Page 12 of Icing the Cougar (Hockey USA Collection #7)

Trinity

Mid-morning is my favorite time in the studio as the sun warms the space through the glass.

I pull the pale rose silks down from the ceiling, feeling their weight and remembering the first time I tried this with anyone but myself.

I haven’t even set the mats before Jasper slams the front door behind him, rattling the windows like he wants the whole block to know he’s here.

He’s wearing a faded Chicago Blades t-shirt that hugs his biceps tight, with gym shorts and old, battered Adidas. Hair still wet from the shower. He stops just inside, blinks in the sunlight, and looks around at the empty studio.

"You're late," I say, not even trying to hide my smile.

"I set the alarm," he grumbles. "It’s the city that’s slow, not me."

I smirk and gesture at the suspended silks. "Excuses. Are you ready to learn something, or just here to break your neck?"

He crosses his arms, making his muscles bulge, as if that’s going to scare me. "I’m not afraid of a little acrobatics." Yet, the tone of his voice is a little less cocky and more… uncertain.

"You say that now," I tease. "Wait until you’re upside down with nothing but fabric and luck holding you up."

He gives me a look. "I’d be holding on to you, if I could."

"That’s not how it works." I laugh.

I grab his wrist and pull him toward the mat. The heat of his hand surprises me as it sends a shock through my whole arm. Last night’s memories are still fresh on my mind but today is about control.

"First, you stretch and warm up," I instruct and lead him through a yoga sequence he can barely keep up with.

He groans at the hip openers and makes faces at the planks.

I ignore his grumbling, only correcting his form when he tries to cheat by going faster.

"Slower. Feel it," I say, which earns me an eye roll and a muttered, "That’s what you said last night, too. "

When we finish, he’s breathing a little faster, and his hair is sticking to his forehead. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"You’re funny, Mr. Pro Athlete. Plus, if you can’t handle yoga, you’re not going to survive the silks." I walk over to the long pink fabric hanging from the beam, tugging on it so it flutters and spins. "Let’s see what you’ve got."

He grabs the silk with both hands and gives it a tug, like he expects it to come loose. When it doesn’t, he shrugs and looks to me for direction. "Now what?"

"Watch," I say, and hoist myself up. I wrap the silk around my foot and lock in, then lean back into a controlled drop. The world spins for a second as I hang, hair falling over my face. When I right myself, Jasper’s staring.

"Your turn," I tell him.

He shakes his head, but steps forward to grab the silk. He pulls himself up, looking like he might just muscle his way through. However, the second the fabric slips, his confidence wobbles.

"Shit," he mutters. "Not as easy as it looks."

I catch him by the waist before he can crash to the mat, steadying him. The press of his body against mine does things I try to ignore. "Try again. Slow. Use your legs, not just your arms."

He looks down at me. "That’s what she said."

I laugh, and he grins, but the sweat on his brow tells me he’s taking this seriously.

The next time, he moves with more care. He lets me guide his foot into the wrap and get close enough to adjust his hands.

His breath is heavy as it rumbles through his chest. My breath, embarrassingly, is a little shaky.

"You’re shaking," he says. My hands tremble as I adjust the silk on his calf.

"You’re heavy," I shoot back, even though it’s a lie. He’s strong but light with the silks holding the weight.

"I thought you liked it when I was heavy," he growls. There’s that dangerous edge again.

I ignore it. "Take the next step. You’re going to invert, and I’m going to spot you."

"Spot me?" he repeats, looking at me like I’m speaking another language.

"Just trust me."

He goes upside down, legs flailing before I catch his ankle and guide it into the right spot. His t-shirt slides up, exposing a strip of tan skin, the sharp ridge of his hip bone. We pause just like that.

"Now what?" he asks as he’s hanging upside down.

"Now you breathe. Then you let go."

He hangs there, body tense, not sure if he’s going to fall or fly. I spot his shoulders, hands steady now, heart going wild. He breathes, just like I told him, and everything else stops.

Then he lets go.

