I am going to regret this.
The thought crosses my mind for the millionth time as I tighten the laces of one of the skates, my fingers fumbling against the stiff leather. Easton stands several feet away, leaning casually against the boards, looking pleased as punch that I’m joining him.
“Need help?” he calls, raising an eyebrow. “Make sure they’re tight enough so you don’t break an ankle.”
“Nah,” I say quickly, tightening the other with a little more force than necessary, as if to prove a point. I finish with a neat bow and sit up straighter. “I’ve got it.”
I wobble slightly as I rise to my feet.
Easton holds out his hand, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Just so you know, falling is part of the experience. I won’t judge you.”
“Super. Can’t wait.”
The skates feel uncomfortable and unsteady beneath me, and I grip the edge of the bench for balance, hoping he doesn’t notice.
Spoiler alert: He notices.
“Looking good,” he teases. “Very good. Very graceful.”
“Shut up,” I snap, shooting him a glare that only makes him laugh. I take a cautious step forward, my fingers gripping the wall for support as I shuffle toward the rink. “I don’t see what’s so hard about this.”
“Wait until you actually get out here,” he says, skating backward effortlessly as he watches me take one step at a time. “Baby steps.”
I bet he’s been skating since he was old enough to walk. Meanwhile, I feel like a newborn deer, all knees and no balance, clinging like my life depends on it.
“I’m fine,” I tell him defensively, fingers tightening on the edge of the plexi as I inch closer, my skates sliding awkwardly beneath me. “I’m totally fine.”
“Sure you are,” he says, the teasing edge in his voice making me want to smack him with his own hockey stick. “You’ve got this, Harper. I believe in you.”
I shoot him another glare, but it loses some of its impact when my left skate quivers, throwing me off balance.
“Relax,” he says, skating a little closer. “Let the ice do the work.”
“The ice is trying tokillme,” I mutter under my breath, but he hears it and laughs, the billowing sound echoing through the nearly empty rink.
“Trust me,” he says, holding out a hand. “Once you get moving, it’ll feel natural. You just have to let go.”
Let go?That is not happening!
I glance at his outstretched hand, then at the ice—then at hisface.
There’s no smugness in his expression, no mocking—just quietconfidence, like he knows I can do this even if I don’t believe it myself.
With a deep breath, I release my grip on the wall and take his hand. The moment our fingers touch, his grip tightens, warm and steady, securing me in a way that makes the ice feel less terrifying.
“There we go. Good job,” he cajoles softly. “One step at a time.”
I take another step, tentative. Easton’s grasp stays firm, keeping me upright. It feels like the rink has been plotting my downfall.
“See? Not so terrible,” he coaches, thumb brushing my palm. Back and forth.
Back.
Forth…
“I hate this.” I hold on tighter as I take another cautious step. Legs shaky, balance precarious—even with him guiding me.
“You’re doing great,” he says. “Maybe I won’t have to laugh at you after all.”
