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Barbara Gordon is the best coach Cass has ever had. She’s blunt and intelligent and she actually knows what she's doing, which is perhaps the most shocking part of it all, because Cass had walked into this program expecting exactly nothing from the worst D1 team in the nation.
Barbara only has three rules, which doesn't sound like a lot to follow unless you've read the rules and subsequently met Cassandra. Rule one; do not show up to the rink injured. Ignored, but for good reason. Yes, Cass currently has a meniscus tear and two sprained fingers, but she had shown up today intent on getting her choreo memorized—and she did, so Barbara can't say anything about it. Rule two; once you've been on the ice for three hours straight, you go home. In Cass’s defense, she’s only seven minutes over, so it barely counts.
And rule three; do not, under any circumstances, fraternize with the hockey team.
At present, Cass has got Number Four’s tongue halfway down her throat, one hand fisted in her varsity jacket (that the hockey team gets but the figure skaters don't because the athletic department has priorities and figure skating isn't one of them). Cass’ other hand is braced against the concrete wall of the equipment corridor where literally anyone could walk by and catch them, and Number Four tastes like cinnamon gum. She's thinking, distantly, with the part of her brain not currently preoccupied by Number Four's fingers sliding under the hem of her puffer, that this might actually be the worst decision she's made all week.
Elsewhere in the building, a door slams, and Cass pulls away just enough to catch her breath. Number Four—Stephanie Brown, the most beautiful girl Cass has ever seen and, crucially, Tim’s ex—smiles against Cass’ cheek, almost smug.
“That sounded close by,” she murmurs, only she doesn't move away, instead shifting so that one knee slides between Cass's thighs in a way that makes it very difficult to think about things like doors or people or consequences.
"Should probably stop," Cass says, which would probably be more convincing if her fingers weren't tracing the line of Stephanie's jaw, if she weren't tilting her head to give Stephanie better access to her neck.
"Probably," Stephanie agrees, pressing a kiss just below Cass's ear that sends a shiver down her spine. "You're very bad at stopping, though. I've noticed that about you."
"I'm bad at a lot of things." Cass's hand slides from Stephanie's jacket to her waist, fingers finding the strip of skin where her shirt has ridden up, and Stephanie makes a punched out sound. Now it’s Cass’ turn to be smug.
"Doesn't seem like it," Stephanie says, pulling back to look at Cass properly, her slate-blue eyes bright in the fluorescent hallway lighting. Her lips curve in that same smile that got Cass in this predicament. “You're good at skating. Good at—" She kisses Cass again, chaste and sweet, "—this."
Cass should tell her about Tim. That he's her brother and her roommate and her first real friend, that this whole thing is complicated in ways that have nothing to do with Barbara's rules and everything to do with the fact that Tim’s smile gets just a little bit strained when Stephanie’s name is brought up. Instead, she finds herself saying: "Babs is going to kill me."
Stephanie snorts. “Oh, definitely. I can't even imagine what sort of stuff she says about me.”
“It’s not just you,” Cass tells her, tilting her head. “She doesn't like any of the team.”
It’s probably not the nicest way she could've said that, but Stephanie just laughs, her head tipping back against the wall, and Cass gets utterly distracted by the dimple that appears in her left cheek. She read somewhere that it’s more rare to have one dimple than two, some kind of genetic anomaly or muscle irregularity or something. Cass has none—her face does approximately three expressions on a good day and none of them involve dimples—and she's pretty sure she's never actually noticed them before on anyone else, but privately, she's absolutely certain that nothing in the universe could make Stephanie's smile cuter than it already is.
A dangerous thought to be having, all things considered.
"—totally right about that, honestly. We are kind of a disaster. Last week Kent got his tongue stuck to the Zamboni on a dare, and Coach had to—Cassandra? Earth to Cass?"
Cass blinks. “I wasn't listening.”
Stephanie’s face shifts into something knowing and pleased. "Yeah?" she says, drawing the word out, her fingers finding the zipper of Cass's jacket again, playing with it idly. "What were you thinking about instead?"
“Nothing,” Cass lies.
