“This is where I grew up,” I say quietly, tightening my arms around her. “That cabin up there belonged to my grandparents. Spent every winter out here until I was fifteen. The cabin on the other side belongs to the Kavanaghs. Cillian Kavanagh and I played pick up hockey every chance we got. ”
She turns in my arms, her eyes searching my face. “You brought me to your childhood home?”
I shrug, trying to play it off like it's not a big fucking deal, but we both know it is. I've never brought anyone here. Not even close.
“Thought you might like it,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You want to skate with me?”
Her eyes go glassy, tears gathering on her lashes as she stares up at me. But then her lips curve into a smile that punches me right in the chest.
“Of course I'd skate with you, baby,” she says, voice thick with emotion. “But I don't have any skates.”
I roll my eyes, fighting a smile. “As if I wouldn'tcome prepared.”
I walk to the truck bed, pulling out the duffel bag I packed last night while she was sleeping. Hennessy follows me to a wooden bench at the edge of the lake, her boots leaving small imprints in the fresh snow.
I pull a small handheld broom from the bag and sweep away the lingering snow from the bench. “Sit.”
She obeys, watching me with those big eyes as I kneel in front of her. I take her right foot in my hands, unlacing her boot and slipping it off. Her sock is ridiculous—bright red with little reindeer on it—and it makes something in my chest tighten.
I pull out a pair of brand new white figure skates. Her eyes widen when she sees them.
“You bought these for me?”
“Try them on,” I say instead of answering.
I guide her foot into the first skate, cradling her heel in my palm. It fits perfectly. I lace it up tight, making sure her ankle has proper support. I repeat the process with the other foot, aware of her eyes on me the entire time.
When I finish, I join her on the bench, pulling out my own black hockey skates. I lace mine up quickly, muscle memory taking over from years of doing this same motion before games.
“How did you know my size?” she asks, watching my fingers work.
“I pay attention,” I say simply. I've memorized every inch of her body, and know it better than my own at this point.
When I'm done, I stand, offering her my hand. “Ready?”
She takes my hand, and I pull her to her feet. She wobbles slightly, adjusting to the blades.
“Careful,” I say, steadying her with my hands on her waist. “Take it slow.”
I guide her to the edge of the lake. When we reach the ice, I step out first, testing it with my weight. Solid as a fucking rock. I extend my hand back to her, ready to help her take her first tentative steps.
“You good?” I ask, not wanting to assume anything. Her dad might be Javier fucking Vega, a former hockey star, but that doesn't mean she ever learned to skate. “We can take it real slow if you need to.”
Her lips curve into a mischievous smile that means trouble. She takes my hand, steps onto the ice—and then she's off, breaking away with a burst of speed that catches me completely off guard.
“What the fuck?” I mutter, watching as she glides effortlessly across the ice, her body moving with a natural grace that knocks the wind out of me.
She spins around to face me, skating backward now, her eyes dancing with challenge. “You coming, Coach, or you just gonna stand there with your jaw on the ice?”
That little brat. I push off hard, my hockey skates cutting into the ice as I chase after her. She laughs, the sound echoing across the frozen lake as she speeds away from me.
“My dad had me on skates before I could walk, Kingston!” she calls over her shoulder.
I'm gaining on her, but she's faster than I expected. She weaves and turns with the precision of someone who's spent serious time on the ice. When I'm almost close enough to grab her, she cuts hard to the left, spraying ice in my direction.
“Oh, it's like that?” I growl, changing direction to follow her. “You're in trouble now.”
We race across the lake, our breath coming out in white puffs against the cold air. She's fucking good—better than good—but I've got strength and reach on her. When I finally catch up, I wrap an arm around her waist from behind, lifting her slightly off the ice.
