Chapter Text
I gotta roll, can't stand still, got a flaming heart, can't get my fill
Eyes that shine burning red, dreams of you all through my head
“Mmmm,” Bellamy sighs, still under the spell of sleep, but slowly rousing with the ever present and persistent sound of Led Zeppelin.
Ah ah ah ah ah ah
He realizes too late that it’s his phone ringing.
He flails an arm out to smack the noise off, its increasing volume steadily pissing him off. Instead, his hand lands on soft skin.
He lifts his head to find the red head from last night sprawled out beside him, rousing from his unintentional smack to her arm.
She hums before lifting her head to face his baffled expression. “What time is it, baby?”
He cringes internally. “Uh,” he mutters, reaching over her more carefully this time to grab his cell, “It’s half past noon.” He freezes, glancing down at his phone again. “Holy shit. It’s half-past noon!” He fumbles away from the tangled sheets, stumbling out of bed to throw his jeans on. “Where the hell is my shirt?” He looks around his bedroom frantically, only to have his vision obscured. He peels the tee off his head, throwing it on immediately.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh nothing, nothing. I’m just late for the Olympics is all.” He curses as he looks for his shoes.
“I thought you said to set your alarm for twelve thirty.”
“It’s fine. I’m only three hours late.” He finally spots his combat boots, tucked safely underneath a silk blouse.
“Sorry…” He trails off, jumping on one foot while simultaneously shoving a foot in his boot.
“Roma! It’s Roma, you jackass,” Roma fumes from her seated position on his bed, clutching the blanket to her chest heatedly.
“Right. Sorry, Roma, but I’m really fucking late for my game!” He stomps across the room to grab his hockey bag and throw it over his shoulder. “Thanks for last night,” he shouts over his shoulder as he runs to the door, dodging a heel to the head by a hair’s breadth.
He sprints down the hallway, muttering expletives under his breath the whole way. Shumway’s going to kick his fucking ass.
*
She nearly lands on her ass when his arms shake trying to lift her and he fails, propelling Clarke against the rink’s boards.
“This isn’t Junior Pairs,” Marcus Kane calls over the chaotic swirl of skaters.
“How do you expect me to work with this imbecile if he can’t even lift me over his damn head?” She questions Kane, frustrated.
“Take ten,” he mutters through a sour expression.
“Take ten? We’re supposed to skate in an hour in front of thirty million people and you’re telling us to take ten? Maybe he should take fucking ten and come back after he’s lifted some weights!” She’s drawing the attention of other skaters but she doesn’t give a shit. She’s not about to go live on national television with this idiot of a partner and make a fool of herself.
Kane sighs, clearly exhausted, and holds the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Clarke, please. We don’t have time for one of your tantrums.”
Her eyes nearly bulge out of her head. “Fuck you, Kane.” She skates furiously to the open gate and stomps her way to the change room. She quickly unties her skates, throwing them into her bag, exchanging them for her converse.
As she’s trudging down the arena’s back hallways, past the men’s change rooms while furiously pulling her beanie over her ears, she blinks back furious tears at having such an incompatible and incompetent partner. She can’t do the routine on her own, no matter how much she wishes she could. Kane doesn’t understand how hard she’s tried to get along with Finn Collins, but he’s just too fucking frail to be her partner. He’s mediocre, at best, during his turns, he still hasn’t gotten the hang of the toe pick the way an Olympic skater should, and he can’t lift her past his shoulders without his arms giving out.
She turns the corner too quickly and so she doesn’t see him, only feels his solid chest when they bump into each other, sending her flying along with her things.
“Shit!”
“Ugh,” she mutters, rubbing her ass where she landed on it. Hard. It seems to be inescapable today. “Can you slow the hell down?”
“Sorry,” the stranger voices, all gruff and smug. She looks up from her spot on the ground to see a brusque, dark-haired hockey player trying desperately to grab all her things. Once he does so, he kind of just places it all beside her before sprinting back down the hall, towards the change rooms.
“Hey!” She yells after him. The jackass didn’t even help her up.
“Sorry, Princess, but I’m running a little late!” And he’s gone, around another hall, before she can respond.
Clarke lets out a frustrated noise, hauling her bag back on and stomping down the corridor so she can leave this god-forsaken arena.
*
“Germany’s going to hit him with the breakaway! Ah, it’s offside! Bellamy Blake, from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with the puck! What a story there, Monty! Not too long ago he was a junior at Pennsylvania State – talk about being on the fast track to the hall of fame! The NHL’s best clubs are dying to have him on their team.”