"Nothing," Stephanie echoes, amused. She leans in closer, close enough that Cass could count her eyelashes if she wanted to. She wants. "You're a terrible liar, you know that?"
"I know," Cass says, because it's true—she's never been good at hiding what she's thinking, and right now what she's thinking is apparently written all over her face. Still. Stephanie’s cheeks flush just slightly, her freckles growing stark against pink, and Cass can't really find it in herself to care. This time, it's her who closes the gap, rising up on her toes—which sends a sharp protest of pain through her injured knee that she determinedly ignores—to slot their lips together.
It’s—slower, this time. Stephanie’s hands settle around her waist, thumbs rubbing circles against her hip, and Cass leans into the touch, sighing softly against her mouth. She hadn't been lying, before. Barbara really does have a problem with all of the hockey players—calls them undisciplined and reckless, says they treat the rink like their personal playground instead of a training facility, complains about their music being too loud and their practice schedule encroaching on figure skating ice time. But it's also sort of a Stephanie-Brown-specific thing. Cass doesn't know what it is, exactly, just that Babs finds her obnoxious and unqualified and warned Cass; stay away from the hockey team, and especially stay away from Brown.
But Barbara can be mean, and Cass is very bad at following rules.
Another door slams, closer this time, and Stephanie bursts into giggles, muffled against Cass’ cheek. “Sorry,” she breathes. “I feel like we're breaking the law.”
“I am,” Cass points out. “Gordon law.”
“The scariest,” Stephanie agrees knowingly, and Cass is all the more curious for it. How does she know? Yes, Barbara and Tim know each other because of Tim's older brother—Dick, who is now also technically Cass's older brother and who used to date Barbara back when they were both in college. Sure, fine. But Stephanie? Were her and Tim serious enough that she had met Barbara through him, too?
Cass doesn't know if it's a nosiness thing or an I-want-to-know-everything-about-her thing, but she finds herself caring about the details of Stephanie's life beyond the immediate and obvious fact that she wants to keep kissing her. She kisses Stephanie again, anyway, just because she can.
“Tomorrow,” Cass tells her, running her hands up the sleeves of Stephanie's jacket. “I'll come find you after your practice. Coach Bertinelli doesn't care, right?”
“God, no,” Stephanie says immediately, emphatically. “She thinks it's hilarious.”
“She knows already?”
Stephanie pinks again. “I was, like, really not subtle. I appreciate that you thought so, though.”
“So I can come see you,” Cass prods. “Good. We can get froyo.”
Duke had very recently introduced her to frozen yogurt, taking her to that place on campus with the self-serve machines and approximately nine thousand toppings, and Cass has already systematically tried every single flavor and topping combination they have to offer in the past week alone. She thinks Stephanie will be a raspberry girl, or maybe coffee.
“Sure,” Stephanie says, a little breathless. “Yeah, let's—that sounds perfect. Practice ends at eight.”
When Cass steps back, she tucks her hands into the pockets of her jacket, suddenly cold. Stephanie is watching her with a crooked smile, and she isn't as suave and confident as she had been before, but Cass is ridiculously enamored by both versions. Any version of Stephanie, probably. She turns on her heel, hardly minding the twang of her knee. “See you at eight, Number Four,” Cass calls over her shoulder.
“Steph,” comes the laughing response. “Just Steph.”
Steph. Cass smiles to herself, running a distracted finger along the groove of her bottom lip where she can still taste cinnamon gum.
“Again. Shift your hands down when you grab her, Duke, or she'll slip.”
Cass exhales through her nose and absently plucks at the hem of her leotard, frowning. It’s one thing to fix a mistake when both skates are on the ice and another thing entirely to correct it in the air, so she's been sliding out of Duke's hands every time he lifts her. He arcs toward her, his mouth set in a determined slant, and Cass turns her body slightly, rolling her shoulders back. She raises her arms without being asked, palms open. Duke's fingers find their marks along her ribs, his thumbs sitting lower this time.
Cass has pair skated with a dozen different people over the years, but Duke Thomas is her favorite. They understand each other—Cass remembers to make eye contact with him as she leads, and Duke knows how to shift her weight so that she's always comfortable in his grip. Barbara's arms are crossed over her chest, but loosely, which usually means she's satisfied with them.
