the rink breathes the same way lungs do, fog curling up from the ice where skates have worn it raw, and ilya feels it in his teeth before he feels it in his legs. he has just peeled off a defender with a lazy shoulder feint, puck stitched to his blade as if beckoned by his pulse, when he clocks her in the stands β inna, all stillness and line, a dark note written cleanly against the glass. of course she would come here, to this fluorescent terrarium of boys and bruises. of course she would watch. the thought tugs the corner of his mouth into a near-smile before the lines of his face harden again. he coasts to the boards on a change, breath burning, helmet tipped back, eyes darting up to her with the same precision he uses to thread passes through traffic. she always did like the mess. he recalls the frozen mornings in russia, of her braids pinned tight while he bled into snowbanks. he knocks his knuckles against the glass once, a brief and private signal, then leans in close enough that his voice wonβt carry too far. βof all places to sit, inna,β he criticizes, though not unkindly, it is low and rather dry, russian rounding the edges of his vowels. βfirst row for the worst habits.β
when heβs back out there, itβs like skating inside a memory sharpened to a blade. he takes the puck on the half-wall, sells a pass that never exists, then cuts hard toward the slot, hips snapping, edges biting; a body checks him and he welcomes it, absorbs the impact gratefully. the play dies in a whistle. he glides toward her again during the pause, sweat cooling down his spine, the crowdβs noise flattening into a dull roar. he does not ask how long sheβs been in broadwater or why she didnβt warn him; he catalogs those questions and stores them away. some conversations require their own space. βyou still watch feet first,β he says, eyes flickering pointedly to her shoes as if she might be evaluating his turns the way she probably critiques pliΓ©s. thereβs an ache under his sternum that feels old and patient, the weight of all the unplayed variations between them.
βstay after,β he adds, a touch quieter now, the words slipping out more earnestly than he typically allows. his gaze snaps back to the ice, jaw setting. βi want to know if you still think i rush turns β or if i finally learn patience.β even the king of the ice needs some humbling. @lebedevya, β‘