“That’s right, Jasper! Bellamy Blake, only twenty-two years old, is truly one of the most spectacular athletes in amateur hockey today - headstrong, determined, and full of technique. They’re calling him the Pittsburgh Powerhouse! Folks, you’re in for a real treat today.”
“You hear that, Mon? The crowd is cheering so loud I can barely hear myself speak!”
“U.S.A., U.S.A., U.S.A.!”
“He’s got it all lined up! And – and it’s in! It’s in! Bellamy Blake with the winning shot! Phenomenal!”
“Oh no! Eichmann is skating awfully fast in Blake’s direction. Jeez! Horrible – he completely blind-sided him into the boards! What terrible sportsmanship. It – It looks like he’s hit his head. Monty, is that Bellamy’s helmet on the ice?”
“It looks like it. Oh man, it appears he’s out cold. Folks, this is just heartbreaking…”
*
She lands her triple sow-cow and the crowd erupts into cheers. The music picks up pace before her ego can get inflated with the satisfaction.
She’s being lifted in the air, up, up, up and then, before she knows it, she’s going down, down, down.
She looks up to the bright flashing lights, blinding her momentarily. She see’s the pity in the faces of the audience members, the disappointment in her coach’s face, the sadness in her father’s eyes. Finn Collins’ skates are in her line of sight; her hands are cold against the ice.
He dropped her. He dropped her, and they’re done. They’re fucking done and Clarke has never missed Wells so much in her life.
*
“You’ve lost almost half of the peripheral vision in your left eye, Mr. Blake.”
He pauses, feels Octavia stiffen beside him. “Alright. How long will I be out?”
“Mr. Blake, for any other person this would be considered an inconvenience, but I’m afraid you are not just any person – you’re a hockey player. A professional one at that, and I’m sorry to tell you that this is a serious impediment.
“How long, Doc?”
“You have a blind side, Mr. Blake.”
“What are you saying, Doc?” He asks through clenched teeth.
“I’m saying it’s a permanent condition that can’t be fixed. I’m saying I don’t see professional hockey in your future.”
And, just like that, a fucking doctor in a white lab coat puts a dark, punitive line through his future.
*
- 2 Years Later –
Alvaro misses her hand and trips, falling hard on his face. Clarke halts to a stop, dusting the man with ice. She watches, unimpressed, as the man attempts to pick himself up. She crosses her arms.
“Alright, that’s enough, Clarke.”
Her head snaps up. “What?” She calls to her father, standing behind the railing that surrounds her rink.
“That’s enough. You can take a break.”
“I don’t need a break.”
“Clarke,” Kane speaks up, standing next to her father. “That’s enough for the day.”
“There are still three minutes left to the routine,” she says, enunciating her statement with a harsh toe pick.
Alvaro finally gets up beside her.
Her father gives her a look. Mostly disappointment.
“Alvaro, go take a shower, huh?” Kane calls.
“Yeah, and after that shower perhaps someone can drive him to the airport,” she calls back, skating off to finish her routine alone.
Jake Griffin sighs, watches his daughter execute a perfect triple lutz.
“What’s the next move?” Jake asks Kane.
He scoffs in response. “The next move? There is no next move. She’s been through eight partners in the past two years. She’s too good. What we should have done was make her a single skater.”
Jake Griffin sighs, rubs a hand across his forehead.
“This one is too small, that one is too big, this one sweats too much, and that one doesn’t sweat enough. No skater on this earth can impress her, it seems. She’s a tremendous skater, but all that doesn’t matter if we cant find her a partner that works.”
“It doesn’t help that they’re all terrified of her,” Jake says on a sigh.
“What about Collins? Did you get a hold of him?”
“Collins said he’d jump off the Empire State Building before skating with her again.”
Jake shakes his head, looks out to see his daughter’s face completely at peace. The way she looks when she is alone on the ice. Only Wells could get her to look like that when he was on the ice with her. She has the talent to win, and Clarke will never say it, but he knows she wants this more than anything.
“Find another way, Marcus.” The man sighs in response, leaning his forearms on the railing beside Jake Griffin to watch Clarke finish her routine.
*
“Reyes! Where did you put my damn wrench?”
“Check my tool box, genius,” she shouts from her spot underneath the car.
“Don’t steal my wrench again, you crook,” Bellamy shouts, mostly amusement lacing his voice, procuring the tool from the toolbox and wagging it in the air.