“Good,” she says finally, after Duke has carried Cass around the entire rink without letting her tumble out of his hold. He's too gentle with her, sometimes, but Cass loves him for it. She returns his bright, beaming smile, tucking herself into his side when he throws an arm around her shoulders briefly. “Take five, kids,” Barbara says fondly, knocking her knuckles against the railing. “Stretch yourselves out.”
Duke skates to the boards and braces a hand against them, tugging one leg back into a quad stretch with a wince. “Jesus, that's tight. Hey, isn't the hockey team coming in today?”
Cass hums in sympathy as she mirrors him, though her version of stretching is still a little restless—she bounces once on the ball of her foot before forcing herself to still. Neither of them has ever been very good at this part. He and Cass are both too impatient to stretch properly, but Tim recently sat her down and showed her extremely alarming YouTube videos about everything that could go wrong if she didn't, so Cass has been making more of an effort.
“It will be fun,” Cass says, glancing at the locker rooms. They've had the rink to themselves for three blissful days, but their peace and quiet is about to end. The hockey team, Cass knows, is loud. Everyone says so. Tim always makes a face when they’re mentioned, though with him it’s more about the fact that both his ex and his current, deeply ill-advised situationship are both on the team. Barbara, meanwhile, has cussed out the hockey coach on more than one occasion. Cass was never loud back when she played hockey, though that probably had more to do with David Cain than anything else. Still, she's intrigued, and a little bit excited.
Cass only has two friends at this school and one of them is her brother. It's hard to meet people when so much of her life is taken up by skating, so it'll be nice to see some new faces, she thinks.
“I just want to meet Conner,” Duke snorts, switching legs and wobbling slightly before he catches his balance against the boards. “I bet he has so many embarrassing stories about Tim.”
Cass cracks a smile as she folds forward into a hamstring stretch, fingertips brushing the tops of her skates, and rolls her neck until it cracks softly. Duke swings his arms in circles that get increasingly ridiculous until Cass swats at him with her glove. He retaliates by nudging her skate with his own, enough that she windmills briefly before righting herself, laughing, cheeks flushed from the cold. Barbara watches them over the top of her glasses, unimpressed.
“Enjoying yourselves?” She calls out.
“Yes ma'am,” they chorus, which earns them a pointed look at her watch.
They do leaps for the rest of practice, Cass’ absolute favorite thing in the entire world. Duke lands his split jump with a grunt, and Cass is already moving into her next one before he's fully straightened—she loves this, loves the way her body knows exactly what to do in the air. Barbara calls time just as Cass sticks a satisfying Russian split that Duke gives an appreciative whistle.
"Nice height on that one," he says, skating over to bump shoulders with her. Cass is thinking about the protein shake she's about to inhale when the double doors at the far end of the rink bang open.
Their jerseys are purple and black. That's the first thing Cass notices, before she hears the laughing and sees the glinting helmets and feels the ice vibrate under her feet as they spill out onto it. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the way Barbara's lip curls. “Time’s up,” Barbara says curtly, the warmth from earlier gone in an instant. “You can stretch some more in your locker rooms.”
Obediently, Cass turns to go, but she can't help herself from sneaking another look. There’s a boy with dark, curly hair flopping into his eyes, his helmet tucked beneath his arm as he play-wrestles with a blonde girl, their skates clacking together as they jostle. The girl already has her helmet on, chin strap dangling loose, obscuring most of her face as they laugh and shove at each other. Cass can't see much, not until they break apart with matching shouts. The blonde straightens, shoulders squaring with her turn.
Their eyes meet. The blonde—number four—has got pale blue eyes and hair that refuses to be contained, escaping in bouncy curls around the edges of her helmet. There are freckles scattered across her nose, just visible in the shadow cast by the brim of her helmet, and she—
She's smiling. One of her hands comes up in a little wave. The boy from before looks at her, then looks at Cass, and his eyebrows shoot up. He smacks Number Four's hand down, yanking her away with an iron-clad grip around her bicep, and only as they're skating away does Cass see the name stitched onto the back of her jersey. Brown.
