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

Anyagal is graciously prereading for me. Thank you, dear friend!


Black & Blue

I'm fairly certain I'm not going to survive this season.

Or whatever we're calling it.

Katya's pale blue eyes sweep the rink, then zero in on Alice. Red athletic shoe tapping against the ice, my coach crosses her arms. She watches the other woman pirouette and throw her hands in the air with dramatic, exaggerated flourish, and her doll-like features pinch in familiar annoyance.

I wince.

Experience says I have about two seconds before I get caught up in the upcoming battle. Mumbling an excuse that no one hears, I sneak away under the guise of grabbing some water and lean against the boards to watch the show.

"Fu, Alice! What hell is this?" Katya flings her arms wide, spinning and flailing with wild, sarcastic mockery. "This is not beautiful or graceful or elegant! Blya! This is… shit! Monkey can do better!"

"Oh, please!" Alice says, snorting as she circles around and playfully flicks Katya's blonde, tightly wound bun. "Stop being such an old fuddy-dud! You've got to learn to cut loose and have some fun!" Dodging Katya's half-hearted swipe, my choreographer leaps sideways in a spritely pas de chat and curtsies. "We're story-telling."

"Story-telling, da shchas!" Katya grumbles, then stiffens. "Fuddy what did you call me?"

"You heard me. You're an old fuddy-dud."

Katya squints. "I don't know what this word means."

"Duh," Alice sings, wagging a bright fuchsia-tipped finger, "it's you!"

Snickering at Alice's circular logic, I wipe an hour's worth of sweat off my face and blindly reach behind me for my water bottle.

"Oh, my God, did you hear?!"

I nearly jump out of my skin.

I do choke on my water.

Coughing my lungs up, I whip around in search of the familiar nasally whine. Mid-turn, my wrist bangs against the wall, and as pain radiates up my forearm, I spit out a wheezy curse. "Jesus, Jess!"

Decked out in a skin-tight, midriff-baring top and matching lavender leggings, Jess eyes me up and down. Her nose crinkles. "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?" I almost choke again. Counting back from ten, I suck in a slow, deep breath before plastering on some semblance of a smile. "Nothing. Nothing at all, but how about a little warning next time."

"For what?" Still eyeballing me–in confusion or derision, I don't know–Jess smacks her gum and twirls the end of the thick, dirty blonde braid draped over her shoulder.

I debate answering her, but… there's just no point, so I shake my head and massage my aching wrist and hand. "Just… never mind."

"If you say so… You're so weird sometimes." She rolls her eyes, but then her features abruptly transform. The usual snottiness vanishes, and she cuts me an eager, conspiratorial smile that automatically sets my teeth on edge. With a quick, not-subtle peek around the arena, she leans in and pretends to whisper. "So?! Did you hear?!"

"Hear?"

"Yes!" Jess damned near bounces. "Did you hear what happened?"

Honestly, I have no clue where she's going with this.

"No," I tell her, drawing it out while simultaneously wracking my brain for what could possibly make her so… effervescent. "What are you talking about?"

"Why am I not surprised?" She huffs and levels me a look of complete and utter disappointment, but then she shrugs. "Whatever. I guess you've been too busy doing… whatever it is you singles dancers do."

Before I can even start to formulate a reply to that, Jessica frantically waves me off and motions to someone over my left shoulder. Following her around, I groan internally when Lauren Mallory heads our way. I rapidly scan the rink, looking for help or some excuse to make an exit, and spy Ang center ice. When I throw her a pleading pout, Angela grins like a crazy woman and jabs an elbow into Eric's ribs so he can enjoy my torture, too.

I mouth another plea, and thankfully, Ang takes pity on me. Beating Lauren, she skates over, bumps my shoulder, and whispers, "Freaking wuss."

"Am not." That earns me another toothy grin, and I whisper back. "Fine, I owe you."

"Yes, you do." Ang peers over at Jess and grimaces. "A lot."

She's not wrong, and I cover my laugh with a cough.

A beat later, dark-haired, perpetually sour-faced Lauren slides to a stop on my other side, spraying my ankles, and Jessica comes halfway across the wall. "Laur, did you actually see him? Like with your own eyes. Tell me you did."

Feigning nonchalance, Lauren shoves long, slender fingers through her bangs, props her elbows on the boards, and nods. "Saw him in the parking lot this morning."

Lauren's as smug as I've ever seen her. It's a decidedly different look than the exhausted, slumped-shoulders woman I saw a couple of weeks ago dragging through the halls after dark.

Bright and keen, Jessica leans in closer. "So, it's true then?"

"Definitely." A small, almost malicious smirk curves Lauren's lips. "He was not happy to be here. At all."

Ang and I shrug at each other, although tendrils of unease begin to curl in the pit of my stomach. Without warning, a fine sheen of sweat slicks my palms, and when I go to wipe them down my leggings, my fingers fumble and catch on the fabric.

"Jess, just spit it out. What's going on?" I finally ask, hoping to God that they're not talking about who I think they are. Angela surreptitiously squeezes my arm, no doubt assuming the same. "Is Jacob her–"

The question dies on my lips as the double doors at the end of the rink bang against the stops. The sound echoes across the arena, and those tendrils of unease turn into lead.