The drop is only a foot, but the shock of it makes him yell out, a loud "Fuck!" that bounces off the mirrors. I catch him as he lands, and we tumble together onto the mat, laughing so hard I can’t breathe.

He rolls onto his back. "That’s insane. How do you do this every day?"

"Practice. And trust," I say, still catching my own breath. "And a little bit of recklessness."

He props himself up on one elbow and grins. "I’ve got the reckless part down."

I toss him a towel. "Here. You’re dripping everywhere."

He wipes his face and neck, then throws the towel at me. I catch it, and I like this weird, sweet, charged moment between us.

He stands, and I expect him to be cocky again, but he’s quieter now. He looks at the silks, then at me, and says, "Can we do that again? Only maybe I don’t eat shit at the end this time?"

I smile. "Sure thing."

We go again. And again. Each time, he listens more, trusts more. The banter is still there, but softer, shaded by something real. Sometimes he slips and curses, and I steady him. Sometimes he gets it right and tries to play it cool, but I see the pride on his face.

On the fifth try, he manages the inversion and lands on his feet, arms up like a gymnast at the Olympics.

"Yes!" I give him a high-five that ends with his fingers lacing through mine. He holds on, not letting go.

He tugs me closer, and I think he’s going to kiss me. Instead, he lets go and says, "I’m starving. You got anything to eat around here?"

I laugh. "I have trail mix and coconut water."

He makes a face. "You’re fucking with me."

I shake my head. "It’s good for you. Builds muscle, speeds recovery."

He sighs, dramatically. "You’re determined to make a health nut out of me, aren’t you?"

"It’s my mission," I say. I toss him the snack, and he catches it one-handed, then rips it open with his teeth.

He leans against the wall, eating, and looks at me with something softer than before. "You were really scared last night, weren’t you?"

I freeze. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs. "You looked like you were about to bolt. I thought maybe you would."

I think about lying, about brushing it off. Although he’s watching me, and I can’t pretend.

"I was scared." I shrug. "You scare me, sometimes."

He nods. "I scare myself, sometimes."

We sit in silence for a minute, the only sound the city outside and the whir of the fan. I feel something shift between us, the way it always does when you open up too much and can’t take it back.

"You want to try the next move?" I ask.

He grins, and the moment breaks. "Yeah. Let’s see if you can really teach me something dangerous."

I grab the silks, and we start again.

Time flies by. We swing, we drop, we fail and catch each other, and every time, it’s a little easier. He still curses every time he slips, but now there’s a joy in it.

We end with a final drop, both of us tangled in the fabric, breathless and laughing. I press my forehead to his and pause.

Then I let go.

He catches me, just like I hoped he would.

After we finish, after the silks and the sweating and the fighting to see who could break the other first, the studio feels softer. Lighter. Like something toxic has leaked out and left just the good stuff behind.

Jasper lounges on the old gray couch I keep by the window for reading and existential crises.

He’s draped across it like he owns the place, water bottle pressed to his right forearm, eyes half closed.

The sunlight angles through the blinds and stripes his chest, his jaw, the little hollow above his sternum that still glistens from the morning’s effort.

For a guy who just wrestled with fifty feet of polyester, he looks almost peaceful.

I sit at the other end, towel around my neck, and stare at the city through the window. It’s weird, seeing him out of his element. He isn’t performing or posing or goading. Just being.

"You okay?" I ask, voice softer than I mean it to be.

He shifts the bottle to his knee, glances at me, then away. "Fine. Little sore. Not bad."

I nod. I want to ask about last night, about what we’re doing, but I don’t want to spook him. Or me.

I stand, cross the room to the little shelf, and grab a second water. When I hand it to him, our fingers brush, and it’s like a jolt straight to the chest. He holds on longer than necessary.

"Thanks," he says with a roughness in his voice.

I flop back down, our knees almost touching. I can feel the coiled and waiting energy coming off him.

"So," I start. "Was it everything you dreamed?"

He snorts. "You mean the silks or…?" He gestures vaguely at my body, at the space between us.

I laugh. "Either. Both."

