Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sam hated figure skaters.

It wasn’t their fault, exactly. Not all of them, anyway. But the way they took over the ice with their glittery outfits, their effortless spins, and their airs of superiority grated on him. Skating was supposed to be about power, about speed, about muscle. Not... whatever they were doing. And yet, here he was, glaring at the intruder slicing across his rink like he owned the place.

"Hey," Sam called out, pointing his stick toward the boards. "Public skating's over there, twinkle toes."

The guy skidded to a stop, ice spraying in an elegant arc that landed dangerously close to Sam’s face. He tilted his head, all grace and precision, but his smirk was sharp. "This is a shared rink. Try not to whine about it."

Sam blinked. Was this guy serious? "In case you didn’t notice, this is a hockey rink." He slapped the blade of his stick against the ice for emphasis.

"And in case you didn’t notice," the guy countered, spinning away with an effortless twirl, "there’s no game booked until four. I’ve got an hour."

Sam watched, stunned, as the guy skated away with the kind of fluidity Sam couldn’t dream of pulling off, not even in his most agile moments on the ice. He had to admit, this guy was good—damn good—but that didn’t mean Sam was going to let him show off in his rink.

With a growl of frustration, Sam pushed off, gliding across the ice with long, deliberate strides until he caught up. "Look, I don’t care what you do in your spare time, but this isn’t—"

The guy whipped around mid-stride, skating backward without missing a beat. "What? A place for people with actual skill?"

Sam’s jaw clenched. "Hockey’s about more than skating in circles, you know."

"And hockey players," the figure skater shot back, grinning infuriatingly, "are just figure skaters who can’t keep their arms down."

Sam bristled, heat rushing to his face. He didn’t even know why he was letting this get to him. "You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about," he snapped, lunging forward.

The skater dodged with infuriating ease, pirouetting out of reach. "Relax, tough guy. You look like you’re about to pop a blood vessel."

Sam’s stick thumped against the ice as he slowed, glaring. "You’re insufferable, you know that?"

"And you’re predictable." The guy stopped abruptly, resting one toe pick lightly on the ice. His expression softened, but the smirk lingered. "But hey, it’s cute. Real salt-of-the-earth vibe you’ve got going on. Makes you easy to rile up."

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again, floundering for a comeback that wouldn’t just prove the guy’s point. Instead, he pointed his stick accusingly. "You’ve got ten minutes, then I’m calling rink management."

The guy laughed—actually laughed—and it was the kind of laugh that stuck in Sam’s head for hours after, echoing like the sound of skate blades cutting across fresh ice.

"Ten minutes," the guy repeated, spinning on his heel and skating off without a backward glance. "I’ll try to make them memorable."

Sam groaned, running a hand through his hair as he watched him go. Ten minutes couldn’t pass quickly enough.

Sam stayed put, standing stiffly in the middle of the rink, trying to burn holes in the guy’s back with his glare. He didn’t know what was worse—the fact that this random figure skater thought he could waltz in here like he owned the place, or the fact that he clearly did. Every move the guy made looked effortless, like he was born with blades strapped to his feet. Spins, jumps, intricate footwork—he executed all of it with a precision that bordered on unfair.

And Sam hated that he couldn’t look away.

When the figure skater launched into some kind of triple jump—Sam had no idea what it was called—he landed with a soft whoosh, his knees bending just enough to absorb the impact before he straightened again. Sam felt a twinge of reluctant admiration before shoving it down. The guy was showing off, pure and simple, and Sam wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of being impressed.

At least, not outwardly.

Finally, the guy skated over to where Sam was still glaring. He wasn’t even out of breath. "So," he said, grinning like he had all the time in the world, "what’d you think?"

Sam crossed his arms over his chest, gripping his stick tight. "I think you’re wasting your time. All that spinning around isn’t going to help you in a real game."

The guy tilted his head, his grin softening into something Sam couldn’t quite read. "Who said I care about a game?"

"Then what are you doing here?" Sam shot back, a little too quickly.

