𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐀.ᐟ 𝗮𝗱𝗮𝗺 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗸𝘀

carried by love, it's so hard

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chapter forty-six: carried by love, it's so hard

{a/n:

puuhleassee don't be a silent reader!! commenting and voting are greatly appreciated. enjoy :)}

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    WHILE NOT TECHNICALLY open so early in the morning (unless Coach Beau is in the godawful mood for 4am practices), Adam long discovered that jigging the lock a certain way and at a certain angle, can in fact open the door to the Westbrook practice arena.

So, the blonde takes advantage of them empty rink for some early morning skating.

Maybe a little more often than he should.

What can he say? He was made for the biting cold.

Adam's not a musician and he's a pretty piss poor painter, but to him, flying across the ice has always been a work of art. He skates idly, twisting and turning freely as he careens across the arena.

He can't help the feeling of pride that bubbles up in his chest as he coasts across the ice, increasing his speed, moving and weaving without second thought.

Adam's never been the smoothest of people. He thinks too much, says too little, and has a way of going unnoticed behind the more vocal personalities of his teammates.

But on the ice...he's someone else entirely.

He's confident and self-assured, but never cocky. He hasn't been cocky since his far-gone Hawk days. When he's on the ice, it's just like magic. Everything clicks. He sees and understands and acts without second guessing himself. He can anticipate any move.

His father has always told him that skills like that will be what separates him from the crowd.

It will be what makes him great.

  Times moves effortlessly while on ice and it isn't until he chances a glance at his wristwatch that he sees that nearly an hour has passed and soon the early birds will be getting breakfast at the dining hall.

Adam comes to a quick stop on the ice, the skidding of his skates echoing all around as he greedily breathes in air. He bends and places his hands on his knees, wiping his brow and batting his damp hair out of his eyes. Sweat is now pooling across his chest, armpits and down his neck and he's hot as he stands on the stillness of the rink.

He rotates his neck slowly, groaning as it cracks, loosening up his muscles. He stands and skates back to the bench, throwing himself down as he undo his skates and sinks back into his converse sneakers. He stands, the joints of his knees aching slightly in distress as he books it to the boys' locker room.

He grabs a towel from his locker, strips off his sweaty clothes and pads towards the showers. He is utilitarian in his use of the hot water, washing efficiently and quickly.

Soon enough he's back in his street clothes, water dripping from his hair as he gathers up his belongings and books it out of the arena before Coach Tyson can chance upon him. (The guy is known for skulking about the rink at the most inopportune times.)

The sun has just come up and the sky is a canvas of hues of pink, yellow and purple as the early morning light shines down upon him. The campus is still pretty empty, but a few dedicated joggers are out, Adam nodding to them as they run past him.