“Oh, Christ,” Barbara mutters. Cass looks over to find her coach massaging at the deep furrow between her brows, her expression weary. “I've had a long day, Cassandra. I'd appreciate you not making it longer by giving the hockey players goo-goo eyes.”
“Busted,” Duke sing-songs, and Cass pinches him. In her defense, she hadn't known they could be so pretty.
It's raining miserably when Stephanie’s practice ends. Cass watches the last ten minutes from one of the stadium seats, tucked into herself with her legs pulled up to her chest, jacket zipped to her chin. The world outside is smudged grey, rain slanting against the lights of the parking lot.
Steph’s friendly with everyone on the ice, drifting in and out of conversations as practice winds down, but she keeps circling back to number 15, Wilson, and number 96, Sandsmark. The three of them cluster together whenever they can, shoulders knocking, heads bent close in conspiratorial little huddles. Cass catches the way their eyes flick toward the stands, toward her, again and again. She doesn't mind. Steph’s cheeks go blazing red twice in the ten minutes that Cass is there, so as a whole, she's feeling awfully pleased about it all.
It’s raining, Cass knows, because she gets a raindrop in her eye the moment they step outside, and it’s miserable because Stephanie says so. Loudly.
“Fuck this shit,” she grumbles, holding her hood tight so that it doesn't get blown off in the wind. Her breath fogs in the air. “I hate this fucking city. Gotham, dude. Fuck.”
Cass laughs, ducking her head against the wind. Her own hood is already plastered to her skull, rain drumming against the nylon relentlessly. It would be soothing if it weren't so cold.
They have to speed-walk to catch the next bus. Stephanie tells her, matter-of-factly, that she's here on scholarship and she isn't going to waste her money on a car, and Cass usually has Tim to drive her around. Also, she can't drive. They climb aboard with squishy shoes and flushed faces, the air inside thick with the smell of wet coats and wet hair and wet skin. Stephanie fishes her bus card out of her pocket, fingers stiff and unresponsive as she swipes it; unthinkingly, Cass grabs her hands, massaging warmth into them. Steph’s eyes go wide, at first, and then crinkle with laughter.
“You are one smooth motherfucker, Cassandra Cain,” Steph says happily. “You know, there’s a Cassandra on my team, too. Cassie Sandsmark.”
Cass knows this. Cassie is one of Tim’s best friends, too. Her and Conner Kent and Bart Allen, from the track team.
She should just tell Steph now. Cass opens her mouth, but then Stephanie is starting up about how practice went, and Cass genuinely does want to know, so she shuts up instead and pretends it isn't because of the nerves tingling down her spine. Stephanie shifts closer on the bus seat, pressing her thigh against Cass’. It's—different. Duke is touchy with her, but Cass’ stomach doesn't feel all flippy and somersault-y when he presses up against her. She's not used to this; a pretty girl sitting beside her, a pretty girl smiling at her, a pretty girl wanting her.
“What're you thinking about?” Steph asks abruptly, and she doesn't look upset, but Cass feels bad about zoning out.
“You,” she says honestly. “I'm glad we're doing this.”
“Froyo?”
“A date.”
Stephanie's smile is immediate, bright and pleased. “Me too. Rose didn't believe me when I said you agreed. She thinks I have no game.”
Cass considers this gravely, then shrugs. “Maybe if you keep saying ‘game,’ she’ll end up right.”
Munchie’s Frozen Yogurt always has approximately thirty billion college students milling around at all hours, and today is no different. Steph is stopped by so many people when they walk in, congratulating her on the team’s win two days ago, that Cass gets bored, snagging her hand and tugging her up to the self-serve line. Steph laughs, shoving the shoulder of one girl who waggles her eyebrows, and she squeezes Cass’ hand in thanks. “I barely got fifteen minutes of play-time,” she whispers. “And they were some rough fifteen minutes, let me tell you.”