The skater’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before he shrugged. "Practicing. Same as you, I’d guess. Except I don’t feel the need to stake my claim on a patch of ice like a territorial dog." He gave a teasing wink, and Sam’s stomach flipped in a way that made him even angrier.

"I’m not territorial," Sam snapped, the words coming out more defensive than he’d intended.

"Sure you’re not." The guy’s smirk returned as he took a step closer, leaning just slightly on the toe picks of his skates. "But if it helps, I’ll keep out of your way for the last—" he checked an invisible watch on his wrist, "five minutes of my time here."

Sam’s fingers itched to tighten around his stick, to find some way to wipe that smug look off his face, but instead, he just huffed and shook his head. "Whatever. Just don’t get in the way when the actual players show up."

The guy raised his hands in mock surrender, gliding backward as easily as breathing. "Wouldn’t dream of it, hockey boy."

Sam opened his mouth to retort but froze. That nickname sounded different—less mocking, more... playful? It threw him off balance, enough that the guy’s laugh trailed behind him like a ribbon as he turned and skated toward the other end of the rink.

Sam watched as the figure skater scooped up a duffle bag from the bench and made his way to the exit. He didn’t look back, but Sam caught the way his posture was still as effortless as everything else about him. Just before he disappeared through the doors, Sam caught himself wondering something ridiculous.

What was his name?

Shaking his head, Sam shoved the thought away. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t see the guy again, and that was just fine with him.

—

Sam told himself it was fine. Absolutely fine. The guy was probably one of those temporary transfers from another rink or a solo skater who’d vanish after this one-off session. People like him didn’t stick around, and that was just as well. Sam didn’t have the patience to deal with flashy show-offs who thought a couple of twirls made them superior athletes.

But as the rink door swung shut behind the figure skater, Sam felt a flicker of something unsettling. Not annoyance—well, not just annoyance. It was curiosity, creeping in where it didn’t belong.

What if he did come back?

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam muttered to himself, tapping his stick against the ice and gliding toward the net to work on his slapshot. He needed to focus, to get that guy’s stupid grin and stupid talent out of his head.

—

The next day, Sam arrived at the rink early. Not because he was thinking about that guy—he absolutely wasn’t—but because he wanted to get in some extra drills. As he tightened his skates and stepped onto the ice, the familiar scrape of blades and the crisp chill of the rink settled his nerves. This was his territory, where he belonged.

He’d barely done a lap around the rink when the door creaked open. Sam glanced over, and his stomach dropped.

There he was. Same guy. Same effortless confidence. Same infuriating smirk when he spotted Sam.

“Morning, hockey boy,” the figure skater called, his voice carrying easily across the ice.

Sam groaned audibly, resting his forehead against the butt of his stick for a moment before looking up. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The skater shrugged, unbothered. “I told you, it’s a shared rink. And since I didn’t see you yesterday at four, I figured you wouldn’t mind me using the time.”

“I do mind,” Sam said firmly, skating closer, his stick tapping sharply against the ice. “I’ve got drills to run, and you’re just—”

“Practicing,” the guy cut in, spinning in a lazy circle. “Same as you.”

Sam clenched his jaw, staring him down. The guy’s expression didn’t falter. If anything, his grin widened, like he knew he was winning whatever unspoken battle this was.

Finally, Sam exhaled through his nose. “Fine. Stay on your half of the rink. No crossing into mine.”

“Deal.” The guy stuck out his hand like they were shaking on a business transaction. Sam ignored it, skating back toward the boards to grab a puck.

He tried to focus on his slapshots again, but every time he lined one up, he’d catch a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye—spins, leaps, and footwork so fluid it was like watching water ripple over glass. He didn’t want to look, but somehow his gaze kept drifting back.

“You’re staring,” the guy said after landing a particularly clean jump, breaking the silence.

“I’m not,” Sam snapped, though he absolutely had been. He turned his attention back to the puck in front of him, sending it hurtling into the net with a loud clang.

“Relax, tough guy,” the skater said, gliding over to the center line and resting his hands on his hips. “You could learn a thing or two about edges from me.”

