Kiss and Cry

The only light was florescent and all the way at the other end of the corridor. Where we stood, it was black, and I considered getting my phone out of my pocket to use the flashlight. But Henry took my hand, weaving our fingers together, so fuck the flashlight. I could have floated down the hall.

We tiptoed toward the rink hand in hand. I whispered, “So you’ve never done anything like this?”

He huffed. “Of course not.”

It belatedly occurred to me that if we got caught, the police might not care that I had the key, and shit, I wouldn’t want to get the caretaker in trouble. Maybe this wasn’t a great idea after all. But Henry was holding my hand, so it was clearly the best idea in the history of ideas.

We crept into the rink. The emergency lights high in the corners of the space illuminated the ice like spotlights, casting shadows in-between. The ice had been cleaned by the Zamboni at the end of the previous day, and it had that perfect fresh, cold smell. It was hard to describe.

I reluctantly let go of Henry’s hand when we reached the benches along the ice. “I put your practice clothes in there too,” I whispered, even though we did seem to be completely alone. I unzipped my bag and yanked off my boots.

We’d had each other’s dicks in our mouths, but we hadn’t seen each other actually undressed. I hesitated with my hands on my fly, which was dumb since when was I shy? I unzipped and kicked off my jeans. My boxer briefs were gray and tight, and I was going to be hard in a second the way Henry’s gaze traveled over my body.

Instead of putting on my pants, I peeled off my Henley, Henry’s eyes glued to me as he lowered his trousers and folded them neatly. I picked up my jeans and folded them just to prolong the whole process, my nipples peaking in the cold air even as heat simmered through my veins.

The only sound was the movement of fabric as we pulled on our black practice pants and long-sleeved shirts, watching each other the whole time. We zipped up our team jackets on top—Henry chuckling when I pulled mine out.

His fingers flew over his skate laces, and as soon as I watched him stroke across the ice like he was flying, I knew this was the right gift. We were used to skating in spotlight at galas and shows, so the black pockets weren’t a problem. Henry disappeared for moments at a time before sailing out of the darkness.

I took my time lacing up, watching him glide. Soon, I recognized his short program choreo, because of course he was doing a run-through. One of his skate guards teetered on the edge of the bench where we’d left our shit. I straightened his guards neatly on the bench the way he liked before dropping mine.

On the ice, I stayed out of his way, feeling the breeze on my face and the smooth ice under my blades. This was when I could love skating—no elements or judges or GOE or my mother telling me what I’d done wrong. The only thing missing was an audience.

But Henry? He could spend all day alone on the ice perfecting every movement, lost in his own world.

After an hour of being (for me) impressively quiet while Henry did his thing, I called out, “Truth or dare!”

Rolling his eyes, Henry ignored me and took another lap around the rink.

Swallowing a mouthful of water from my bottle, I said it again as he neared. “Truth or dare!”

Still ignoring me, he did another lap before launching into a textbook flying camel, the spin centered perfectly and his free leg extended straight as an arrow at waist height where he bent over.

I should have practiced my spins the way Henry did. They weren’t worth nearly as many points compared to jumps, though. Whatever. I did them well enough.

There was nothing stopping me now from spinning, but I stubbornly called, “Truth or dare!” as Henry exited the spin, excitement sparking as he sighed heavily. He was getting worse at ignoring me, and it thrilled me in a way I hadn’t expected.

“I’ll go first.” I grinned and waited.

Another sigh. “We’re not in grade seven.”

I cocked my head. “Did you play a lot of truth or dare in middle school?” He’d always seemed so serious that it was hard to imagine.

He shook his head, frowning. As though truth or dare had always been beneath him, thank you very much.

“Come on.” I flashed another grin. “I dare you.”

Crossing his arms, he muttered, “Truth or dare.”

“Dare!”

“Do a full run-through of your free skate.”

My turn to roll my eyes. “Ha, ha. Come on—something fun.”

“A back flip.”

“Easy!” I skated off, gathering speed around the end of the rink before launching myself backward and landing easily on two feet. “Okay, you try it.”