Ice And Ink(B x B)

Chapter Five: Off the Boards

Friday afternoon dragged Rivermount into a deep freeze, the kind of cold that turned breath into clouds and made the ice on the rink sing under every skate blade.

     Jace  shoved through the library doors at 4:05 PM, five minutes late and not sorry about it.
       His hair was still damp from a post-practice shower, and his Wolves jacket hung loose over a faded hoodie, the faint smell of rink clinging to him like a badge.

He spotted Ezra  at their usual table, buried in books, and felt the familiar twist in his gut—half irritation, half something he refused to name.

       Ezra didn’t look up as Jace approached, just kept typing on a beat-up laptop, his fingers flying over the keys with a rhythm that grated on Jace’s nerves.
        The table was a battlefield of papers—notes, a highlighted copy of The Outsiders, a thermos that probably held coffee Ezra lived on.
      Jace dropped his bag with a loud thud, earning another shh from the librarian, and sprawled into his chair, kicking his legs out.

“You’re late again,” Ezra said, voice flat, eyes still on the screen.

“Had to shower,” Jace replied, smirking.

“Didn’t want you whining about the smell.”

Ezra’s fingers paused, and he glanced up, hazel eyes sharp behind his glasses.

“Considerate of you. Too bad it didn’t fix the attitude.”

Jace’s smirk widened, a spark flaring in his chest. “Missed you too, Tate. What’s on the torture list today?”

   Ezra pushed his glasses up, a habit Jace was starting to notice too much, and slid a printed outline across the table.

“Presentation structure. We’ve got characters and themes, now we tie them together.
      I did the Socs’ class angle—wealth versus grit. Your Greasers need work.”

     Jace snatched the paper, scanning it. Ezra’s handwriting was all over the margins—neat, precise, annoying as hell. “My Greasers are fine. Ponyboy’s loyal, Johnny’s soft, Dallas is a mess. What’s to fix?”

“Depth,” Ezra said, leaning forward. “You’re skimming the surface. Ponyboy’s loyalty’s not just sweet—it’s naive, gets people hurt.

    Johnny’s not soft, he’s traumatized. Dallas isn’t a mess, he’s a bomb waiting to blow. Dig in, or it’s just fluff.”

Jace’s jaw ticked, the critique hitting too close to Wednesday’s jab—try harder. “I dug in. You’re just nitpicking ‘cause you love hearing yourself talk.”

“And you’re coasting ‘cause you think charm’s enough,” Ezra shot back, his voice low but cutting. “It’s not. Not here, not on the ice.”

  The ice. Jace’s eyes narrowed, the library fading as that stung. “Leave the rink out of this, Tate.
      You don’t get to judge what you don’t play.”

     Ezra’s lips pressed thin, a flicker of something—regret, maybe—crossing his face before it hardened again.

    “Fine. Stick to the book. Prove me wrong there, at least.”

   They locked eyes, the air between them taut like a stretched skate lace. Jace wanted to push, to shove Ezra’s smugness back in his face, but the guy’s stare held him, steady and unyielding.
       He broke first, grabbing his pen and flipping open his notebook. “Ponyboy’s naive. Happy?”

“Thrilled,” Ezra said, dry as the snow outside, and went back to typing.

    They settled into a grudging rhythm, Jace scratching out revisions—Ponyboy trusts too much, loses Johnny, wakes up—while
Ezra fleshed out the Socs’ privilege angle.