“Like hell I could,” Sam shot back. “Edges don’t win games. Strength and speed do.”

“And coordination,” the guy added, his tone maddeningly patient. “Which you clearly have... in your own clumsy, hockey-player way.”

Sam was skating toward him before he even realized it, his stick clutched tightly in his hands. “You’re really asking for it, you know that?”

The skater tilted his head, an innocent look on his face that didn’t match the spark in his eyes. “Oh, I don’t think you could handle me, hockey boy.”

Sam froze mid-stride, his brain scrambling to process the comment. Was that—? No, it couldn’t be. He wasn’t flirting. He was just being obnoxious.

Right?

But the guy gave him a wink before skating off again, leaving Sam standing there, cheeks burning, with no idea how to respond.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Sam found himself wondering about him.

And for the second time, he hated it.

Sam did his best to shake it off. He returned to his drills, skating hard and firing slapshots at the net with more force than usual. The satisfying clang of the puck hitting the metal echoed across the rink, but it didn’t drown out the soft swish of the other guy’s blades. No matter how hard Sam tried to ignore him, that graceful, maddening presence stayed just at the edge of his awareness.

The figure skater didn’t seem to mind the cold shoulder. If anything, he thrived on it. Every so often, he’d glide closer, deliberately crossing into Sam’s half of the ice with a casual spin or a flashy jump. Each time, Sam would glare and gesture pointedly with his stick, and each time, the guy would grin like he’d won some private game.

Finally, Sam had had enough. He skated toward the center line, stopping sharply enough to spray a small wave of ice. “Okay, seriously. What’s your deal?”

The guy turned mid-stride, pivoting to face him with an easy smile. “My deal?”

“Yeah, your deal.” Sam gestured vaguely. “You’ve been on my case since yesterday, and now you’re skating over here like you’re trying to... I don’t know, provoke me?”

The skater tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Provoke you? Me? Never. I’m just... coexisting. Sharing the rink. Being neighborly.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “You’re being a pain in the ass.”

The guy’s grin widened, and he stepped a little closer, his movements deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. “You sure that’s all I’m being?”

Sam’s mouth went dry, his brain scrambling for a retort. There was something about the way the guy was looking at him—half teasing, half... something else—that threw him completely off balance.

“Whatever,” Sam muttered, turning abruptly and skating back toward his net. He didn’t trust himself to say anything else without making it worse.

Behind him, the figure skater let out a soft laugh. “You’re fun, you know that?” he called, his voice light but carrying across the rink.

“I’m not here to be fun,” Sam shot back, not looking over his shoulder. “I’m here to work.”

“Then work,” the guy replied easily. “Don’t let me distract you.”

Sam groaned, burying his face in his hands for a moment before grabbing another puck. He told himself to focus, to tune out the sound of the other guy’s blades and the laughter in his voice. But no matter how hard he tried, it wasn’t long before he found himself glancing over again.

The guy was right where he’d left him—gliding across the rink with that effortless grace that was still just as maddening as it was impressive. But this time, it wasn’t just his flawless technique that caught Sam’s attention. There was something else, too—something about the way the guy was looking over at Sam, eyes narrowed slightly, his lips curling in a knowing smile.

It was a look that made Sam’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t have the time—or the patience—to figure out.

Shaking his head, Sam slapped the puck into the net with a little more force than necessary. The satisfying clang didn’t stop his heart from racing, and it didn’t stop his thoughts from spiraling. He was losing his focus, and he hated that more than anything. The last thing he needed was some figure skater with an irritatingly smooth grin getting under his skin.

He pushed himself harder, skating faster, focusing on his shots, but the guy— that guy —was still there, hanging at the edge of his awareness. Each jump, each turn, every casual movement, it was like the guy was deliberately staying just close enough to mess with Sam’s rhythm.

“Alright, I’ve had enough of this,” Sam muttered under his breath, skating toward the center of the rink again. He needed answers. Needed to know what this guy’s deal was.

When he reached the middle, the figure skater didn’t stop gliding around the rink like he usually would. This time, he slid to a stop right in front of Sam, looking up at him with that grin of his still in place, though his eyes held something different now—something like... curiosity.

