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1988
“Almost twenty years after the founding of this elite institution, our proud tradition of excellence continues…”
Viper gives the same damn graduation speech every single time. Names and dates change, of course, but the main thrust of it must be a Xerox of a Xerox of a Xerox of the speech he’s been using since 1975, probably.
“We challenged you to fly against the very best, to judge who among you would stand at the pinnacle of excellence, soaring above all others…”
It took Maverick until the third ceremony to notice. Now he can silently recite along. You could play a drinking game — One sip every time Viper says the word tradition; two for excellence; three for elite.
“Now, we ask you, the elite, to take that expertise and raise the bar higher…”
By the end you’d be pleasantly buzzed. Could get into worse trouble if the reception offered anything stronger than beer and cheap champagne.
“…and keep the tradition alive. Good luck.”
Viper wraps up his spiel and the audience breaks into applause.
Another session in the books.
Maverick stays out of the way at the reception. As the newest kid on the block, nothing’s expected of him at these shindigs but to show up, look presentable, stay reasonably sober, and refrain from hitting on anyone’s sister or girlfriend.
He knows the smart and strategic thing to do would be to hang around and schmooze with the higher-ups, but fuck that. He’ll stay long enough to finish one drink, then slip out. No one will miss him. The graduates are too busy congratulating (or commiserating with) each other, and he certainly has nothing to say to the civilian guests, so he slinks along the periphery, scanning the crowd.
There’s Bigfoot and Dusty posing for photos, clutching their shiny trophies. Viper turning on the charm for someone’s mother. Two bored civilians stacking paper cups into a pyramid. Jester talking the ear off some Lieutenant Commander. Someone’s teenage brother furtively strolls by an empty table, swipes an unattended bottle of beer, and darts away.
Way to go, kid. Maverick raises his own brew in admiration and solidarity.
He lets his eyes drift back across the room, drawn to Jester who’s looking almost comically intense, leaning forward, one hand on the other guy’s elbow, a taller blond—
Maverick inhales the mouthful of beer he meant to swallow.
When did he—
No one told me—
Does this mean—
“You OK there, son?” Someone’s dad, passing by on the way to the finger-foods table, thumps him on the back a few times and offers him a napkin.
“Thanks,” he wheezes, sinuses burning; struggling to refocus his sights on Jester and—
Maverick hasn’t seen Ice since… since.
Since he came back to Miramar. And Ice didn’t.
Two years Iceman’s been out on deployment, never passing within spitting distance of California, so far as Maverick knows. And now he struts up to TOPGUN graduation like they rolled out the red carpet just for him.
At some point in the past two years he dropped the platinum-blond-gelled-to-the-sky look and reverted to what Maverick assumes must be his natural color, dark gold, with a side part that looks like he charted it with a ruler, not a strand out of place. Maddeningly perfect, like he stepped directly out of a recruitment poster. A model specimen of All-American Manhood, all spacious skies and amber waves of grain.
No points for guessing Jester’s topic of conversation. They’ll be down another instructor soon; Nitro’s second baby’s on the way and his wife’s lobbying hard to move closer to her family on the East Coast. Naturally Jester and Viper would be wooing other luminaries for the job. And there’s no one more luminous than Ice.
He watches Jester introduce Ice to the latest Top Gun champions, handshakes and backslaps all around. A convocation of the best and brightest.
Maverick keeps his distance from their charmed circle. He and Ice haven’t spoken in two years.
(That’s not true. Ice called him once, on Goose’s birthday, and they had a careful non-conversation about nothing. If that counts.)
Otherwise, the only intel he’s heard about Ice is that five months ago he got into a skirmish with a MiG-30. Viper broke the news, beaming like he was the one who’d taken the shot, and Maverick’s stomach plummeted into freefall. Wasn’t that just lovely; Ice out there defending the Free World against the threat of annihilation and Maverick in here sitting behind a desk processing flight data reports.
And then, after the initial sting began to fade, came a different flavor of concern— Who was flying on Ice’s wing; could they keep up with him; did they have his back? It’s four-dimensional chess up there and Ice is a Grandmaster; not many can hold their own with him. Not one of the Top Guns promoted through the program since Summer ’86 could touch him.
Ice breaks away from the group at the front and heads in Maverick’s general direction.
