Page 176 of Sharp Edges
I knew that look. I'd spent years perfecting it.
Part of me wanted to walk over there and tell him it got easier, that there was a version of his life where he didn't have to stand like that anymore. But I wouldn't have believed it either, back when I was the one with my hands in my pockets and my attention somewhere it wasn't supposed to be. Some things you had to figure out on your own.
Joel shifted against me, his head finding my shoulder, and I put my arm around him and turned back to the ice.
"I love you," I said into his hair.
His breath was warm on my neck. "I love you too."
My phone buzzed. I let it go. Joel's hand found mine on the bench, fingers sliding between mine, cold from the ice but warming fast.
I had a red-eye tonight. A game on Friday. Joel had two days of press, interviews where they'd ask about the kiss and he'd give them the polished version while I watched on some hotel TV with bad reception.
But that was later. Right now the arena air was cold on my face. Joel's thumb traced a slow circle against my wrist. The ache behind my sternum was the good kind, the kind I didn't have a name for.
The next skater took the ice. Joel didn't lift his head.
We stayed until the last score posted. Then a little longer, because we could.
