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

Anyagal is graciously prereading for me, even when she's busy and out of pocket. Thank you, my lovely friend!


Poetry & Motion

"What do you think?"

I think that watching him is like witnessing poetry in motion. "Perfect."

"Perfect?" Edward skids to a halt, stopping mere inches away. When I don't even flinch, he bumps my hip and cocks a disbelieving brow, then rakes an impatient hand through sweat-damp hair. "Please. My ego isn't that fragile."

His ego isn't fragile at all.

I bump him back. "I know"

"Come on. You're the expert here," he says, quietly, abruptly serious. "I want your honest assessment. I need that."

My skin tingles under the heavy weight of his gaze. But because he asked, I tamp that down hard and study him, forcing myself to detach–to look at him as just another skater.

Easier said than done.

"All right," I say, crossing my arms with a curt nod. "Again."

Edward throws me a mischievous, annoyingly attractive smirk, but then, as fast as I can blink, he's all business. With a quick swipe and tap on his phone, music blares from the overhead speakers. I count him off, and he starts the lively, complex, dance-inspired step sequence we've crafted to boost his program.

Long-limbed and strong, Edward flies across the ice, but tonight, for whatever his reasons, he ignores the quads he's been trying to master. Instead, thirty seconds in, he lands an effortless 3-2 combination, followed by an aggressively athletic flying camel spin and another triple further down the ice. Mid-sequence, as he transitions from one segment to the next in a lithe, one-footed rocker, I slowly circle the perimeter, watching his edges and movements with Katya's hawk-like eyes instead of my own.

"Slow down. Forget the acrobatics and feel the music. You're anticipating too much, so you're ahead. Not a lot, but it's enough to cost you a podium," I tell him, mimicking my mentor far more than I'd like to admit. My fingers drum against my arm in time with the beat. "Sharpen your turns. Deepen your edges. You want crisp but still fluid."

Edward's lips move without sound, and his forehead crinkles in concentration. I can almost see his brain processing and actioning my feedback. He takes a slow, deep breath, nods to himself, and a moment later, his posture and muscles subtly shift. His body loosens, like a spring gradually releasing, and in turn, his movements lengthen and mirror the music with near-flawless synchrony.

"Better?" he asks, glancing over as he executes another turn.

"Much." Skating in beside him, I sweep my left arm at the stands as the music shifts and swells. My fingers curl, then extend with delicate, ballet grace. "Watch your hands during this part. You want graceful–poignant. You're telling the story with your entire body."

A devastating grin stretches his cheeks. Nonetheless, as we go into the twizzle at the top of the ice, he copies me, and, somehow, he merges all that innate magnetism and raw skating power with dance-like sensuality and masculine elegance.

He reminds me of Yuzuru or Shoma.

And he's utterly beautiful to watch, so much so that an unwelcome ache takes residence inside my ribcage.

So, I make him do the whole routine twice more, along with some brutal footwork exercises, because, well, that's what Katya would make me do.

"Jesus, you're worse than Garrett," Edward says, mopping his face on his sleeve as we eventually glide over toward the boards.

A fine layer of sweat glistens on Edward's forearms, darkening his ink. His breathing is a little heavier, too. Not much, but it's the first time I've seen him close to being winded, and I laugh at his pissy scowl. "That sounds like a compliment to me."

"Compliment?" Edward asks as I back skate around, buzzing him just because I can. Bright green eyes roll, making me laugh even harder, but halfway into my second rotation, Edward's right whips out with lightning speed, unerringly catching my left. I let out an embarrassingly high-pitched squeak, and he grins again, and then he slingshots me, swinging me around before dragging me back out toward center ice. "You mean torture. And now, it's your turn, Princess."

Less than a minute later, my world inverts.

My palm automatically finds the top of Edward's boot, and my elbow locks as I straighten into what amounts to a one-armed handstand. With a forearm clamped around my knee and holding me vertical, Edward goes into a deep Ina Bauer, arcing across the top of the rink as the music surges.

"One, two, up!" he says, grabbing my opposite hand as I push out of my handstand. I cartwheel up, but as soon as my right blade taps the ice, I'm airborne again. Edward lifts me, dipping me low before swinging me up and around in a head-high flying kick. When I hit the ice again, I twirl like a ballerina, faster and faster in a tight scratch, then I slow and tip my head back, shifting into an exaggerated layback so he can thread his limbs between mine and spin along with me.

Arms and legs interlaced, we fit together like two pieces of a puzzle–perfectly in sync, perfectly balanced and matched–and for a moment, I ignore that persistent pang in my chest. As we rotate, I instead pull him closer and closer. The arena and music fade into the background, and even though we continue spinning, it feels like we're floating, suspended in our own little cocoon of heated, electrified air. I look up, and his eyes, vibrant, churning, and alive, bore into mine. Muscular and warm, Edward's chest expands, filling the space between us. For a moment, I forget that I'm supposed to be practicing. My tongue darts out, licking my bottom lip–inviting, maybe begging–and that's all the permission he needs.

Our lips brush, hesitant at first, then firm and urgent, parting only to come together again and again in slow, wet, repeating kisses that go on and on until one song ends and another begins.

He tastes like salt and peppermint.