"Oh, my–what the fuck?!" Jess screeches, then claps her hand over her mouth, capping the noise to a high-pitched squeal.

There's no need, however. Lauren's downright gleeful laughter drowns her out. "It's about goddamned time!"

Almost in slow motion, I swivel around and search the perimeter. When I land on the tall, curly-haired skater at the top of the ice, my whole body stills. Vaguely, I register something… bitter–and very angry–in Lauren's laughing retort, but frankly, I'm too busy trying to keep my jaw off the ice to process what that might mean.

"Holy crap!" Angela whispers, still latched onto my arm. Her nails bite into my bicep. "What happened to him?"

Standing with his hands shoved deep inside a faded blue Team USA hoodie, Tyler Crowley looks like he just went ten rounds with Mike Tyson. Plum-black bruises ring a pair of dark eyes so swollen they're nearly shut. His bottom lip's busted and red. An angry gash bisects his left eyebrow, and judging by the bruising across the bridge of his nose, I'm pretty sure that's broken, too.

Almost on cue, Ty looks over, and our eyes lock across the rink. His mouth falls open, then clamps shut, and then he visibly flinches before wheeling away like he's just been stung. He mutters something to his coach and retreats to the far corner to put on his skates. As he laces up, not once does he look up, and when he's done, he studiously avoids looking anywhere near my side of the arena.

And that's it. That's all it takes.

I know.

As I search in vain for the increasingly familiar inked-up, black-on-black silhouette, air saws in and out of my lungs. My heart jackhammers inside my chest so hard that it feels like my sternum wants to crack. Swallowing, I turn back just in time to catch Eric sliding in behind Ang.

Following her gaze, Eric lets out a low, approving whistle and chuckles. "Damn."

"Damn?" Angela says, incredulous. "That's all you can say?"

"What do you want me to say?" Eric's wide shoulders rise and fall with surprising indifference. "Someone finally got what was coming to him."

Wide-eyed, head shaking, Angela balks. "Eric! What if he was mugged? Or in a car wreck or something?"

"Nah, babe." Eric chuckles again and points his chin toward the distant corner. "That's someone who got their ass beat." Offering her a small, indulgent smile, he slips his arms around Ang's slim waist and presses a gentle kiss on her temple. "Let's just say it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy."

By the time I finish up with ballet and make it to the tumbling studio tucked away in the back of the arena, it's almost ten. Warm yellow light glows through the small rectangular window in the door, and for a second, my fingers hesitate on the knob.

Inside, I pick up the scuff of mats being dragged across the floor, and when I peek through the glass, messy, bronze hair on top of a leanly muscled back covered by black cotton greets me. My stomach flips and flutters, and I'm not sure if it's due to seeing Ty's ruined face this afternoon or because I can still feel the soft, repeated press of Edward's lips against my neck.

Either way, as soon as I crack the door, Edward turns, and I momentarily forget my nerves.

"Hey."

It comes out in a breathy rush, and the corner of his mouth pulls up in a small, responding smile. My cheeks burn like fire, but I don't have time to dwell. As I drop my bag onto the nearby bench, my gaze catches on the strategically placed piles of mats and pads.

"Wow." I motion to the floor as I kick off my shoes. "Someone's prepared."

Edward grins. "I don't feel like calling an ambulance when I inevitably drop you."

Laughter bubbles out of me. "What about when I kick you in the face? You have a mouthguard, too?"

"Shit. I knew I forgot something." Emerald eyes glitter and dance, and I will myself not to look at his knuckles. At least not yet. "You already warmed up?"

I nod a little too quickly. "Just got out of ballet."

"All right," he says, quietly studying me with an intentness that I can't explain or describe, other than it makes my knees go weak. "What do you want to start with?"

"How about this?" I ask and hold my breath. Stepping closer, I pull out my phone and flip to an older video of my lift coach, Jasper, demonstrating a lift with Alice.

Edward glances at my screen, then at me. "You've done this one before?"

I shake my head. "Similar, but no."

I don't know why, but I think that pleases him.

Jasper tops my choreographer by nearly a head, and with Alice's tiny stature, he picks her up and launches her high with rapid, expert ease. In perfect synchrony, Alice vaults up, kicks her leg over Jasper's head to straddle his shoulder, and presents to the audience as he starts the spin. On his third rotation, Alice abruptly tips sideways, somersaulting down toward the ice, and Jasper catches her by the upper thigh.

His spin ramps up, going faster and faster as Alice cantilevers out until her body goes perfectly horizontal, perpendicular to Jasper's and held in place only by inertia and the sturdy arm locked between her thighs. They travel down the ice, spinning and spinning and spinning. At the top of the rink, Alice kicks upward, and with an eager grin, Jasper hauls her back up to his shoulder and juggles her around his neck before finally cartwheeling her down to the ice. They finish off the sequence with a series of high, flying kicks and a swing-inspired sling across Jasper's hip, and then they end the routine with a dramatic, rotating knee slide, ending at center ice.

It's a fast, powerful sequence, but their movements flow like water, and their lines are absolutely perfect.