“Bite me, Blake.”
The man standing at the shop's entrance interrupts his chuckle. “Mr. Blake?”
He spins around to face a man of average height, probably in his forty’s, with brown hair. He’s wrapped in a black winter jacket, a hat on his head, leather gloves on his hands. “Who’s asking?”
The man steps forward, into Bellamy’s space, and sticks his hand out. “Marcus Kane. Lovely to make your acquaintance.”
Bellamy stares at Marcus Kane’s hand for the amount of time it takes Raven to slide out from under the car and stand some ways away from him. “Bellamy,” he states, shaking the unfamiliar man’s hand.
“Oh, I know your name, Mr. Blake.”
“Mind me asking who you are?”
“I’m a coach from New York.”
His heart stops. “Oh man. Did you get my letter? I’m good – in great shape. I’ve been skating everyday, I’m at the gym all the time.” He pauses. “Are you here from the Rangers?”
Marcus Kane’s face falls. “I’m sorry, you’ve misunderstood me, Mr. Blake. I’m a skating coach.”
Bellamy stares at the man, still confused.
“A figure skating coach,” he finally relents, an unreadable expression on his face.
Raven snorts from behind him. “Excuse me?” Bellamy chokes out.
Marcus Kane sighs, evidently exhausted. “Listen. You’re hockey career is finished, no?” Bellamy doesn’t respond, merely scowls his heart out at the man. “I’m here to offer you the chance to skate in front of millions of people at next year’s Olympics. My skater needs a partner, and I think you’re up for the challenge.”
“No, thanks,” he says, dismissive, turning to walk away, throwing the greasy towel over his shoulder.
“Mr. Blake, I urge you to reconsider.”
“And I urge you to get lost.”
“Bellamy,” Raven calls, stopping him from closing his office door. He turns, arms crossed, and raises his eyebrows. “Why don’t you hear the guy out? Pretty sure you’re miserable as a mechanic anyway."
He shoots her a disbelieving look. Traitor.
“Just listen to the offer, Mr. Blake, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
Bellamy stares the man down. He thinks of the twentieth letter he received last week, this time from the Red Wings, telling him no. He thinks of Octavia’s sad face every time he ditches the shop for a game with the league he has with the local bar. He thinks of how he feels when he’s on the ice.
He sighs. “I’m listening,” he concedes.
*
His first impression, when he steps onto the six-acre land, is holy shit, this family is rich.
His second impression, upon passing the white mansion and walking into the separate house where the ice rink is, is damn, they have money to blow.
His third impression, upon seeing the blonde nailing a triple lutz like its second nature, is shit, this chick can skate.
His fourth is, I’ve seen this woman before.
And his fifth is, well, Ice Princess ain’t happy by any means.
When she meets his gaze, he’s pretty sure she’s going to eat his heart and spit it out.
“Who the hell is he?” The petite blonde growls, and his eyebrows shoot up. Shit, they weren’t joking about this one. He readjusts the hockey bag on his shoulder, glances sideways at Marcus Kane.
“I’m Bellamy Blake, Princess. Lovely to meet you,” he smirks.
She glares at him, seemingly waiting for him to flinch. He doesn’t dare breathe, just stares back until she rips her gaze away to scorch Kane.
“He’s a phenomenal hockey skater. Give it a chance, Clarke.”
Realization dawns on her face. “You’re that asshole hockey player!”
He frowns, surprised she remembers. “How you doing?”
“You’ve outdone yourself, Marcus. Get him out of my rink,” she calls, all cool and calm, skating away and giving him a pretty glorious view of her ass, all wrapped up in her skintight leggings.
He hears Marcus sigh for the fifty-billionth time. “No. This is a tryout, Clarke. If you want France, then you’re going to have to at least let him tryout.” She spins, sticking the tip of her left skate in the ice over her right one.
“Fine,” she grinds out.
“Charming,” Bellamy tells Marcus.
*
He’s crowded behind her, and she feels his hot breath on her neck. “Ugh, could you breathe any harder?”
She feels his chest shake against her back with laughter. “Sorry, Princess.”
“Stop calling me that,” she grinds out. Kane presses play and the routine music begins. He clutches her hands.
“What are you, a lumberjack? There’s this thing called hand lotion.”
He just holds on tighter, but she feels his stupid smirk. “No one’s ever complained before.”
He’s infuriating, but she feels a little better thirty seconds into the routine when he falls on his face.
