"It is rude." He stopped, the silver mesh catching the light, all that bare skin underneath and the costume clinging to him like it had been painted on. "What else?"
I didn't answer. We both knew what else.
Joel skated back toward me in one smooth push and stopped at the boards, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to look at him.
"You looked at me yesterday," he said quietly. "Like you wanted something."
"Yeah."
"Do you still want it?"
I'd faced down guys who had a foot on me and a hundred pounds. I'd taken hits meant to put me through the glass and gotten back up smiling. On the ice, I'd never been small.
But standing here, looking up at Joel in his ridiculous costume with his slicked-back hair and that voice, I wasn't thinking about hockey.
"Yeah," I said. "I still want it."
For a second I thought he was going to reach over the boards and take what I was offering, just grab me by the back of the neck and show me exactly what he was capable of.
Instead, he leaned back.
"Good," he said. "What kind of options?"
I held up the cups, and I was proud that my hands were steady.
"Black coffee. Or vanilla oat latte with an extra shot."
Joel reached over the boards and took the latte. His fingers brushed mine, cold from the ice, and stayed there a beat. Then he brought the cup to his lips.
He drank without looking away from me, a long, slow swallow, his throat working while his eyes stayed fixed on mine. And I stood there and watched him because what else was I going to do.
He lowered the cup.
"Good choice," he said. "The latte."
"The barista recommended it."
"I have something for you, too."
I hadn't expected that. "What?"
"In my bag. By the bench." He skated backward, still watching me. "Come on."
I followed him around to the rink entrance and stepped onto the rubber mats while he glided over to the bench. He unzipped a side pocket of his gear bag and pulled out a photograph, maybe five by seven, and held it out to me.
A competition shot of Joel mid-jump, his body a perfect arc against a blue backdrop, the angle making him look like he was flying. In the corner, in silver marker: To Sarah — Joel Coffey.
"You signed it," I said.
"You said she was a fan. And you can't tell her we've met." He was watching me with that unreadable expression again. "This way she gets something, and you don't have to explain how."
I stared at the photo, at his handwriting, at the fact that he'd thought about this and planned it and brought it with him this morning.
He'd been thinking about me. When we weren't in the same room, when I was lying in bed convinced he wanted nothing to do with me, he'd been doing this.
"Our secret," he said.
"Yeah," I said. "Our secret."
