AFTER HOURS

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The white noise of the air conditioners and the hum of the old Zamboni contrast completely that of the earlier crowd. With everyone gone, the grand stadium-like rink seems more intimate. Something belonging to Spencer and Vincent alone. 

The sound of the locker room door bursting open breaks the hypnotic silence. 

Spencer's eyes snap to the sound, creasing in the corners as a smile comes on impulse. She sees Vincent grinning too; freshly showered, wearing his skates, a loose tee, and jeans.

She likes the way he looks in jeans. The way they frame his gait, enhancing his attractiveness. And that's saying something, Spencer thinks.

The Zamboni driver spares just a single glance back at Vincent, who glides effortlessly across the ice. Puttering away, the room goes quiet again.

"I don't have any skates," Spencer points out, entering the team's sideline box.

"You don't need them, Spence. Ice is slippery."

She puts her hands on her hips, "Vincent Zaire Arthur, did you just give me attitude?"

He stops dead in his tracks.

"No. Just... Fact."

Spencer raises a skeptical brow. Vincent winks then continues closer.

When he's reached the sideline, he unlatches the door to the bench. Takes a half step within and holds out his hand. With a sigh, Spencer accepts the gesture.

"Don't let me fall," she commands.

"aye aye Capt'n," he replies with a salute.

With her hands in his, she's steady on her feet. He's balance and stability, even as he effortlessly weaves his fancy footwork across the ice. Even as he's balancing on blades of his own.

He skates backwards as she shuffles toward him. Slow pace, she tries to put one foot before the other, succeeding only in staying put. To try to walk is only to test the aforementioned slippery nature of the ice, so, eventually, she stops. Lets Vincent pull her forward, her feet finding their rhythm through instinct alone.

Unexpectedly, he spins her at arm's length. Twirls her back into his arms, all without her falling, which Spencer decides is fate's greatest feat.

"You're really cheesy sometimes, you know," she whispers. He feels her breath on his lips as he grins.

"And yet you stick around."

Spencer rolls her eyes, pushing away from him; holds out a halting hand when he moves to help her. And she skates. On her own. In her tennis shoes. Very poorly. Yet still she skates. Shifting weight, toes pushing outward, Spence advances and Vincent can't help the laugh that escapes.

"Someone call the NHL, we've got the next big Blackhawks MVP!"

"Hey, I'll take the jersey," she giggles back.

"That makes two of us. I'd kill for a couple of 'Sofia' jerseys. What number?"

"Um," she looks at the clock, "8?"

"Taken."

"Frick. Then 24."

"Also taken."

She puts her hands on her hips.

"Then eight-frick'n-twenty-four."

"824?" Vincent asks, and she raises a brow daring him to challenge this final decision. He only grins. "Good choice. I'll have two jerseys made in the morning."

Their laughter echoes through the metal rafters; across the empty bleachers and the distance that now separates the pair.

A moment longer and the silence settles again.

Vincent takes a deep breath.

"Who was here with you tonight?"

She tips her head, confused.

"The guy who got you a slushie—I'm not jealous or anything, I've just... I've never seen him before," he clarifies, embarrassment sticking to every syllable he speaks like the sweat that drips down his spine.

"That's just Ambrose. Ambrose Holley. He sits next to me in anthropology," she tells him.

"Oh, cool. I'll be sure to wave next time I pass him in the hall." Vincent's grin falls lopsided. "You look pretty sure on your feet there."

"Well I am a Blackhawk now, aren't I?"

Vincent hold his index finger up in objection.

"Not until you've made your first goal."

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