Wanting more–wanting everything–I slant my mouth to deepen the connection. A soft exhalation punches out, and Edward's grip spasms. As I go up on my toes, his hands leave my lower back, sliding to my sides, and long fingers span my ribs, fitting into the spaces between them. Slowly, giving me all the time in the world to pull away, his thumbs drift higher and slip beneath my loose, midriff-baring top to tease the elastic band of my sports bra.

I don't even notice it when my blades lift off the ice, not until he drags his lips down my chin to my throat and chest, where he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses along the scooped neckline of my top. My fingers wind through his hair, holding him against me as his lips trace every inch of exposed skin, leaving shivery gooseflesh in its wake. When he moves back to my mouth, nipping and sucking as he goes, muscles low in my abdomen clench and contract.

I swallow the needy noise that threatens to come out, but as I slide down his body back to the ice, Edward groans. A tiny shudder rolls down his spine, and with one last, lingering kiss, he wheels away to create some distance. His chest rises and falls, almost as in time to my racing heart.

Scrubbing his chin, Edward eyes the rafters, then cuts me an accusing glare. "You're killing me. You know that, right?"

At least I'm not the only one dying.

Face flushed, lungs heaving, I touch my swollen lips and try–and fail–to ignore the tight fit of his joggers. "Well, I'm not sorry."

Edward freezes. That little glare morphs into another grin, and he barks out a wry laugh that echoes across the ice. "Of course, you aren't. Why would you be?"

Regardless, his palm automatically finds the dip in my back as we take a few last meandering laps before making our way off the ice.

"So," I say as we settle onto one of the benches. I yank off my boots, nearly sighing as I wiggle the tightness out of my toes. "What does Garrett think?"

"About?"

"I don't know. All this." Shaking my head, I motion randomly at the arena. "Your new program elements."

Edward snorts as he tucks his skates into his bag and pulls on his athletic shoes. "He said he was impressed by my 'sudden bout of creativity,' but then he vaguely accused me of cheating on him with some other coach."

A giggle spills out before I can stop it. "Wow, he sounds very… supportive."

"Told him I'd been watching your old videos."

I startle at that, and a disorienting blend of pride and embarrassment sweeps through my body. I duck my head, pretending to fiddle with my laces. "What'd he say about that?"

Edward's eyes dance when I finally look up. "Thought he was going to push, but when I mentioned Katya, he muttered something under his breath and changed the topic."

"I wonder if I can use that," I muse, wincing when I picture Katya's irritated scowl.

"Your funeral."

"Point taken." My face splits in two, then when I spy a wrinkled, rolled-up schedule poking out of his bag, I turn serious. "Have you heard anything yet? Event-wise?"

Edward's focus drops to the paper. Shrugging, he makes a non-committal sound. "I'll get into a couple of Challenger events, no problem. Maybe Golden Spin or Lombardia, maybe another one. Getting into a Grand Prix will be a lot harder, but Garrett seems to think I have a shot at one of the wild card spots at Skate America or Skate Canada." He scratches his chin, rasping against two-day stubble. "I don't know... I doubt it."

Melancholy lurks in his voice, and I hate it so much, even more than the thousand-yard stare he levels at the distant wall.

For a second, I debate if there's anyone at the ISU who would listen to me. A year or two ago, considering my ranking and medals, a recommendation from me might count for something, but now… who knows.

Damn it, if I won't try, though.

"You're going to be fine," I tell him, leaning into his shoulder. My fingertips walk down his forearm, tracing the outline of the dark, gothic ferryman lording over his river of woe. His hand flips over, clasping mine. Faint purple-black bruises still linger on his knuckles. I squeeze his hand. "I know it."

"I hope so, but if not, I guess Carlisle was right after all." Edward shrugs again, but his casualness can't disguise the sudden bitterness that threads through the melancholy. Before I can even touch that, however, he gives himself a hard shake, flashes me a smile I don't quite believe, and asks, "How about you? When's Petro showing up?"

"His flight comes in tomorrow night."

"That soon?"

I nod a little too quickly. "We–him, his coach, Katya, and me–are supposed to meet up for dinner, and then we'll start the tryout on Sunday." My stomach sinks, but like the man beside me, I muster a semblance of a smile. Inside, I'm reeling and torn and mentally nowhere close to where I should and need to be. "After that, I guess we'll see what happens."

.

.

.


Notes:

An Ina Bauer is a "moves in the field" element in figure skating similar to a spread eagle in which a skater skates on two parallel blades. One foot is on a forward edge, and the other leg is on a backwards and different parallel edge.

A scratch spin is an upright spin in which the skater has the free leg crossed over the ankle of the spinning leg. The arms are usually held tight to the body. It's sometimes called a blur spin. A layback is a spin position in which the back is arched and the head is dropped back, with the free leg bent behind, and the arms often stretched to the ceiling or arched overhead.

Yuzuru refers to Yuzuru Hanyu, and Shoma refers to Shoma Uno. Both are top tier male skaters known for both their skill and expressive skating style.

Challenger events are a series of 11 senior-level skating competitions around the world that sit at a level below the Grand Prix series. By participating in Challenger events, skaters gain experience and can build points by medaling, which then helps them be seeded or invited to one or more of the 6 Grand Prix events. Top skaters from the Grand Prix events then are invited to compete in the World Championships.