On Thin Ice

Chapter 12- hands-on learning

(Y/N) POV:

"Why'd you want me to watch me practice scoring?"

"I don't want to exactly... I'm trying to figure something out."

Curiosity glitters in his eyes, body already seeming broader, bulkier with all the added padding, a nondescript plain jersey underneath.

"I don't wear my hockey jersey to practice." Hand dragging it up over my thighs, eyes full of blazing heat, mapping out the skin his touch bares, fingers bunching into the fabric, gripping it above my waist.

"No? Why not?" voice lofty, though it hitches at the drag of his other hand to the waistband of my shorts, fingers hooking into the fitted material and dragging it down without preamble, fingers digging into flesh instead. Grip bruising as he stares at me. Gaze darkening.

"It's for competitions. It's for matches."

"It's a sign of your victories." I muse.

The fire in his eyes flash stronger, a searing heat that blazes that burns where it drags over me, lingering over the sight of his uniform over my body.

"And right now what does that make you?"

"Oh~ calling me a victory? I would take having me as a win too." I muse, the corner of my lips curving upwards as I look at him.

"Like the bra you left at mine... it makes you..."

"A trophy? I guess that's a title I can live with."

That same jersey's tucked away back into his locker.

This jersey might not have his name and position sprawled across the fabric, but it doesn't cling any less to his body. A second skin and all that padding to prevent ice burns and harsher injuries.

So many layers to add to the bulky stance that with the height the skates gives cuts a taller figure that towers when he skates towards me. Crowding, demanding, seizing the space. Claiming it for his.

"What're you trying to figure out doll? I thought you had me down to the t."

"I do. I'm trying to figure out something..." hand waving vaguely around him, in his direction.

"About the technicality behind it."

"Since when did you wonder about hockey technicalities?" surprised bemusement in his words, head tilting in curious, lazy appraisal. As if trying to figure me out.

My hand shoves at his chest, the touch makes him skate backward, another nudged shove towards the rink's open mass of ice.

"And what're you going to do?"

"I'm not going to defend your goals. I'm going to watch."

And I skate back to the outskirts of the rink, not stepping off the ice but veering completely out of his reach and range, feeling his stare focus on me with a hint of curiosity that keeps his eyes lingering before he shrugs. A loose rippled motion at odds with the way he sharply cleaves across the ice, veering in and out, warming up before he sets up a few obstacles to stand in as players.

My eyes trace the movement of his skates—focused on the dip and weave of his body as a moving figure. Needing to map out across the ice with the visual right there in front of me how it is he moves.

Remembering that when he had raced me, full lips upturned with triumph, it'd been because he'd been able to cut across the ice with agility and speed. A force of movement that barrelled across the ice with a sharp lethalness that made me wonder how it'd happen when he added the extra weight of his uniform. With his hockey stick and playing to score.