Not because she's a bad player, Cass learns—Stephanie is too bashful to say it like that, but Cass knows hockey almost as well as she knows figure skating, and Stephanie is the furthest thing from a bad player—but because she also has a tweak in her knee, from a nasty check last week. Hockey fascinates Cassandra, now that she isn't just doing what her father tells her and actually sees how bonkers it is. How they're allowed to body slam each other and dole out concussions like candy will never cease to amaze her. “CTE is serious stuff,” she informs Stephanie, holding up her hand to tick off on her fingers: “Memory loss, aggression, depression, suicidal behavior, poor impulse control, confusion, progressive decline of—”
“Jesus,” Steph interjects. Her eyebrows have climbed higher and higher through Cass’ spiel. “Don't even worry, dude, I hear this every day from—like, everybody. My mom made me watch all the documentaries.”
“Serious stuff,” Cass repeats, but it's not that she's scared for Steph, not really. If anything, she only respects her more for it. “You're a very good center, though. Do you still have all your teeth?”
“Nope!” Steph says brightly. She opens her mouth wide and Cass leans in, angling her head to see the conspicuously empty space where one of Steph’s molars should be sitting.
“I could probably reach that with my tongue,” she observes. Steph promptly turns bright red.
They're finally at the front of the line; Cass makes a beeline for the coconut, which has Steph wrinkling her nose. She layers pecan, coffee, and cherry in one cup, so Cass counts her guess as three-quarters correct. There’s not really any space to sit inside; they decide to brave the winds, huddling together underneath the overhang just outside. Froyo in this weather was maybe not the smartest decision, but Cass can't really complain, with Stephanie standing only inches away.
“I could eat this for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” Stephanie declares. Cass peers into her cup, hoping to see what toppings she got, but there are so damn many it’s impossible to tell what’s what. “When’s your next competition?”
“Two weeks,” Cass answers automatically, before the question catches up to her. “Are you going to come?”
“If that’s okay,” Stephanie says sheepishly. “I sort of jumped the gun. Will Barbara be fine with it?”
Cass doesn't really care either way, but the mention of Barbara and the inadvertent mention of Stephanie knowing Barbara reminds her of what she's been meaning to ask. Cass takes a breath, turning to face Steph fully, which immediately proves to be a bad idea once Steph looks up from her froyo, meeting Cass’ eyes. Her eyelashes are darker than her hair, Cass thinks faintly.
“That's a bad news face,” Steph sighs.
“Sort of,” Cass admits, fidgeting with the string of her hoodie. She never fidgets. “Tim is my brother. Adopted,” she elaborates, shifting uncomfortably. Stephanie doesn't so much as blink, still staring at her as if she's expecting something else. “And, um, I thought it was unfair to not tell you that your ex is my brother. If that's—if that will be a problem.”
God, she sounds like Bruce.
“I think,” Steph says slowly, “there has been a misunderstanding. Cass, I know Tim is your brother. I was dating him before and during your adoption. I mean, I know we never formally met, but surely you'd have seen me around? I was at Bruce Wayne's house, like, all the time. It's not really surprising that they don't talk about me at all, though, what with Bruce and Babs and—yeah.”
Honestly, it's a blessing that their paths never crossed. Cass at twenty might be standoffish and offputting, but Cass at seventeen was even worse. Stephanie would have taken one good look at her and run the other direction. She shrugs helplessly, unable or unwilling to convey the supremely embarrassing sentiment of I definitely would've remembered meeting you. Flummoxed, Steph pulls out her phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Texting Tim that I'm dating his sister who is one million times cooler than him.”
Cass can only focus on the first bit of that. “I thought you guys weren't speaking?”
“What? No, we're chill. He's pouting right now because I won't put in a good word with Conner. It's like, dude, he's your boytoy. Leave me out of it, right? They're both so fucking annoying, though. Perfect for each other.”
Cass genuinely could not care less about Tim and his boytoy, but the moment she opens her mouth to say exactly that, Steph is already shoving her phone back into her pocket and fixing Cass with a curious look. “Earlier,” she starts. “You said I was a good center. Do you watch a lot of hockey?”
It's hard, Cass had told Duke once, because it was. How do you explain to someone that your father is awful and you're not sure if you're just as bad? “I used to play,” she says, staring at her cup. “When I was a kid. My dad made me, so it wasn't—it wasn't fun. I like skating.”