“You know, you’re kind of a pain,” Sam said, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to sound annoyed and failing miserably. His heart was still pounding in his chest, and not because of his workout.

The guy didn’t respond right away. He just tilted his head, examining Sam for a moment, as if trying to figure something out. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter than usual.

“You’re a lot more fun than you let on,” he said, almost as if it was some kind of secret he couldn’t wait to spill.

Sam’s stomach did another flip. He fought the urge to shift uncomfortably, to rub the back of his neck, because the guy was still looking at him in that way. The teasing, playful thing was still there, but now, it was softened with something else.

Before Sam could say anything—before he could even process that line—his brain short-circuited when the skater suddenly pushed himself off the ice and glided closer, stopping just a little too near for comfort.

“Maybe you should stop being so serious all the time,” the guy added with a wink. “It’s exhausting just watching you.”

Sam’s mouth went dry. He stared at him, completely lost for words, trying to make sense of what was happening. This was ridiculous. There was no way he was about to get wrapped up in this—whatever this was.

“I’m not—” Sam started, his voice hoarse, before he cleared his throat. “I’m not serious. I’m just trying to do my drills.”

The figure skater’s grin softened, like he could see right through Sam’s defenses. “Sure. But if you were really just doing drills... you wouldn’t be looking at me like that.”

Sam blinked. His mind raced to make sense of the words, but all he could manage was a stammered, “What?”

The skater raised an eyebrow, leaning in a fraction of an inch closer. “You can’t lie to me, hockey boy. I can see it. You’re distracted. And it’s not just the ice.”

Sam’s breath hitched in his throat, the weight of the comment landing like a punch to the chest. “I—I’m not—” he stuttered, suddenly aware of how close they were.

The guy didn’t back off. If anything, he took another step forward, tilting his head in that way Sam was starting to recognize as his... thing.

“I think you’re intrigued,” the skater said softly, voice almost teasing but with an edge of something else, something Sam couldn’t quite place. “And you’re trying really hard not to be.”

For a long moment, Sam didn’t know what to say. His brain was fried, and every instinct screamed at him to retreat, to brush it off, but he couldn’t make himself move. Not when the guy’s smile was that close, that... easy.

And then, like he had all the time in the world, the guy gave him a final, slow wink.

"See you tomorrow, hockey boy," he said, turning smoothly on his skate and gliding away without another word.

Sam was left standing there, staring at the empty space where the figure skater had just been. His heart was still racing, his hands were still clenched, and his mind? Completely scrambled.

“God,” Sam muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “What the hell is wrong with me?”

It was going to be a long, long day.

—

Sam’s patience was wearing thin. He’d been skating for a while, trying to get in the zone, but no matter how much he focused, the guy kept appearing, always at the edge of his vision, always so effortlessly good at this. Sam gritted his teeth as he glided by for the third time, his movements smooth and graceful, like he owned the ice. The guy was showing off, and Sam wasn’t sure what annoyed him more—his natural skill or the fact that he was making Sam feel like he couldn’t keep up.

He pushed himself forward, aiming to make a clean turn, only to have the skater slide in front of him once again, this time with that infuriating grin plastered on his face.

“Can you stop doing that?” Sam snapped, frustration bubbling to the surface.

He didn’t even flinch. “Doing what?” he asked, clearly amused. He tilted his head, his eyes never leaving Sam as he skated backward effortlessly, putting a little more distance between them before gliding back in.

“Getting in my way,” Sam muttered, his teeth gritted. He could feel his heart rate speeding up, but it wasn’t just from the exercise anymore. It was from how damn annoying this guy was.

The skater raised an eyebrow, but there was still that playful grin on his face. “I’m not trying to get in your way. You’re just... a bit slow.” He teased, leaning in a little closer. “You sure you’re keeping up?”

Sam’s patience snapped. “I’m not the one who keeps dodging every time I try to skate past.”

He just laughed, a low, carefree sound. “Maybe you should be better at it then.”