Which isn't exactly surprising since they skated together for well over a decade before retiring. Regardless, they're beautiful together and graceful in a way that Jake and I never managed to match.

We play the video twice more, and then a third round in slow motion. Each time, I watch Edward watch the screen. His head dips and bobs along with Jasper, and his lips silently move, as though speaking it commits each hold and transition to memory.

I chuck my phone over on one of the mats, and when I look back, Edward's brows climb. "When you said you wanted to practice, I guess you weren't kidding."

I swallow. "We could try ano–"

"Come on," Edward says, flashing me another playful grin. "I'm just messing with you. The first part's a piece of cake."

I roll my eyes. Nonetheless, when he motions for me to stand in front of him, I comply, and as I look up at him, my heart thumps a disjointed rhythm. "Then let's start with that and see what happens… Left, up, rotate, stop."

Edward's right finds my hip, and as his fingertips lightly press into flesh, that grin disappears, replaced once more by that undefinable intentness. Licking his lips, he nods once, sharp and succinct. "Got it."

Taking a slow, deep breath, I count us off. "Three, two, one… Up!"

As soon as my leg kicks off the mat, Edward catches me by the thigh. I instantly go weightless, and by the second beat, I'm rising high in the air.

Even though Jake and I never performed this particular lift, long-term muscle memory takes over. I stand as Edward pushes me higher and twist in his hold, swinging my leg over his head to straddle his shoulder. As soon as I settle on top, Edward's bicep clamps down over my thigh, and his left locks around my calf, holding me in place with an iron grip.

My face splits in two as I present to our invisible audience, and I can't help but laugh and laugh as he starts to spin. "Holy shit, that was easy!"

"Told you." Edward glances up at me, matching my energy in a way that makes me breathless, and then he parades me around the room, spinning and gliding like we're on the ice, mimicking Jasper's footwork like he's done the same a hundred times. "Part two?"

"Let's do it." My teeth clamp down on my bottom lip, holding in my smile. "Three, two, one… Down!"

Copying Alice, I tip sideways, tumbling head-first toward the mat, trusting Edward to catch me. For a heartbeat, I free fall, then a strong arm threads between my thighs, hooks around my knee, and locks down, arresting my descent. My abdominal muscles, weakened from months of disuse, shriek as I force myself to straighten out, holding the sideways plank as Edward begins to rotate.

I extend my arms as the room turns into a streaky blur. For a moment, I let go–of everything–and simply savor the fleeting sensation of defying gravity.

"Kick up!" I say, warning him right before I throw my leg up for the third part of the sequence.

It's then that we fumble.

Not a lot, but it's enough to throw us out of rhythm.

"Damn it!" he snaps, then laughs when I let out a mousy squeak.

Instead of juggling back up to his shoulder, I fold inward, mentally prepared to hit the mat, but Edward doesn't miss a beat. In a display of lightning-fast reflexes and strength, he literally throws me in the air, swaps his grip, and catches me bridal-style.

Jake would have dropped me.

Especially at the end of our partnership. Maybe on purpose.

The world slows as I peer up.

"Almost bit it there," he murmurs, repeating his line from weeks ago.

"Looks like it," I whisper back, playing along. I swallow, willing my thundering heart to calm, but as Edward's eyes, bright and shining and full of everything, bore into mine and then drop to my mouth, it's an impossible feat. "Guess I'm lucky you were around."

He flashes me another grin, and vaguely, I realize that we're moving.

Instead of easing me back down to the floor, Edward finds a waist-high stack of mats shoved against the wall. He sets me down on top, but he doesn't let me go. He nudges my knees apart, then steps between my thighs, not once looking away from my face.

A tattooed hand appears in my periphery and tucks a wild strand of hair behind my ear. He lingers there, and his thumb traces the column of my throat to my collarbone. A shiver rolls through my limbs, and I reach up to capture his hand in mine, turning it over.

Bruises still stain his knuckles.

"Why did you do it?" I ask, barely above a whisper.

Edward's lips twitch, then twist into a wry, lopsided smile. "I don't know what you're talking about. I had a fight with the ice, remember?"

"Why?" I press, gently fingering one of the purple-black bruises.

Edward doesn't answer me for a moment, but his jaw clenches in a flash of anger. "Because he deserved it. Because you shouldn't have to worry about assholes like that… Because I wanted to."

I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel about that.

I think I'm supposed to feel appalled. Or even a little afraid. At least bothered.

I don't.

No, I feel relieved and vindicated and seen, and as Edward's thumb finds my cheek and outlines my lips, my whole body comes alive. Tiny, skittering pinpricks race down my spine, and warmth pools low in my abdomen.

Heart pounding, not daring to look away, I slowly thread my arms around his neck. My fingers wind through the short hair at the base of his scalp, pushing and pulling with equal measure, and my knees squeeze his waist to invite him closer still.

"I see." I gulp as Edward cups my nape. Warm, peppermint-flavored breath ghosts across my skin. "Thank yo–"

Before I can finish that thought, Edward's mouth silences me, and as he kisses me–wet, languid, and sure–all I can think about is how I never want him to stop.

.

.

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