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.”