Sam’s jaw clenched, but before he could respond, the guy shot forward again, his body moving like liquid on the ice. Sam followed instinctively, trying to catch up, but with every move he made, the skater was one step ahead, always turning just before Sam could close the gap.

Finally, Sam skated to a stop, frustration clear on his face. The guy had slowed to a casual glide, watching him with that same smirk, eyes glinting with mischief.

“What’s your deal?” Sam asked, out of breath, irritated beyond belief. “Why do you keep following me around?”

The guy slowed and came to a stop beside him, not even slightly winded. “Not following you,” he said, still grinning. “Just... enjoying myself.”

Sam shot him a pointed look. “By annoying the hell out of me?”

He raised an eyebrow, considering this. “Could be worse, right? Could be boring.”

Sam scoffed, crossing his arms. “I’m sure you think you’re hilarious.”

“I do,” He said without hesitation, then tilted his head slightly. “But that’s not the point.” His eyes locked with Sam’s for a brief moment, something shifting in the air between them. “What’s your name?”

Sam blinked, thrown off for just a second. After everything that had happened, the question felt... strange, too simple. They’d been skating around each other for who knew how long, but they hadn’t even bothered to ask for names. It had all felt like some sort of game, some strange competition. But now, with the skater looking at him, expectant, there was a different kind of energy.

“Why do you care?” Sam replied, though the edge was gone from his voice.

He shrugged, looking completely unbothered by Sam’s retort. “Because if we’re going to keep running into each other, I might as well know who I’m dealing with.”

“Running into each other?” Sam repeated, eyebrows knitting together. “Are you planning on making a habit of this?”

“Maybe.” The skater’s grin widened. “Depends on how much fun I’m having.”

Sam didn’t know what to say to that. He bit back a frustrated sigh and turned away slightly, adjusting his gloves for something to do. Finally, he muttered, “It’s Sam.”

“Sam,” He repeated, as if he was savoring the name. “I’m Luke.”

Sam blinked, not sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. “Luke?”

“Yeah.” Luke smirked, clearly enjoying Sam’s surprise. “Try not to forget it.”

And then, just like that, Luke was gliding away, his effortless grace carrying him across the rink like he had no care in the world. Sam stood there, staring after him, the name ringing in his mind, trying to make sense of it all.

“Luke,” he muttered under his breath, almost as if saying it aloud would give him some sort of understanding. But it didn’t. He just shook his head, pushing the thought away as he turned back to the ice.

—

The rink was busy tonight. The usual buzz of chatter filled the space, the sound of blades cutting through the ice blending with the hum of conversation. Sam was trying to focus, trying to push through his practice, but something was off. His mind kept wandering back to Luke—no surprise there. Their usual banter, the competitive edge they always shared, felt like it was slipping away. And Sam couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not.

Luke was on the other side of the rink, effortlessly gliding across the ice with the kind of grace Sam couldn’t help but watch, even though he hated to admit it. Every move Luke made looked so easy, so natural, like he belonged there in a way Sam never did. Sam gritted his teeth, forcing himself to concentrate, but the quiet pull of curiosity kept drawing his eyes back to the other skater.

He saw Luke glance over at him, the flicker of a smirk crossing his face before he looked away. It wasn’t the usual smug grin. There was something else there now, something Sam couldn’t quite place. For a moment, their eyes locked, and Sam felt a jolt run through him, something both unfamiliar and impossible to ignore.

It was a challenge, no doubt about it. Luke always had a way of challenging him, pushing him to go further, be better. But tonight, there was an added layer to it, something deeper that Sam hadn’t expected. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, and that frustrated him more than anything. He liked knowing what was coming next, liked having control over situations. But Luke? He was the kind of person who threw all of that into chaos with a single glance.

"Focus," Sam muttered to himself, shaking his head. But the more he tried to concentrate, the more Luke seemed to linger in the back of his mind. The laughter from the other skaters around him faded into the background as he skated harder, trying to work off the restless energy building in his chest. He couldn’t shake the feeling that things were shifting between them. It wasn’t just the rivalry anymore. It was... something else.