Maverick instinctively takes evasive maneuvers, trying to melt into the crowd. He navigates through clumps of small-talking guests making plans to hit up the Zoo or SeaWorld later, lurks behind a group of blackshoes debating how many states Bush will carry in the upcoming election, and then, figuring he’s safely lost in the shuffle, cautiously emerges near the southwest exit.
And there’s Iceman in the flesh, life-size and immaculate in his dress blues, holding a plastic flute of flat champagne like it’s a royal scepter.
Maverick planned out what he’d say, if he ever came face-to-face with Ice again. It’s a really good line. Clever; a little sarcastic; devastatingly cool.
Hell if he can remember it now.
Ice just meets his eyes and nods wordlessly, so Maverick does the same.
Yeah, that feels about right. It’s exactly how they’d last parted ways. No need to throw a ticker-tape parade or anything; they’re not teeny-boppers who won the homecoming game.
Nothing like whatever-that-was that day on the carrier deck. Excess of adrenaline and patriotic sentiment.
“Long time,” Ice offers.
“Didn’t recognize you without the—” Maverick gestures at his own hair.
Ice lifts one shoulder; lets it drop. “Too high-maintenance.”
“So are you back-back, or—”
Ice shakes his head; one sharp jerk of the chin. “Just a few days.”
“Right.”
Of course Ice isn’t back-back or somebody would have said something, wouldn’t they? Even to a nobody like Maverick.
“Nice ceremony.”
“Feels like a letdown when it’s not interrupted by an international crisis.”
“Yeah, the young whippersnappers these days don’t know how easy they have it.” Ice’s lips twist wryly. “I’ve crossed paths with a few of your former students out on the high seas.”
Maverick’s more startled than he should be. As cut off and stranded as he sometimes feels here, the naval aviation world isn’t that huge. Even if he and Ice never set eyes on each other again, they’d still be connected through the students — envoys skimming over the water, intersecting lines of latitude and longitude like a bridge (or a net), crossing the distance between them.
He laughs uneasily, suspecting an ambush. “What, did they complain about me?”
“Didn’t have to say anything. I could tell by their technique they’d spent time with you. But, yes, your name did come up in conversation once or twice.”
Ice flashes an unexpected grin.
Maverick narrowly avoids huffing another snootful of beer.
Because, sure, he remembers that smile; the way Ice’s cheek dimples up; the way his eyes go bright and molten; but being hit with the full force of it at close range is a few extra orders of magnitude.
“Are you being a good role model for your students?” Ice’s eyes crinkle with amusement.
“Me?” Maverick scoffs. “You’re the role model. I’m more of a— cautionary tale.”
Ice’s teasing gleam fades, turning thoughtful. “They really look up to you.”
Maverick takes a sip of beer to hide his grimace, bracing for the punchline.
“I bet Merlin you wouldn’t last three full sessions,” Ice says, and calmly holds out a napkin when Maverick starts choking. “And, no, not because I expected you to fuck up and get sent packing. I figured you’d be bored out of your mind by now.”
Ice looks like he might, possibly, consider being impressed.
Maverick takes another drink as an excuse to break eye contact.
Bored isn’t the word.
Returning to Miramar as the Prodigal Hero of the Cold War had been great — for the proverbial fifteen minutes. Once the afterglow wore off, Maverick found his circumstances considerably less glamorous than he’d imagined. This isn’t the job he thought he was signing up for. Instead of starring in an aerobatics show every day, he spends the majority of his time numbing his mind with reams of paperwork, numbing his ass in interminable meetings, and numbing his soul with never-ending bureaucratic bullshit.
When a new cohort arrives for training, every session it’s the same. He’s the most junior instructor on the team with the least amount of clout. His more seasoned colleagues get all the prime assignments, leaving Maverick stuck running remedial drills or playing minor supporting roles, when he gets to go up at all.
The students react with a mixture of admiration and resentment upon meeting an instructor who’s roughly their own age. The greener pilots idolize him for the first few days, until the inevitable moment when he has to assert his rank and serve out some well-earned discipline. After that the spell is broken; his wings are tarnished; he’s revealed he’s not actually “one of them” after all, just another authority figure like all the rest. Usually they’re back on decent terms by Graduation Day, but they never treat him quite the same way they did in the beginning.
The cockier pilots see him as a hurdle to kick down, to prove he’s no better than they are. When they catch on that he didn’t even graduate top of his class? The knives come out, and he’s forced to spend all his energy fighting to earn the barest minimum of their respect.