Bellamy lifts his head to glance up at her. She bends down at the knees slightly, a vindictive smile on her face. “Toe-pick,” she singsongs before skating away.
He curses under his breath. It happens six more times – him falling on his ass because someone decided to add a fucking toe-pick to figure skates. He’s about to scream at her sixth call of, “toe-pick”, when he finally lands the fucking jump. She spins, skating backwards, a look of pure shock on her face.
He laughs triumphantly, loudly, throwing a fist in the air. “Ha! Not too shabby, huh, Princess?”
She huffs, skating away, and he keeps chuckling, Marcus Kane joining in and shaking his head a little.
*
They fight, and it’s terrible, hurtful and devoid of apologies, but they’re good together. He can lift her above his shoulder and skate around with her perched there for half an hour if he had to. He’s fast, too, and so he has no problem catching up to her once he gets the hang of the toe-pick. He also has no problem landing his jumps, or gripping her waist so tight she knows he won’t drop her.
“Could you ease up a bit?” She bites out, annoyed with him constantly being in her space.
“What? Too rough? I thought you’d like it that way, Princess. Lord knows you need to let someone else be in control for more than five seconds.”
She skates out of his harsh grip and slaps him across the face so hard it echoes through her small rink.
“Clarke!” She hears Marcus yell in mortification.
She only feels the satisfaction when she finds that the smug indifference has fallen off his face in favor of a look of astonishment. She clenches her fists tight, holds her breath, until he slowly turns his head back to look at her, disbelief etched into every feature of his stupidly attractive face.
“Asshole,” she chokes out, skating away and bolting out of there. She runs home until the cold, winter air feels like it’s choking her lungs.
Bellamy stares at the exit in disbelief, rooted to his spot on the rink. He can’t believe she just slapped him. He can’t believe how hurt she looked when he said that to her. He was aiming for humorous, but he supposes the long day and her constant bitching made him sound like a complete dick. He can’t believe he actually feels guilty.
He hears Marcus exhale loudly. “I’ll get her father to speak with her.” Bellamy barely registers what he’s saying, just skates back to his things and gets the hell out of there.
*
“I’ve bought you a plane ticket back to Pittsburgh. It leaves in four hours. Sinclair will drive you to the airport as soon as you’re ready.” Jake Griffin pauses to swivel in his desk chair to reach into a drawer, procuring out a chequebook. He takes a pen out of his suit jacket and begins to write. “Here is your pay for your trouble and hard work.” Jake stares at Bellamy apologetically until he moves to grab the cheque out of his hand. Bellamy immediately looks to the right hand box on the rectangular shaped piece of paper.
Fifteen thousand dollars for not even three full weeks of skating alongside his daughter. He shakes his head in astonishment, but mostly disbelief.
“So, that’s it? She reaches her breaking point and you just kick the next guy to the curb and hope you find another one willing enough to work with her?”
Jake Griffin just stares back at him, unresponsive, a frown on his face. He actually likes the man. It’s too bad his daughter is such an impossible person.
He looks back down at the piece of paper in his hands. He’d be able to pay a good chunk of O’s school debt with this. He could finally buy the shop off of Monroe. He swallows hard before ripping it in half.
“What are you doing, Mr. Blake?” Jake Griffin questions him, shocked.
“I’m doing what you called me over here to do. I’m becoming a fucking figure skater,” he declares.
Mr. Griffin eyes him down, clearly surprised that he’d be willing to work with his daughter after what went down. Bellamy shrugs.
“I’ve got a sister. Women with emotion don’t scare me. A slap to the face surely doesn’t.” He doesn’t voice that he’d been terrified of his daughter after that blow. That he feels like a dick.
Jake Griffin smiles slowly. “You know, she never used to be so defensive and closed off. I know how hard she can be to work with, but once you get past all that, and you get her to open up to you, she’s spectacular. She’s a better person than she is a skater, and that’s saying a lot. After her partner and best friend died, Wells, it just sort of became her way of dealing. Give her some time and you won’t be disappointed.”
Bellamy doesn’t really know what to say. “That’s what I’m doing,” he finally voices, nodding to himself more than to Jake Griffin.
The man smiles at him in response, and Bellamy is astounded to realize he’s smiling a little bit back.
*
“Lift! Lift! Higher!” Bellamy grunts in annoyance, placing Clarke back down on the ice brusquely.
“How the fuck am I supposed to lift her higher when she’s got her skate digging into my damn shoulder?”
