, and always aware, always in tune, Eric's hand automatically disappears beneath the table to capture hers.

Edward chuckles, wry and dry. "Blame that on my step-sister… or step-cousin or whatever she is."

I perk up at that. "Wait, you mean Rosalie, right?"

"Yeah," he says, nodding as he polishes off the last of his salmon. "Rose is my aunt's daughter from her first marriage. She was twelve when I moved in, and by that point, she was living and breathing skating."

I can't imagine Rosalie Hale as a pre-teen. I just knew her as the insanely beautiful, incredibly talented Ice Queen, who'd mow down anyone who got in her way.

"Carlisle worked long hours back then, and I was too young for them to leave alone, so my aunt dragged me along to Rose's practices. Since I was at the rink anyway…" Edward's shoulders rise and fall. "Guess I just picked it up."

That's an understatement.

"What about Tanya, though?" Angela's features brighten, and I can already see where she's going. "How'd you get paired with her? She used to skate for Russia, right?"

"Her uncle left in the early 90s. His company is headquartered in Florence, and he's been friends with Carlisle and Esme for decades…" Some unnamable emotion flickers across Edward's face. His loose, casual posture shifts, too, turning rigid, insulating maybe. "Tanya needed a partner, and there's always a shortage of male skaters, even there, where it's more popular. She moved in with her uncle, and it just… worked out that way."

He doesn't elaborate, and despite the curiosity burning a hole in my brain, I'm not about to ask, not when it looks like he has his own share of partner drama.

I shoot Angela a warning glare, too, but, of course, she just plows right through it. "Do you miss it, though? You two were partners for a really long time."

My heart freezes in my chest, waiting–stupidly hoping, I belatedly realize–but Edward doesn't miss a beat. "No, I don't."

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