On his best days he can see a light at the end of the runway; can see he’s made at least a small difference for his students; can see what his future could be a few miles down the road if he stays focused and keeps his eyes on the horizon. On his worst, he feels like one of those washed-up losers who’s edging thirty but still parties with the high school kids, a has-been who peaked early and can’t let go of his glory days, who never tried hard enough to hack it in the real world.
And most days, after the jets are back in the hangar and the students have decamped to the bar and the other staff have gone home to their families, he feels… out of place. The leftover; the odd one out. A stranger in both worlds, wondering if he’s made a mistake to anchor himself here, floundering and unable to pull himself out of the stall.
It’s like he’s crashing in slow-motion and no one ever looks his way long enough to see. Some mornings he fantasizes what would happen if he just… stopped showing up to work. Viper probably wouldn’t notice until his desk collapsed under the weight of unfinished paperwork.
And if he sometimes thinks it wouldn’t be terrible to have a familiar face around; if his mind sometimes wanders to a ship at sea, thousands of miles away…
Maverick condenses all this into an acceptable response.
“Best decision of my life. I love every minute. Living the dream.”
“Well, I’m sorry I bet against you. It’s a mistake I won’t repeat.” Ice raises his champagne in an ironic salute. Still doesn’t drink any.
“What about you — aren’t you sick of living inside a tin can yet? Can’t get enough of 30-second showers and ducking every time you walk through a doorway?” Maverick prods. “You ever think about instructing?”
“I am instructing,” Ice says evenly. “In the field. That is the point of the program. We can’t all go back.”
And Maverick wonders, not for the first time, if Ice stays away because of him; if he feels that Maverick took his rightful place at TOPGUN. Or, hell, if Viper wishes he could trade. Don’t ask unless you’re sure you want to know the answer, he told himself, so he’s sure as shit never gonna ask.
“Don’t tell me Jester didn’t ask you the exact same thing.”
Ice smiles again but this time it’s the other one, all jagged edges and reptilian chill. “Don’t worry, Maverick, I’m not here to horn in on your territory.”
A familiar prickle of irritation creeps under Maverick’s collar. “Right, you should stay out on patrol. The Navy needs model officers like you on duty to correct all the bad habits the new kids are learning from me.”
What was left of Ice’s smile vanishes. “You can drop the false modesty act. It’s not as cute as you think.”
Another lesson Maverick’s forgotten; how Ice edges you backward one half-step after another and you don’t realize it until you stumble into quicksand. He must be more desperate for company than he thought if he almost lulled himself into feeling nostalgic for Kazansky. The sooner Ice ships out again, the better.
“What do I have to brag about? You’re the one who won the trophy,” Maverick snaps, and regrets it; hates the sound of his own voice, petulant and defensive, a little boy crying over spilled milk long since evaporated.
“Hah.” Ice’s laugh lands like a hatchet blade. “Two years ago? Ancient history, Maverick. Out there, all anyone cares about is what you’re doing tomorrow.”
The prickling under Maverick’s collar heats into a flush. “Yeah, and all I’m doing tomorrow, and the next day, and every day after that, is sitting on my ass pushing papers. Not likely to run into a MiG-30 anytime soon.”
Ice shuts down like Maverick kicked his power cord.
Maverick’s left spinning in his wake as Ice instantly retreats a thousand miles behind his eyes. Viper had made the encounter sound like a game. Like a training exercise; a simple matter of putting an overconfident student back in his place. Maverick of all people should know better.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.” Ice stares through his champagne. A stray bubble peels itself off the side of the cup, somersaults to the surface and bursts.
This seems like it should be the appropriate moment for a Classified joke, but it’s so obviously not, Maverick flails in search of steadier ground.
“Sorry I didn’t get any Polaroids,” Ice says with a horrible, forced smile; but the curtain slipped and now Maverick can see all the machinery frantically whirring behind that blank wall; Fuck, is it like that for him all the time?
Maverick gropes for a conversational lifeline and lands on—
“Charlie went back to D.C.”
It’s year-old news.
“I heard,” Ice says with zero inflection.
“She’s working for the State Department now. Top Secret security clearance; briefings with the Joint Chiefs; the whole nine yards.”
“Sorry.” Ice says to his champagne.
Which stings; is that what Ice thinks? That he’s some pitiful loser who got left behind?
