Page 44 of Falling for the Felid
“Regular shoe,” Felix confirms, dropping into the seat beside me to put his skates on. “Figure skates are a little different, but these are hockey skates. They should be firm but comfortable.”
I doubt I’m ever going to be comfortable in shoes that have knives on the bottom, but Felix is so excited to teach me this that I force a smile and lace up the skates.
He leans in close enough that I can breathe in the scent of him and murmurs, “I know you don’t want to do this, and later I plan to show you just how grateful I am that you’re trying.”
His words go straight to my dick—and also trigger shame. He’s doing me a favor, after all. Maybe it’s not one I want, but it doesn’t look like the PR department at the DEA is going to be able to assign someone to this job anytime soon, so I should try to act like I know what I’m talking about when I tell people how awesome hockey is.
And it’s not as though ice skating is a skill I should be ashamed of. It’s not useless. In fact, given how much of a part of Felix’s life it is, and how much a part of Felix’s life I want to be, learning how would be… smart.
That’s a thought I push away quickly, before the pessimistic part of my brain can tell me I’m stupid for thinking I can be happy when I don’t deserve it.
I shove that thought away just as fast as the previous one. Maybe I don’t deserve to be happy, not in the lifelong-contentment sense, but I can enjoy tiny snatches of contentmentand joy, moments of light in the otherwise gray penance of my life, and if I start thinking about what I deserve and don’t, my afternoon with Felix will be ruined.
So when Felix bounds to his feet and heads for the ice, I (carefully) follow.
And hesitate as he steps out onto the glassy surface, skates a sweeping circle, and then returns to hold his hands out to me.
“Falling doesn’t hurt that much,” he assures me, which I don’t believe at all. Regardless, I join him on the ice, grabbing for his hands when my feet begin to slide.
“Soft knees,” he coaches. “Keep your head up; it will help your balance.”
That’s something I’ve heard before when learning new hand-to-hand combat techniques, and I automatically obey. Before I properly register it, Felix is skating backward, pulling me along, and my body aligns itself into proper posture almost without my help. Muscle memory is an astonishing thing.
“Okay, let me do it,” I say, letting go of his hands. Unfortunately, that causes me to stop suddenly, which I both don’t know how to do on skates and was unprepared for.
My ass hits the ice.
Felix skates in a circle around me, trying not to laugh. “If I’d set up that camera like Jared asked, I’d have so much blackmail material right now,” he teases.
I scramble to my feet, letting my natural athleticism and millennia of training take over. “Or you’d have a target on your back,” I counter, keeping my stance wide for balance. “How do I do this?”
“You’re doing better than I expected already. Push off on your right foot, like this.” He demonstrates, skating slowly away from me, and I mimic his movements. It’s a bit shaky at first, but within a few strides I feel like I’m getting the hang of it, gliding pretty smoothly across the ice.
“There you go!” he calls. “Let’s do a few laps.” He falls in beside me, and we swoosh around the rink. This is a lot more fun that I thought it would be.
Felix gives me a few tips as we go, mostly around directional adjustments, and I get more and more confident. We might only be going in one direction, but I’m in control of my movements now and don’t feel as though my feet are going to go out from under me. Not because of anything I did, anyway, but I’m sure I’ll fall again at some point. Ice is slippery, and I’m balancing on metal blades.
“You should probably teach me how to stop,” I say finally. “Unless you plan for me to still be doing this when the team arrives for practice tomorrow.”
He laughs, and I grin in response.
“You should do that more often. It suits you.”
I slide him a sideways look. “What? Make bad jokes?”
“No, smile.”
I hate that my instinctive reaction is to wipe all expression from my face, but I hate even more that Felix notices and his face falls in response. I force myself to smile and make a joke. “We elves are solemn and serious beings. Nobody would take us seriously if we looked happy all the time.”
Instead of making him laugh again, or even roll his eyes, my (admittedly terrible) joke seems to make him sad. I want to grab his hands and ask him what’s wrong, but since I haven’t learned how to stop moving without falling over, that likely wouldn’t go the way I want it to.
“I wish you could be happy all the time.”
It’s a direct hit, and I glance away. “I am happy,” I assure him, and right now, this afternoon with him, it’s true. “I’ve never smiled all that much, but that’s just resting bitch face.”
The flat look he shoots me is proof that he sees through my lies. “Whatever. If you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t haveto, and fuck knows you don’t have to smile for the benefit of other people, but please don’t bullshit me.”
I’m so used to hiding my feelings behind polite falsehoods that it takes me a few seconds to force the words through my throat. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
