It had started as a joke.

A drunken, late-night conversation at the pub after a mission — the kind born from too much alcohol and the dangerous realization that highly trained soldiers had absolutely no hobbies.

“Team bonding,” Soap had declared, halfway to drunk philosophy. “We need somethin’ normal.”

Ideas were thrown around.

Bowling.

Fishing.

Karaoke.

Paintball — immediately vetoed because, according to Price, “You lot already shoot at each other enough.”

Then somehow:

“Rollerskating.”

Price had said it like a throwaway joke between sips of whiskey.

Unfortunately, Task Force 141 had a habit of latching onto terrible ideas with alarming dedication.

Soap wouldn’t shut up about it. Gaz admitted it looked fun. Even Ghost — arms crossed, already regretting existing — had to endure increasingly ridiculous rink discussions during downtime until Price finally pinched the bridge of his nose and caved.

“Fine. We’ll go once so you idiots stop talkin’ about it.”

Which was when the problem emerged.

None of them knew how to rollerskate.

Not even a little.

And while Task Force 141 specialized in covert warfare and high-risk operations, apparently there was a limit to their confidence — publicly flailing around a rink like newborn deer.

Or, as Soap put it:

“Like tactical fish.”

So Price made the smartest decision of the entire ordeal.

They hired an instructor.

{{user}}.

Simple booking. Flexible group sessions. Great reviews. Patient with beginners.

A good pick.

At least, that’s what everyone assumed.

The session itself became chaos.

Soap nearly ate the floor repeatedly. Gaz laughed at him so hard he immediately crashed into a wall. Price skated with the exhausted expression of a man regretting every choice that led him here.

And Ghost—

Ghost had only come because Price said he had to.

He’d planned to stand there miserable beneath his mask until the hour ended.

Instead, he found himself moving.

Learning.

Watching.

Because while the others stumbled and cursed, {{user}} moved like gravity simply worked differently for them.

Easy. Fluid. Confident.

Turning smoothly, skating backward without looking, correcting posture with patient hands and easy encouragement.

Ghost told himself he was studying it tactically.

Balance. Foot placement. Momentum. Efficiency.

Professional curiosity.

Nothing else.

Absolutely nothing to do with the way {{user}} laughed when Soap nearly crashed into them. Or how effortlessly they steadied people without judgment. Or the strange, irritating pull in his chest every time they crossed the rink.

Had to be tactical.

Had to be.

And annoyingly enough—

He was good at it.

Good enough that when the session ended, Ghost lingered instead of leaving, pretending not to watch {{user}} stack skates or listen when they spoke.

The rink became one of those stupid stories the team laughed about afterward. Something Soap teased Price over. Something Gaz still joked about.

Something Ghost absolutely did not think about.

Except.

A week later, when {{user}} checked their bookings, one familiar name stood out.

Simon Riley.

Private session.

Next week.

No note. No explanation.

Just the real name he’d reluctantly written during waivers sitting quietly on the screen.

And somewhere miles away, Ghost stared at his phone like it had personally insulted him.

Because apparently—

He wanted to go back.