Every part of me wanted to push him to a wall and breathe him silent.
Hands open.
I locked the impulse away behind gritted teeth. But it didn’t care; it slipped the gate and walked beside me.
An image of Blair’s mouth when he was about to speak followed by the quick swallow he thought no one saw. The way his gaze read the whole room and then me, last.
On purpose.
There was nothing soft in that; it was precision. It cut.
I marched forward until the fluorescents no longer flashed on my skin. The community rink would be cold and honest; exactly what I needed tonight.
No podium, no red dot. Just ice that swallows restlessness, mercifully. I’d go there and skate until my legs shook, to thaw and freeze at the same time.
Through the glass in the door, I peered out into the rain as it poured outside. I hoped the water would wash thoughts of Blair from me.
But I knew they’d follow anyway.
Not in footsteps, but in my pulse. In a place buried under my ribs that refused to calm, let alone settle. I wanted restraint and the edge it inevitably sharpened.
Control first, hunger after.
Time was ticking, so I pushed through the door and went to find the cold.
The community rinkpractically had its own climate. Unforgiving light hung over the ice and the boards smelled of wet pine and old tape. Condensation covered most of the glass and a Zamboni slept under a tarp.
Exactly what I needed on a late night as cold rain pelted the ground outside. Ten o’clock at night, I’d practically have the place to myself. My old buddy owned the place and he’dlet friends skate after hours. I’d barely made it indoors without being soaked, so first I needed to dry myself off.
I laced up on the bench and tried to distract myself. Leather creaked, laces bit, and the sheet waited for me, stretched out.
The rink was empty except for a kid who traced narrow lines at the center while his dad watched him from the bleachers, occasionally glancing over at me. Probably friends with the owner.
The boy’s cage sat crooked, and his ankles folded when he tried to turn, but he gave it his best effort.
A puck drifted as he chased it with quick little chops that made the stick chatter on the ice.
I focused on myself. My first push took part of the noise from my head but not all of it.
I carved an arc, cut to the blue, and felt the clean pull in my hips. The cold made its way in and sat there, claiming.
As I slid past the glass, I heard the dad. Not because he was loud but because he wanted it to land.
“Butcher,” he said.
It slid under my helmet and made its way to where heat liked to live within me. My hands wanted to close but for the hundredth time, I reminded myself:
Hands open.
I splayed them out on the top of the stick and gripped it before counting to two.
The urgent—the undeniable, aching push—searched for an escape hatch and found none. But my mind flashed to Blair. In my head, Blair named me something worse—and let me keep it.
I snapped back to the rink.
The kid turned and saw me then froze. His cage tilted and his eyes widened as if the lights had just come up. He kicked free and came at me in quick movements.
“Hey!” he shouted, barely containing his excitement. “You’re Colt Mitchell!”