“I mean, Miramar was just a stepping-stone for her. There was no reason for her to stay, so…” Get off the Charlie subject. “So, how’s Stinger; does he miss me?”
“I’m on the Constellation now.”
Maverick bites his tongue; he should have known that.
Ice bares his teeth. “But I’m sure his days are dark and empty without you around.”
“You still flying with Slider?”
“Mm.” Ice’s eyes flick away. “Maybe not much longer. He and Sherri have gotten pretty serious. They’re both tired of the long-distance thing. I think he’s looking around for an exit.” His eyes scan restlessly over Maverick’s head, like he’s the one scoping out possible escape routes.
“So you’d be a free agent. With your pick of assignments.”
“I’ll go where I’m ordered.”
His nothing-expression and toneless voice reignite Maverick’s irritation into full-fledged anger. “Yeah, you’ll do as you’re told, because you’re such a good role model.”
“He reminded me of you.”
“Wha— Who?” The swerve leaves Maverick dangling in midair.
“The other pilot.” Ice addresses the empty space above Maverick’s left shoulder. “The MiG. The way he flew.”
“Why, because he could fly circles around you?” is on the tip of Maverick’s tongue, but he swallows it back. Why does he always do that? Why does he have to turn everything into a competition? He doesn’t have to prove anything to Ice anymore.
“What did you do?” he says instead.
“What did I do?” Ice looks at him incredulously. “My job, Maverick.” He crooks his index finger and fires an invisible trigger.
And Maverick might stand there forever, rooted to the spot, Ice’s phantom missile exploding in his chest, until a burst of laughter from a nearby cluster of Lieutenants brings the rest of the crowd back into focus.
Ice doesn’t react to the disruption. He’s still frozen on the other side of the world, watching the MiG spiral in its endless final dive, and what kind of a wingman would Maverick be if he didn’t try to catch him before he hit the water, too?
“You want to get out of here?” Maverick hears himself say. “I’ll buy you a real drink.”
He realizes how pathetic the words sound as soon as they’re out of his mouth; if Ice is only stateside for a few days his priorities surely don’t include slumming with an old classmate he never even liked. He starts revving himself up to laugh off the incoming rejection.
Ice tips back his head and drains the champagne in one swallow.
“Yeah, OK.”
2013
“Aviators, you arrived here nine weeks ago, already more accomplished than 99% of pilots on this planet. Tonight, you stand before us, having grown in ways you couldn’t have imagined. This is not an end, it’s a beginning.”
Maverick gripes and procrastinates over his speech every single time.
As usual, he’d been up past 3 AM, staring into the blank screen of his laptop while cursing and tearing his hair. After all these years there can’t possibly be anything new to say at Commencement. Finally he pulled it together at the last minute, the way he always does. There’s always something new to say, because the class is different every time. If he thinks too hard about how many cohorts he’s promoted through the program, he’ll get vertigo.
“But even more important than the practical skills you’ve developed, are the relationships you have forged with your fellow pilots.”
All these years later everything’s still worth it. The long hours, the aggravation, the bureaucracy, the challenging personalities; even the move to the desert.
“It’s my privilege and my joy to watch you build these connections. While tomorrow we’ll go our separate ways, the bonds you’ve formed here will last a lifetime. Hold them close, because someday, you will cross paths again. Possibly in ways you didn’t expect.”
He glances over at the head table and ad libs, “As I can personally attest.”
Laughter ripples through the audience.
By this point everyone’s heard enough from Maverick; time to hand over the stage to his crew. He likes to give each of his instructors an active role in the ceremony. Partly so they feel a sense of ownership in the proceedings; after all, they’re the ones who do the most important day-to-day work of running the program. But also because there’s a limit to how much formal speechifying he can handle on his own.
“…never forget that we are stronger together. When we cooperate as a team, there’s no limit to what we can achieve. On that note, please welcome Commander Vanessa Campbell, Callsign: Ripley, and our all-star panel of instructors, to present your graduating class of Summer 2013.”
Maverick rides the wave of applause back to the head table, slides gratefully back into his seat and turns to his right, to look for the ovation that matters most.
Ice reaches over and squeezes his hand.
And then leaves his hand there covering Maverick’s.
Right on top of the table.
In front of the entire room.
That’s… new.
Newer than the titanium alloy band gleaming on Ice’s third finger.
Not to be outdone, Maverick claps his left hand over Ice’s, planting his ring on top.