He takes a long swig, then runs his tongue over his teeth, considering. "It’s fucking hard. Harder than hockey, honestly." His eyes flick up to me. "I thought I’d be better at it."

"You’re too used to brute force. Sometimes you gotta surrender a little," I say.

"Surrender’s not really my thing," he admits, and I see something guarded in his eyes.

The sun shifts, spilling light right in his face, and I reach up to tilt the blinds. My arm brushes his bicep, and he jerks like I shocked him. "Sorry."

He shakes his head with a small smile. Then he lets out a sigh so deep it seems to pull the tension out of the whole room.

"Can I tell you something?" he says, suddenly staring at the floor.

"Of course." Although, I’m not sure what I’m agreeing to.

He looks at the blinds, at the water bottle, anywhere but me.

"You ever get the feeling you’re not supposed to be here?

Like, anywhere?" He pauses, fidgeting with the cap.

"My dad’s in prison. For as long as I can remember.

My mom bailed when I was five. I bounced around, never stuck, got into fights, trouble, the usual. "

I don’t move. I’m afraid if I do, he’ll stop.

"Spent two years in juvie," he says, almost casual. "Wasn’t for anything special, just dumb kid shit and a bad attitude." He shrugs. "I guess it just stuck."

He finally looks at me, and his face is wide open. No armor, no sarcasm, just raw. "There was this couple. Canadians. Came to visit the center, did these ice-skating clinics for the kids nobody wanted. They taught me how to skate. I hated them for it at first. But then…"

He trails off, twisting the bottle in his hands.

"But then it was the only thing I was good at. The only time I didn’t feel like a total fuckup."

I don’t know what to say. My chest hurts for him, and I want to move closer, but I stay perfectly still.

"They sponsored me to come down here. To go to Fairfax University. Paid my tuition, let me stay at their house over the summers. I never told anyone, because—"

He shakes his head, mouth twisting into something bitter.

"Because everyone already thinks they know who I am," he finishes.

The fan in the corner whirs to life as I reach for the remote, trying to do something, anything with my hands.

He takes another swig, then leans forward, elbows on his knees, and rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand.

"I’m not telling you this to make you feel sorry for me," he says. "I just… I don’t know. You asked if I was okay. I’m not really sure."

I set my towel aside and tuck my legs under me, watching with my whole body attuned to him. "Jasper," I say, but his name sounds weird on my tongue after everything he just said.

He looks up, waiting.

"I get it," I say. "Maybe not all of it, but enough. You’re not the only person who’s ever felt like they didn’t belong anywhere."

His mouth twitches, into an almost smile.

I can’t help myself. I reach out to touch his shoulder and feel a tremor run through him. He doesn’t pull away. His head drops until our foreheads are almost touching.

We stay like that, silent, while the fan stirs the dust in the air.

"I don’t really know what I’m doing," he admits. "With you, with this… any of it."

"Me neither," I agree.

It’s the most honest thing I’ve ever said.

He leans back and looks at me, really looks, and something changes in his face. The old bravado is gone, replaced by a quiet confidence that’s softer, but stronger.

"So, what do we do now?" There’s no smirk, no challenge. Just a genuine question, as if he trusts me to have an answer.

I swallow with my pulse pounding in my neck. "We could run it back," I say, nodding at the silks. "Or we could sit here and just… be for a minute."

He laughs, the first real one of the day. "Sitting sounds good. My arms are fucking dead."

I curl against the arm of the couch and let the silence fill up, comfortable for once. Jasper leans his head back and closes his eyes. I watch the way his chest rises and falls, the way his hands relax in his lap. He’s at ease, maybe for the first time since I met him.

I don’t want to ruin it, but I want to know more. Everything. I want to ask about the Canadians, about juvie, about what scares him and what makes him want to fight so hard he nearly self-destructs.

Instead, I say, "When you have your next home game, I could come watch."

He cracks one eye open. "You really want to see that?"

"I do," I say.

He grins. "Deal. But only if you teach me how to climb higher."

"Deal," I respond.