Page 22 of Stick Handled

Just as I’m contemplating whether or not I imagined the whole thing, my phone buzzes on the table in front of me. I pick it up, butterflies instantly going off inside my tummy as I read the text.

DAMIEN:Meet me at the rink in an hour.

I had some time to kill before my lesson with Damien, so I decided to stop by a bookshop I’d seen on the way to the rink.

I don’t know why the thought of being alone with Damien again has my heart racing. I know it’s not the fear of getting on the ice anymore. It’s being close to him.

When I get to the rink, the space is empty except for him. Damien’s alone, skating laps, his movements effortless. He’s always in his element out there—no teasing grin, just focus. I can only stand and admire the way his body moves, impressively swift for his size. He’s wearing black sweatpants and a matching hoodie, looking devilishly casual and, despite finding it hard to admit, more than good.

I pause at the edge of the rink, not wanting to interrupt. It’s all power and control like he owns every inch of the ice. I feel small just watching him, like I’m intruding on something private.

Then he stops mid-turn and looks right at me, his smirk creeping back into place. “Enjoying the show, Red?”

My stomach flips, and I roll my eyes, trying to play it cool. “You wish.”

He skates closer, his eyes locked on mine, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. “What’s the verdict?” he asks, his voice low and teasing. “Did I pass the inspection?”

“I wasn’t inspecting anything,” I lie.

“Well,” he stops just a few feet away, resting his stick on his shoulder, “are you done staring, or would you like me to do a few more laps?”

“You’re full of yourself, you know that?” I cross my arms, trying to ignore the heat rising in my cheeks.

“I’ve been told.” He grins, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

Damien glides off the ice, his movements effortless as he steps out of his skates and onto the ground in one fluid motion. He’s unbothered as if the intense workout hadn’t even phased him. My eyes are still glued to him as he rolls the sleeves of his black hoodie up to his elbows, revealing the tattoos curling around his forearms, dark ink against his tanned skin. I’ve seen them before, but today, they seem sharper.

I swallow hard, my heart speeding up as he walks toward me, each step slow and deliberate. He’s tall—way taller than me—and built like a threat. He’s all broad shoulders, muscled arms, and that cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, making me feel like I’m standing on thin ice, about to fall through.

I try to hold my ground, but the closer he gets, the more overwhelming he becomes. The faint scent of his cologne hits me, a mix of cedarwood and something smoky. It makes my pulse quicken like it’s crawling under my skin, seeping into my lungs.

Damien’s hair is pushed back with just enough length to make you want to reach up and run your fingers through it. His hazel eyes, flecked with gold and green, glint with something unreadable.

My palms are starting to sweat.

Why is it suddenly so hard to breathe?

“Any other observations you’ve made about me besides the obvious?” His voice is a low rumble, soft enough that it’s meant only for me. He’s standing way too close, and my brain is screaming at me to take a step back. But my feet won’t move.

“No,” I lie, my voice weaker than I want it to be.

“No?” He cocks his head, eyes narrowing slightly as if he can sense the shift in me. “Well, I’ve made some observations about you,” he adds, his lips twitching upward.

“That should be interesting,” I say, trying not to fidget under his gaze. Both my heart and my thoughts are racing. Because the lines don’t even look like lines anymore. How he looks at me doesn’t seem like something out of habit. It’s deliberate. And right now, he feels like something else. Like a storm I can’t outrun.

Damien leans against the barrier, his body language completely at ease, but there’s an intensity in his eyes that pins me in place. His gaze drifts over me, a slow, lazy once-over that makes my skin tingle. No, this isn’t out of habit.

I should hate this. Idohate this. I shouldn’t let him make me feel like I’m teetering on the edge of something dangerous, like I’m about to fall. But at the same time… God, why does it feel so good? Why does it feel so exciting?

“You look like you’re ready to bolt again,” he murmurs, amusement flickering in his eyes. He steps closer, and now I can feel the heat coming off him, the warmth of his body just inches from mine in the cool rink.

My heart thuds harder in my chest. This isn’t how I’m supposed to feel about Damien. He’s supposed to be off-limits—a walking, talking, smirkingnoin every way.

But as he leans in, his face hovering just close enough that I can see the slight stubble lining his sharp jawline, my stomach flips. His lips curve into that smug grin I’ve seen a thousand times, but this time, it’s different. This time, it’s for me. And God help me, I like it.

“Are you scared?” His voice is softer now, lower, the space between us shrinking by the second. I should back up. I should say something, anything, to stop this, but every word gets stuck in my throat.

“No,” I whisper, though the lie is so obvious it feels like a joke.

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