When he looks up again, Ice is pivoted back toward the stage, calmly watching the team of instructors take turns calling out the graduates’ names.
At the reception Maverick wishes he could be twenty places at once, because he wants to meet them all — the Families of Origin and the Families of Choice. He needs to know the story behind Jackpot’s Jersey accent; where Hopscotch developed a taste for Vegemite; meet the person who taught Gizmo that deadly overhand serve. Every time, he’s touched by how many people make the trek out here for Commencement. Fallon isn’t exactly a glamorous tourist destination in its own right, so he appreciates when his students’ loved ones recognize the enormity of what they’ve accomplished.
Ice is ostensibly the Designated Driver so Maverick can toast with his students, but he’s always too keyed-up and distracted to swallow more than half a glass of anything. He’d set his champagne (California sparkling wine, actually) down on a table somewhere three conversations ago; it’s long gone by now.
After one last handshake with Cosmo’s grandmother, Maverick pauses to check the pulse of the room.
He breezes by the picked-over hors d’oeuvres table where Commander Ripley is plunking blueberries one by one into her California sparkling wine.
“Another successful session in the books.”
Apparently one damn minute to rest on his laurels is too much to ask for.
Ripley snaps the serving tongs at his face. “Look alive, Captain. Your wingman needs you to rescue him.”
“I have my eye on the situation.”
He’s still surprised at how the smallest of pleasures can be the keenest— Seeing you across the room; knowing you’re going home with me.
“Looks like a very serious Top Gun conversation. You’re the one who should go over there.”
“That level of extraction is above my pay grade, sir.”
“Let him be a hero for a few minutes; he can handle himself.”
“I wouldn’t keep him waiting if I were you. But it’s your funeral.”
“All right, I’m going. Time to collect my golden trophy. Don’t tell him I called him that; he’ll make me walk home.”
Maverick snatches a full glass of sparkling wine (rapidly losing its sparkle) from the table, and, thus armed, heads over to where Mistral has Ice locked in her crosshairs.
No one showed up for Mistral. Her classmates are here to cheer her on, of course, but no friend, family member, or significant other came specifically to watch her walk across the stage and claim her trophy. Maverick noticed, and he knows that Ice noticed, and he knows that Ice noticed that he noticed.
Her Top Gun trophy lies forgotten in the shadow of a precariously-balanced stack of plates oozing hummus and olive oil. Maverick discreetly relocates it to a safer quadrant of the table before daring to approach the conversation-in-progress.
Even before he’s close enough to hear, Maverick knows exactly what Mistral is saying. He can tell by the expression on her face; the carefully-neutral expression on Ice’s. It’s a variation of the words so many others have said to them over the past year.
Mistral breaks off as Maverick sidles up and lightly knocks his shoulder against Ice’s bicep. Ice meets his eyes briefly in an exchange Maverick knows that the average bystander will see as an affectionate nonverbal greeting, but that he can correctly interpret as, Where the hell have you been?
Mistral turns her too-earnest gaze on Maverick. “Captain Mitchell. I was just telling Captain Kazansky how much it’s meant to me — how much it means to all of us — to have the two of you as role models.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
They’re used to being recognized for the flying, the leadership, the military commendations; for launching the careers of the hundreds of graduates who have passed through the program.
“You don’t just talk about teamwork. You live the example every day, on and off the job. And you’re not afraid to live proudly as who you are.”
They’re not used to being celebrated for the quieter actions. Holding hands in public. Wearing matching rings. Going home together at the end of the day. Small gestures that shouldn’t be remarkable, and yet people keep remarking on them.
Representative Hero isn’t a job either of them signed up for, and it’s not one they’ve learned to inhabit comfortably. It’s barely a year since they went public. (Officially, anyway; most of the regular staff clocked them long ago.) But after seeing enough firsthand evidence of how important it is to people, it’s a role they’re willing to play.
Maverick tucks his hand into the crook of Ice’s elbow. Normally he lets Ice take the lead with PDA, since he’s always been touchier about it. So to speak. But Maverick’s feeling lucky tonight.
“I learned the hard way that trying to be someone I’m not is a loser’s game,” Maverick says. “So when I found someone who was willing to put up with me as-is, I knew I’d better grab him and hang on, and to hell with the rest of the world.”
“Wise words,” Ice says. “You should have put that in your speech.”
“Well, we can write it together next time.” Maverick bites back further comment.