“Oh, please! My skate is no where near your stupid shoulder.”
He just stares at her, his arms crossed across his chest. He’s sweating like a beast. They’ve been doing lifts all day, and Clarke is petite, but damn, his arms are exhausted from spinning her around in the air like she’s the fucking Stanley Cup.
“Enough!” Kane yells, his face red with frustration. “The two of you need to learn to work together. Keep fighting and you can kiss France goodbye. All of this would have been for naught, and you,” he shouts, pointing at Bellamy, “would have gotten slapped in the face and become a figure skater all for eighth place.”
Bellamy scowls in response. He whips his head around so fast he almost snaps his neck when he hears Clarke giggle.
She looks down sheepishly when she meets his probing gaze.
“You’re not innocent in all this, either, Clarke. You can kiss that gold medal goodbye, too, unless you learn to get along. I will not look for another partner for you,” Kane declares, shutting Clarke right up.
“That’s because he doesn’t exist,” Bellamy states. Clarke shoves him so hard he almost slips. He shoots her an incredulous look.
Kane throws a water bottle against the brick wall of the arena in frustration. Bellamy looks up and tries really hard not to burst into laughter at his obvious annoyance.
“I’ll be back as soon as you two children get over your ego’s.”
“Marcus!” Clarke calls after his retreating form. “Come on!” The door slams shut in finality.
Clarke sighs beside him, and since she’s not making any move to apologize, he skates towards his hockey bag and pulls out his hockey skates, switching them with the maddening ones he has on. He ties them up quickly and pulls out his puck and stick. He grabs the pylons before standing up and sets up a makeshift net on each end of the rink.
“What the hell are you doing, Bellamy?”
“I’m playing some damn hockey.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? We need to practice the lift!” She sounds panicked so he turns to face her.
“Why don’t you just relax, alright? The lift is fine. You just need to practice on lifting that right leg of yours in the air, alright?”
She skates up to him, stopping abruptly and getting ice on his skates. Her cheeks are red in frustration.
“Why don’t you go lift some fucking weights? My leg is perfectly angled, you dipshit. Maybe if you weren’t such a giant Neanderthal, your shoulder wouldn’t get in my fucking way!”
He tilts his head to the side. “Maybe you should get Collins to help you lift that leg of yours in the air, huh? Or do you not let him get on top?” He feels like a complete an utter dick as soon as he utters the words, but she brings out the worst side of him, apparently.
He thinks she’s going to slap him again with the way she’s looking at him, but all she does is cover up the brief flash of hurt, skating away again. But not before shoving his shoulder on her way, sending him off balance. It always surprises him how physically strong she is. Not because she’s a woman, but because she’s pretty small in comparison to him.
He sighs, angling his head back wearily. He’s so tired of fighting with her. “Clarke,” he calls, turning to skate after her. She’s curled up in a blanket on the plush armchair at the corner of the rink, opening up a book and ignoring him – obviously.
He leans on the railing to stare at her. Whenever he does this she usually relents her silent treatment, arguing something along the lines of, “Stop staring at me – you’re such a fucking creep, Bellamy."
He watches the frustrated set of her features, the way her brows are slightly furrowed, the way her rosy lips are pursed, her blonde curls dying to be set free from the confines of her hair tie. Clarke is pretty. The thought comes to him in its usual fashion – unbidden.
She finally huffs, looking up at him with an eyebrow raised. “Are you done fucking staring at me?”
He smirks, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I went too far,” he tells her. He watches with fascination as the default cold mask slips off, replaced by one of sober surprise. It always happens when he apologizes to her. He learned he needed to do so if this thing between them was going to work. Octavia had also yelled his fucking ear off, claiming, “You need to be a fucking gentleman, Bell. What are you, a caveman? She’s hurting!” He still thinks she’s wrong – Clarke isn’t hurting. She’s lost, maybe a little lonely. She still carries herself better than any woman he’s ever met, though.
“It’s fine,” she mutters softly.
“Alright. How about we take some time off from lifting, because if I keep going without a break I’m pretty sure I’ll drop you and I don’t want to die today.”
She gazes back at him, unimpressed.
“Hockey, Princess?”
Clarke’s gaze travels lower, to where he’s holding his hockey stick, and he’s almost positive her eyes light up in interest.
“Think you can kick my ass?” He prods, teasing, lifting the stick off the ice a little bit.
She smirks. “Oh, you’re on, Blake.”
He laughs incredulously, surprised to see her making her way over to him after she grabs the extra stick from his bag.
