Me
Not cool with kidnapping. Even if you ask permission first.
Noah
Practice just ended. Can you meet me at the rink?
I hesitate, then close the screen so he doesn’t see my dots in the bubble while I try to either psych myself to go or come up with a good excuse.
Me
What should I wear?
I cringe at it, but I need to know.
Noah
I’m sure whatever you’re wearing is fine, as long as you’re comfortable. What’s your shoe size?
Me
8
Should I bring my bike helmet? I think I still have my rollerblading pads somewhere.
Noah
Just bring yourself.
I won’t let you fall.
I want to call bullshit, but I also swoon, and the library suddenly feels ten degrees hotter. I like his text, feeling like a dork, but I don’t know how else to respond.
* * *
I make it to the rink in less than fifteen minutes, though I strongly debated going home to change or put on makeup. I still have Dallas’ fob, but it feels wrong to use it, so I text Noah. I’m debating pulling out my notebook when he pushes the door open.
“You came.” He smiles, which lights up his blue eyes, and my heart flutters.
“Are we allowed to be here?” I ask once it’s clear the place is empty.
“Perks of being the captain.”
Dallas used his keys to do things he shouldn’t have in the name of getting laid, but I don’t think Noah would risk his captaincy for the pleasure of teaching me to skate, so I assume we’re safe.
“Is anyone else coming?”
“Do you want there to be?” he asks, but before I have the chance to say something that might make things awkward, he says, “Come on,” and brings me by the hand to the bench players usually sit on. “Do you need to use the changing rooms?”
“Does this look good?” I ask, meaning is my outfit appropriate for what we’re about to do, but he takes it as an invitation to check me out, head to toe, and I swear I see something like desire in his eyes before he tells me what I’m wearing–leggings and a thin sweater–is fine.
I sit down to put on the skates, but he kneels in front of me and takes over.
“What are you doing?” I ask, hating how breathy I sound when he slips my foot into the skate, then rests it between his legs.
“Is this okay?” he verifies, probably because I’m nearly swooning and he’s used to helping children. I nod, not trusting my voice. “Skates need to fit, but not too tight, so I thought I’d check the size.”
“Okay,” I say like this is completely normal, watching him and trying to remember how to breathe as he laces my skates.