Stephanie doesn't pry, though it's blindingly obvious that she very much wants to, and Cass appreciates it more than she could ever articulate. “I was serious, the other day, when I said we should skate together. I bet you'd run circles around me, but it'd be a lot of fun.”
“Why do you talk about yourself like that?”
Cass did not, necessarily, intend to blurt it out like that, but she's not sorry for it, even when Stephanie blinks and abruptly shifts two inches back. “Huh?”
“You're an incredible player, Steph,” she says seriously. “And I don't care what Bruce or Barbara think. I really like you.”
I wish you saw what I saw, she doesn't say. Stephanie already looks uncomfortable, and it's only their first date. Cass has time. Steph doesn't respond for a beat, her mouth opening and closing a couple times before her lips twists into a little half-smile that looks more like a grimace. “I really like you too,” she says finally.
“I know,” Cass nods, smiling into her froyo when it successfully startles a laugh out of her. She nudges her arm against Steph's, leaning up on her tiptoes to press a chaste kiss to her cheek.
Yeah, they have time.
“Hey.”
Cass glances over her shoulder, eyebrows shooting up at the sight of the hockey team’s captain rocking back on her heels, a charming smile split wide over her face. “Hi,” she returns. “You're not supposed to be here.”
“I'm Stephanie,” she says blithely, ignoring her. “Brown. Stephanie Brown.”
Stephanie Brown looks absurdly relaxed for someone trespassing on borrowed ice time, helmet dangling from two fingers, purple-and-black jersey hanging loose over her gear.
“I know who you are, Number Four. You know, we still have twenty minutes of practice, and if Barbara sees you around she’ll get you perma-banned.”
Legally, Cass is fairly certain that isn’t a thing. Realistically, she wouldn’t bet against Barbara Gordon under any circumstances. Stephanie Brown’s smile doesn't falter; in fact, it grows, and she takes a step forward, holding out a hand for Cass to shake. “It’s good to finally meet you,” she starts, like there’s more coming, only nothing does. Still, Cass only hesitates for half a beat before shaking her hand, skin dragging over the callouses of Stephanie’s palm—suddenly, acutely aware of the fact that she’s still in her practice gear, hair damp with sweat, heart doing unnecessary and distracting flips in her chest.
Unbelievable. Duke would have a field day if he saw her now.
“Finally?” Cass echoes, and Stephanie shrugs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“You're magic on your skates,” she says earnestly. It throws Cass off balance, a little, because Stephanie’s charm has clearly been practiced, and this sincerity is—unexpected.
You've been watching me? Cass would ask, except she's been feeling Stephanie’s eyes on her for the past week, so that’s already been asked and answered. “You're the captain,” she counters instead, mildly. “That doesn't happen by accident.”
Stephanie makes this little pshaw sound, waving a hand through the air dismissively. “I have a loud voice and skate decent,” she corrects. It’s fascinating. Cass has never really felt the need to downplay her own skill; she's good at what she does—good at most things, really—and she's never understood the impulse to pretend otherwise. Maybe that makes her stuck-up, she isn't sure, but watching Stephanie deflect bothers her. They don't even know each other, and it bothers her. Stephanie doesn't believe what she just said. Or maybe she does, and that's worse.
Cass glances over Stephanie’s shoulder. Barbara is watching them, her mouth set in a thin, flat line, a slash of disapproval across her face. Stephanie doesn't turn around, but her shoulders tense for a fraction of a second before relaxing again.
“Let me skate with you,” Stephanie says, more of a statement than a request. “Think you can teach an old dog new tricks, Cassandra Cain?”
Cass considers her. Her eyes are bright with determination, that same intensity Cass keeps catching glimpses of on the ice, when she lingers a couple seconds after changing, watching Stephanie call plays and brute-force her way across the ice. It’s compelling. She’s compelling, if Cass is being honest with herself, and she’s pretty. Cass doesn't usually let herself get distracted by that sort of thing, but it's unavoidable here, this close.
“Depends on the dog,” she says finally. Stephanie beams.