“You better not let me win,” she declares, jutting her chin up in the air to level her gaze with his.
“Never, Princess.”
He beats her, obviously, but he doesn’t feel the smug satisfaction he thought he would feel at beating her. Just feels a strange and unfamiliar swell in his chest when Clarke can’t stop laughing at her failure to shoot the puck in their makeshift net. The thing is, she’s good with the stick, good with handling the puck. She’s a fast and efficient skater, but when it comes to shooting into the net, she’s basically as good as a fish.
He goes up behind her, after their game, and aligns her hands better on the stick. She arches back into him, completely unintentional because her brows are furrowed in concentration, and his brain kind of stops and restarts. Her ass is pressed against his pelvis and his arms are over her smaller ones, his big hands covering her tiny ones, and the smell of her strawberry shampoo is filling his nostrils.
“Like this?” She asks, still staring down the puck and stick.
“Huh? Uh-yeah. Yeah, like that.” He says, putting some distance between them again to watch her shoot. He shakes his head a little to clear the unwelcome haze.
She whoops in triumph, a loud laugh escaping her, when the puck slides between the two pylons.
*
“Ballet?”
“Ballet,” Clarke confirms.
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“Clarke! Do I look like a ballerina to you?”
“Of course, Bellamy.”
He groans, shucking his skates into his hockey bag.
“Stop being such a baby. You’re athletic, strong – you’ll be fine. You need the flexibility.”
“Trust me, Princess. I do not need the flexibility,” he leers at her.
She stares at him, unblinking, an unimpressed purse to her lips.
He sighs. “Alright. What fucking time?”
She plops down beside him, at the edge of the rink, to untie her own skates. “I’ll call your room at six tomorrow morning.”
“You know, I’ve figured it out. You’re trying to kill me.”
“Is it working?” She questions as she stands up to walk to her skating bag, cleaning the blades of her skates with a towel when she gets there.
“No,” he says through a smirk.
“Shame,” Clarke mutters as she zips her bag up. Pulling her beanie over her ears, she heads in the direction of the rink’s exit.
“When are you going to admit you want me, Clarke? We all know it. Stop lying to yourself,” he calls after her, leaning on his forearms to watch her strut away.
He hears her sarcastic chortle, “Ha!”, before the door closes between them.
Bellamy lies on his back, his sock-covered feet dangling over the ice, to stare up at the rink’s ceiling and high-beam lights. He closes his eyes, exhausted, against their harsh glow.
They can do this. Their routine is actually starting to come together. Octavia would be thrilled. Raven would laugh her ass off, and then tell him she’s proud of him, all genuine. Miller would smack him upside the head, smirking the whole time.
Maybe they won’t make a fucking fool out of themselves. Not that Clarke would ever let that be the case, with her high-standards and all.
He only realizes the smile plastered on his face when he finally gets up to leave.
*
“You okay back there, Princess?” he pants, his calves burning at the incline of the road.
Before he knows it she’s in front of him. “I can hear your knees cracking from here, old man,” Clarke calls back to him between gulps of breath.
He grits his teeth and runs faster, finally aligned beside her.
“Bull,” he pants, “shit.”
Clarke elbows him, nearly causing him to trip. “Hey!”
He hears her breathless and vindictive laugh, so he pushes harder and runs a couple stretches in front of her. His lungs are going to give out soon, against the harsh winter air. He can taste the metal in his mouth, but he pushes harder, faster.
He sees the line of trees they’ve marked as the finish line – can see Kane standing there with his stop watch. He’s going to win, he can feel it. He feels the shit-eating grin break across his face. He’s probably about a hundred meters away. Fifty meters.
Twenty.
He’s almost fucking passing the finish line when he sees a flash of blonde hair sprint by him, slapping Marcus Kane’s hand before he can.
He slaps Kane’s hand a couple seconds after Clarke does, bracing his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, after he does.
He can hear Clarke panting beside him. The annoyance in his chest spreads.
“You’re a sneaky one, eh?” he questions between gulps of air, straightening up to face her.
She has her hands on her hips, trying to catch her breath, too, a huge grin on her face.
It startles him a little, because he’s never seen her smile like this before. The annoyance ebbs away, and warmth takes its place in his chest.
“You really thought you were a faster runner than me?”
He scowls, fighting against the grin that’s trying to show itself. “Well, at least I’m a faster skater,” he shoots back, to which she shoves him.
He laughs. It's nice.