And then, as if the universe had decided it was time to address the tension in the air, Luke skated over to him. Sam’s stomach twisted, and for a second, he wasn’t sure what to do. Was Luke here to taunt him, to pick a fight, or was this something else entirely?

Luke’s eyes sparkled with that mischievous glint Sam had come to expect, but there was something more to it. He slowed down, coming to a stop just a few feet away from Sam. "What’s going on, Sam?" Luke asked, his tone casual, but the way he said it made Sam’s heart race.

Sam arched an eyebrow, already on edge. “What do you mean?”

Luke shrugged, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I don’t know. You’re a little... distracted tonight. Not your usual self.”

Sam tried to laugh it off, but it came out more like a nervous exhale. “Maybe I’m just tired of losing to you.”

Luke’s smile softened, his gaze never leaving Sam. “Not losing, just... not winning yet.” He leaned in just a little, and Sam felt his breath catch. “But hey, you’ll get there.”

Sam swallowed hard. It wasn’t just the words—there was something about the way Luke was looking at him, like he could see through all the walls Sam had put up. Like he knew exactly what was going on in Sam’s head.

“Yeah, well, maybe.” Sam shrugged, his own gaze flickering toward the ice. He couldn’t look at Luke too long; it made his heart beat a little faster than it should have. “You’re not bad yourself, I guess.”

Luke raised an eyebrow, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Guess?” he repeated, leaning a bit closer. “You don’t sound too convinced.”

“I’m convinced,” Sam said quickly, but his voice was strained, like it didn’t quite match the rest of him. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the sound of it almost drowning out everything else.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. There was a palpable silence, filled only with the sound of skates carving through ice from across the rink. Sam couldn’t decide if he was nervous or just frustrated—frustrated that he couldn’t keep his emotions in check, that Luke had a way of getting under his skin even when he didn’t try.

Luke’s gaze softened, the teasing edge fading just slightly. “You’re too hard on yourself, you know,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “It’s not all about being the best. Sometimes it’s just... about enjoying it.”

Sam blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy to settle for anything less than winning,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

Luke chuckled, a warm, easy sound that made Sam’s chest feel tight. “Maybe not. But skating? It’s different. It’s not just a competition for me. It’s—” He paused, searching for the words. “It’s like breathing. You get that, right?”

Sam hesitated, the honesty in Luke’s expression throwing him off balance. He did get it, more than he cared to admit. But admitting that felt too close, too vulnerable. So instead, he shrugged, forcing a smirk. “Sounds like you’re trying to distract me. Afraid I’ll finally beat you?”

Luke laughed again, shaking his head. “Nah. If you do, I’ll just have to work harder. That’s what makes it fun, Sam.” He straightened, but there was still a glint in his eye, something almost... hopeful. “Besides, you’re closer than you think.”

Sam’s throat tightened, the weight of Luke’s words settling over him. Closer than he thought? To what? Winning? Or... something else entirely?

Before he could figure out how to respond, Luke stepped back, his skates slicing clean arcs into the ice as he turned away. “See you out there,” he called over his shoulder, that same damn smirk tugging at his lips.

Sam stood there, rooted in place as he watched Luke glide away, his movements as effortless as ever. His mind was a swirl of confusion and something else—something warmer, harder to name. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to clear it.

“Focus,” he muttered again, though the word felt hollow now.

The ice suddenly felt a little colder beneath him, and the air a little heavier. Whatever had just happened, it wasn’t something he could skate away from—not tonight.

—

As the session wore on, the usual rhythm of practice seemed to slow, and Sam found himself skating with less purpose, his movements automatic and unthinking. Luke was still there, a constant presence just at the edge of his vision, his effortless strides across the ice a silent reminder of everything Sam was trying—and failing—to push out of his head.

Eventually, the rink began to empty. Groups of skaters peeled away, laughing and chatting as they gathered their things, their voices echoing faintly before fading altogether. The bustling energy of the evening gave way to quiet, the kind of stillness that made everything feel more exposed.