(Ice’s sole contribution to his creative process had been to amble through the kitchen at 0115, look at Maverick hunched in the blue glow of his laptop, tell him, “You’ll figure it out,” and return to bed.)
“Not to put any undue influence on your post-graduation plans,” he says to Mistral, “but I hope Iceman’s been telling you that returning to TOPGUN as an instructor was the smartest decision he ever made. Well—” He shoots Ice a sidelong glance. “Second-smartest decision.”
In fact, Maverick can think of a few others that he’d rank higher, but he can’t mention them in polite conversation.
“You’re being too generous.” Ice clamps his free hand on top of Maverick’s fingers. “Actually, that was Maverick’s smartest decision when he talked me into coming back.”
“Oh, that was pure selfishness. I just wanted the opportunity to fly with the best.”
“But I came back because I wanted to fly with the best.”
Maverick’s surprised Ice is so chatty; he usually tends to be raw and prickly after these types of encounters. Maybe he’s getting used to them.
“That’s it. I’m here to rescue you.” Commander Ripley swoops in. “These two can go on like that allll night long. Trust me, it’s only cute the first ten or fifteen times.”
She links arms with Mistral and tugs her away toward her fellow graduates, leaving Maverick and Ice in a small oasis of peace.
“Happy anniversary,” Maverick says softly. “Twenty-five years since you walked back into my life. And stayed.”
“Coincidentally, the same year most of our current graduates were born.”
“Ugh. Way to kill the mood, Kazansky.” Maverick playfully socks Ice in the ribs and notices that both his hands are empty; he misplaced his drink again.
“I meant it as a compliment. No one else has a longer tenure with the program.”
“I never would have stuck it out this long without you flying on my wing.”
“Nowhere else I’d rather be.”
The two of them survey the room; the crowd is starting to thin. It’s their usual policy to make a graceful exit before the graduates head off to the afterparty, which the instructors are not supposed to know about and are definitely not invited to.
“So, we’re doing PDA now.” Maverick settles his hand lightly on the small of Ice’s back.
“Sorry.” Ice doesn’t sound remotely apologetic. “I shouldn’t have surprised you like that. I got caught up in the moment.”
“What’s with you tonight? Getting caught up in the moment is more my style. Meanwhile, I’m standing here exercising heroic restraint in not sliding this hand six inches due south.”
“Your students look up to you,” Ice chides him. “Be a good role model for them.”
“You’re the role model. I’m the cautionary tale.”
“Fine, then, behave yourself for the sake of my reputation.”
“Excuse me? I’m the best thing that ever happened to your reputation, Kazansky. You don’t think people respect you because of the flying? Anyone can see that your best quality is your top-shelf taste in men.”
“Don’t be modest. Many people would argue that your taste in men far surpasses mine.”
“Far surpasses? Bold claim. You have any hard data to back that up?”
“We could hold a vote right now with everyone in the room.”
“Uh-huh. How much you want to bet majority says your taste in men is superior?”
“I’d never bet against you.”
“Well, I’d never bet against you.”
“All right. In the interest of compromise, I’m willing to concede that we’re equal in that regard.”
“I can live with that. It’s an honor to tie with The Great Iceman. What do I win?”
“A free ride home.”
“Is that it?”
“What were you expecting?”
“I can think of a few ideas. You held my hand in front of everyone! If you’re going to take shocking liberties like that in public, you can’t blame me for questioning your intentions once you get me alone.”
“If you’re worried your virtue’s in danger, you can ask Ripley to drive you.”
“Hey, you know Danger is my middle name. I’ll take my chances with you.”
Ice tilts his head toward the corner exit. “Ready to make a strategic retreat?”
“Hold my hand, Kazansky. Not because I’m a Representative Hero, but because I’m a shallow pig and I want everyone to know that you’re leaving the party with me.”
“I hate to burst your bubble, but no one’s looking at us.”
There was a time when that would have grated on Maverick’s ego, but now it’s a relief. This is the community he and Ice have built — one that’s strong enough to sustain itself without the two of them watching over it every second.
“Fine.” Maverick sighs. “It’s like old times— you and me, sneaking out together.”
“Come on.” Ice squeezes his hand. “I’ll guarantee you a private afterparty that’s more thrilling than whatever the students have planned.”
“I’m right here on your wing. Always.”
And the next time anyone thinks to look for them, they’re gone.