"Very helpful," I say flatly. My hands have a death grip on the boards, knuckles gone white, and they're not budging anytime soon.
He sighs and skates back to me, stopping with a neat little turn that emphasizes the gap between our abilities. "Look, do you want help or not? Because I can leave you to your wall-hugging if you prefer."
I stare at him, surprised by the offer. "Why would you help me?"
"Because watching you inch around the perimeter for the next hour will be painful for everyone involved," he says withthat direct honesty I'm starting to recognize as his default mode. "Besides, if we have to suffer through these mandatory things, we might as well suffer together."
The simple statement hits me harder than it should, like someone reaching across a wall I've put up for years. It's not like he's offering to be real friends or anything, and I did suggest we team up to deal with Drew's endless brotherhood activities.
"Fine," I give in, releasing my death grip on the wall slightly. "What's first?"
"Take my arm," he says, positioning himself beside me. "Don't death-grip it, just enough for balance."
Hesitantly, I grab his forearm. Solid. More muscle there than the saggy hoodie suggests.Does he work out? He must, there's muscle definition under there, not just, wait, why am I thinking about what's under Caleb's…
My feet slip. Both of them, in opposite directions.
This is it, I'm going down hard?—
Caleb's hand shoots out, grabbing my other arm and hauling me back to vertical before my arse meets ice. "Stay centered."
"Thanks." It comes out breathless but genuine. First time thanking Caleb for anything, probably.
"Now, bend your knees slightly and keep your weight centred. We'll take it slow."
As we begin to move, my initial panic subsides slightly. With Caleb next to me, I stay on my feet, though I move like a robot while he glides around like it's nothing.
"Not completely hopeless," he says after we've made half a circuit. "Though I wouldn't quit your day job to join the NHL."
"No chance of that," I say, risking a small smile. "Technology doesn't fight back when you try to master it."
"Clearly you've never used Windows Vista," he says, startling me into a laugh that nearly costs me my balance.
For the next half hour, Caleb guides me around the rink, giving short but helpful tips. I slowly get better, moving from about to crash to kind of steady, and even manage to skate a little without grabbing the wall or Caleb.
"Look at you two!" Gavin calls as he whizzes past, considerably more adept than I would have expected for a football player. "The dynamic duo in action!"
Caleb rolls his eyes, but he doesn't rush to deny what Gavin said or move away from me. He just adjusts his hold to help me skate a bit more confidently.
"Ignore him," he says quietly. "Focus on your balance."
Focusing on my balance, like he says, the skating actually gets easier. Almost fun even. Caleb's hand is still on my arm, steadying me through the turns, and there's this stupid moment where my brain supplies an image of those arms around me in a completely different context?—
Nope. Not doing that.
We're allies. Temporary ones. That's it. Nothing more complicated than two people who've decided not to murder each other during mandatory frat activities.
Except his hand is still on my arm, and some traitorous part of my brain is wondering what it would feel like if?—
"You're overthinking it," Caleb says, and I nearly trip again because shit, can he read minds now?
"Just concentrating," I lie.
Chapter 7
Spreadsheets and Sexual Tension
CALEB
