Edgework

SLOANE

Five minutes passed. Then ten.

Dad’s typing was the only sound besides the low rattle of the basement AC unit and the occasional buzz of phones on silent.

I tried to focus on my email.

Failed.

“You’re staring.”

My eyes snapped up.

Chase wasn’t looking at his phone anymore. He was looking at me—elbows on his knees, head tilted slightly, that infuriating half-smile already in place, the one that said he knew exactly what he was doing to me.

“I’m not,” I said.

“You are.”

“I’m reading emails.”

“You’ve been on the same one for ten minutes.”

I locked my phone. “Maybe it’s a long email.”

“Maybe you’re a terrible liar.”

Dad didn’t look up. Earbuds in. Still typing. Oblivious.

Chase stretched his arms overhead—slow, deliberate, every muscle in his torso catching the weak basement light filtering through the small high windows. Then he settled back, arms folded behind his head, watching me like I was a play he’d already read three steps ahead.

“That offer still stands,” he said.

“What offer?”

“Teaching you to skate.”

“Now?”

“Rink’ll be empty. Middle of the day.” He paused. “And it’s actually cold there.”

I glanced at Dad—still lost in his spreadsheet. Looked back at Chase.

“Fine,” I said. “But only because I might actually die otherwise.”

“Obviously.”

---

The Ice Line Quad Rinks were exactly as deserted as he’d promised.

One bored guy at the front desk barely glanced up from his phone. Through the glass, a lone Zamboni driver smoothed a sheet we wouldn’t use. No one else.

Chase signed us in while I stood there feeling suddenly, stupidly nervous. This was just skating. A skill I should’ve learned years ago.

Except nothing about this felt *just* anything.

He grabbed rental skates for me—size seven, scuffed white leather—and we sat on the benches. He laced his own in thirty seconds flat. I fumbled with mine, thumbs suddenly useless.

“Here.” He knelt before I could protest. “Let me.”

I went still.

He took my ankle in his hand—gentle but firm—and started threading the laces. Once around. Twice. Pulled them snug.

His hands were warm through the thin cotton of my sock. Calluses rough against my skin.

I watched the top of his head—dark hair still damp from the pool, curling slightly at the nape where it hadn’t dried completely.

“How’s that feel?” he asked without looking up.

“Like my feet are in casts.”

He smiled—small, almost private. “You’ll get used to it.”

He finished the second skate, tugged once to test the tension, then looked up.

We were closer than I’d realized. Him kneeling, me braced on the bench, hands on either side of my thighs, his face tilted toward mine. His hands still resting lightly on my ankle.

“Good?” he asked. Quieter.

“Yeah,” I managed. “Good.”

He stood—smooth, unhurried—and held out his hand.

I stared at it for one beat too long.

“Come on, Winters. I’m not gonna let you fall.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I can. I’m very good at this.”

“Cocky.”

“Accurate.”

I took his hand.

---

The ice was perfect. Freshly Zambonied, glass-clear, the cold air wrapping around us the moment we stepped through the door—sharp, clean, such a relief after the suffocating heat outside that I exhaled before I could stop myself.

Chase skated backward onto the surface with the unconscious grace of someone who’d been doing this since he could walk. Turned. Held out both hands.

“Ready?”

“No.”

“Too bad.”

I stepped onto the ice and my ankles buckled immediately. Blades too thin, too sharp—nothing like shoes. I grabbed for his forearms. Fingers dug in.

He steadied me without flinching. Palms warm and sure at my elbows.

“Breathe,” he said. “You’re not falling. I’ve got you.”

“I feel ridiculous.”

“You look determined. That’s better.”

He moved one hand to the small of my back, kept the other at my elbow. “Lean into me a little. Just to start.”

I hesitated. Then I did.

My shoulder pressed against his chest. I could feel him breathing—steady, even, nothing like the shallow panic in my own lungs.

“Small steps,” he said. “Push off with the inside edge. Like you’re gliding, not stomping.”

I tried. One tentative push. My ankle wobbled—I lurched—he corrected it before I could fall, barely shifting his weight.

We moved like that—slow, glacial—down the length of the rink and back again. His hand on my back was steady pressure, guiding without pushing. Every wobble absorbed before it could become a fall.

“You’re doing it,” he said. “Actual forward motion.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Observing.” His thumb brushed once along my spine—barely, possibly accidental. “You’re a natural. Just stubborn.”

“I’m not stubborn.”

“You argued with me about whether you were staring.”

“That was different.”

“Sure it is.”

I risked letting go of one arm. Tested the ice alone for a few feet.

Still wobbly. But upright.

He eased his grip without fully releasing.

Lap after slow lap. He stayed close—sometimes skating backward to watch my form, sometimes beside me with one hand hovering near my waist. After the third full circuit I tried to stop.

Bad idea.

Blades caught wrong—I pitched forward—then stopped hard. Chase’s arm wrapped around my waist, other hand on my shoulder, my face pressed against the hollow of his throat. His pulse hammered under my temple. Faster than I expected.

Neither of us moved.

“You okay?” His voice was low. Rougher than before. Breath stirring my hair.

“Bad at stopping,” I said. I didn’t pull away.

He huffed a quiet laugh—vibration against my cheek. “We’ll work on that.”

---

By the end of the hour I could cross the rink without falling. Barely. Chase skated backward the whole time, hands hovering at my waist, catching me when I wobbled—which was often—and each time his grip lingered a fraction longer than necessary.

I noticed.

I didn’t say anything.

When I finally made a full lap without catastrophic failure, I grabbed the boards and stopped—breathing hard, cold air sharp in my lungs.

Chase stopped beside me. Close enough that his shoulder brushed mine. Close enough that I could feel warmth radiating off him despite the frigid air, and I thought—again—about how proximity was its own kind of problem. How it made you notice things you couldn’t un-notice.

“Thanks,” I said. “For the lesson.”

“Yeah.” His forearm rested on the boards next to mine—close but not touching. “Anytime.”

The silence stretched. I was aware of exactly how many inches separated us. Aware of his eyes on the side of my face—patient, waiting for something I hadn’t decided to give yet.

I pushed off the boards and headed for the exit.

The heat outside hit like a wall.

I didn’t look back.

But I felt him watching—that particular weight of someone’s attention at your back, steady and deliberate, the way his gaze always seemed to land right where I was trying not to be seen.

And for once, I didn’t mind being seen.

Not even a little.