Sam realized with a start that he and Luke were among the last left. He glanced over to find Luke leaning against the barrier, lacing up his shoes with a languid ease that didn’t match the undercurrent of tension Sam could feel thrumming in the air. It wasn’t just exhaustion from practice or the leftover competitiveness that usually lingered between them. This was different, heavier, harder to ignore.

The rink was quiet now, the echo of their skates the only sound as they made their way off the ice. The usual chatter was absent, replaced by a strange, unspoken tension that lingered between them, growing heavier with each passing second. Sam could feel it in the air, the shift, the way his heart beat just a little faster when Luke was close.

Luke glanced over at him, that teasing smirk still in place, but there was something different in his eyes now—something softer, quieter. It was as if he was waiting for Sam to make a move, to acknowledge whatever was happening between them without words.

Sam swallowed, the usual banter caught in his throat. He couldn’t seem to find his usual sarcastic edge, not when Luke was looking at him like this, not when everything had changed, when the space between them had shrunk so much that it was impossible to ignore.

“You know,” Luke said, breaking the silence, his voice lower now, almost hesitant, “I didn’t think this was how we’d end up. I mean, I thought we’d keep up the whole rivalry thing, keep it light.”

Sam’s chest tightened. He took a step closer, not sure what he was doing but unable to stop himself. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

Luke tilted his head, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “So... what now?”

Sam’s breath hitched, and for the first time, it didn’t feel like the question was about skating or practice. It felt bigger than that, like something important was hanging in the balance, waiting for them to make a decision.

He looked at Luke, at the way his lips were curved in that soft smile, the way his hair fell messily around his face, and Sam realized—really realized—that he didn’t want to fight it anymore. The attraction, the pull, the tension—it was all too much to ignore.

Before he could stop himself, Sam closed the distance between them in one quick motion, his hand reaching up to brush against Luke’s cheek. Luke’s breath caught, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop, the noise of the rink, the echoes of their past arguments, all fading away.

Luke didn’t pull back. In fact, he leaned in just slightly, eyes fluttering shut, and Sam felt his heart skip a beat.

And then, without thinking, Sam kissed him.

It was soft at first, hesitant, like neither of them knew exactly how to navigate this new territory. But as soon as their lips met, it was like everything clicked. The moment was raw, unguarded, and it felt like everything had fallen into place—like all the confusion and the quiet moments between them had led to this.

Luke’s hand came up to rest on Sam’s shoulder, the touch light but firm, grounding him. Sam’s other hand slid around Luke’s waist, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. Luke responded just as eagerly, a quiet hum of approval escaping him, and Sam couldn’t help but feel the warmth spread through his chest.

It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t slow either. It was a kiss full of everything they hadn’t said—every moment of unspoken connection that had been building between them.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathing a little harder, their faces flushed, but neither of them could wipe the smiles off their faces. Luke’s eyes shone with something Sam couldn’t name, something unspoken but undeniable.

“Well,” Luke said, his voice rough, “that was... new.”

Sam chuckled, running a hand through his hair, unsure of what exactly he was supposed to say now. “Yeah. That was definitely new.”

Luke’s smile softened, and he reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from Sam’s face. “I’m glad it happened.”

Sam’s heart skipped again, and he couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “Me too.”

There was a brief pause, then Luke leaned in again, his lips brushing lightly against Sam’s, not for another kiss, but for something that felt just as intimate—something that said, without words, that they both knew things had shifted. And for the first time in a long while, Sam didn’t mind that things were changing. He kind of liked it, actually.

“Same time tomorrow?” Luke asked, his voice a little quieter this time.

Sam nodded, his thumb brushing along Luke’s wrist in a way that felt like a promise. “Yeah. Same time tomorrow.”

As Luke turned to skate off, Sam stayed frozen for a moment, watching him go, feeling like something had just started between them—a beginning of something he couldn’t quite name yet, but that he was more than willing to explore.

And as the sound of Luke’s skates faded into the distance, Sam smiled to himself, feeling lighter than he had in days. Maybe, just maybe, this rivalry was turning into something a whole lot more.