I take it, allowing him to guide me onto the frozen surface. My ankles wobble, and I grab his arm with both hands. It’s been a long time since I’ve skated. “Don’t you dare let me fall, Brooksie.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Baby steps. Push off with one foot, glide with the other.”
He demonstrates, making it look effortless despite his shoulder. I try to copy him, moving with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. When did my balance get so bad? I need to add that to my workouts.
“That’s it.” He skates backward while holding both my hands. “You’re a natural.”
“Liar,” I say, but I’m smiling now, the remnants of my panic attack fading with each breath of crisp air.
“You’re too stiff.” He moves beside me, one arm around my waist for support. “Bend your knees a little. That’s it. Now push and glide.”
His teaching style surprises me, even though it shouldn’t. It’s just like when we were dance partners: he’s patient, encouraging, never condescending.
After a few laps around the lake’s edge, I’m feeling more confident, my muscle memory coming back. Not exactly ready for the Olympics, but at least I’m no longer clinging to Brooks.
“Better?” he says as we take a short break, standing at the edge.
“Much.” I smile up at him, genuinely grateful. “Thank you.”
He shrugs, but I can tell the compliment means something to him. “It’s what you do for the people you ca—” He stops, clears his throat. “For friends. It’s what you do for friends.”
Friends. Is that what we are now? After twenty years of antagonism, eleven days of fake dating, and one earth-shattering kiss that we’re still pretending didn’t rock both our worlds?
“Come on.” He tugs me back onto the ice. We skate side by side this time, my confidence growing with each push and glide. Brooks matches his pace to mine, occasionally offering a pointer or steadying hand when I wobble.
“You’re actually pretty good at this teaching thing,” I tell him. “Patient. Not what I would have expected from The King.”
“There’s a lot about me that might surprise you, too, Syd.”
“Like what?”
“Remember when you broke your arm playing soccer? Your freshman year, regional finals?”
I groan. “How could I forget? Worst pain of my life, and it cost us the championship.”
“You were incredible in that game. Three goals before that defender took you out.”
“You were there?” I’m shocked. “I don’t remember seeing you.”
“I was. When you went down, I thought you’d just get back up like always. But then you didn’t.”
“I had to be helped off the field, apparently. I don’t remember it.”
I nod. “Yeah. You were trying to convince the ref you could keep playing, even with your arm at that weird angle. And you refused medical care, but then you were dazed and out of it from the pain, so I helped you off.”
She gasps. “What? That was you?”
“Yeah. I stayed with you until your parents got there andtook you to the hospital.”
“Wow—I’m sorry I never thanked you for that. I didn’t know.” Regret creeps into my voice. “I was so mad about missing the rest of the game, I think I actually cursed at the person, which was you.”
“You had quite the vocabulary.” He smiles at the memory. “Called me things I didn’t even know you knew.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. It was impressive.” He’s quiet for a moment, seeming to debate with himself. Then he says, “I actually came in and checked on you during several soccer games.”
This nearly throws me off balance. “How did I never see you?”
