“Just walk but glide?” I mumble. “Yep, that’s clear as mud.”
He chuckles. “Try it. Push off with your right foot.”
I do, and move approximately two inches before my left foot slides out from under me. He catches me before I face-plant.
“You’re doing good. Try again.”
We make slow, awkward progress across the pond. Miles skates effortlessly, while I look like a newborn calf discovering its legs. He doesn’t make me feel like a fool for it, though. He keeps that steady, encouraging smile in place and finds something to praise with every tiny improvement.
“When did you learn to skate?” I ask.
“I was three, I think.”
“Show off. Who taught you?”
“My dad.” A small smile crosses his face. “He played in the league, too.”
“Is that why you wanted to do it? Play hockey for a living?”
He considers it. “I love the game. That’s why I do it. But growing up with it…” He adjusts his grip on my hands. “It was always there, you know? Was music like that for you?”
He makes hockey sound like both a comfort and an inevitability.
“My grandmother was a singer. She lived with us when I was young, used to sing me Dolly Parton songs.”
“When’re you going to sing for me?”
Without thinking, I sing a few lines ofDo I Ever Cross Your Mind, the song my grandmother used to sing while she braided my hair. My voice is small out here, swallowed by the trees and open air.
When I stop, my lips curve. “That was her favorite.”
“I think you might’ve made it mine, too.”
I duck my head, pretending to focus on my feet, and we both fall silent.
“Got some news this morning,” Miles says after a while. “Before I woke you up.”
I don’t know what to make of his expression. It’s happy, but there’s something layered underneath. Nerves? Excitement?
“Well, don’t hold out on me, what is it?” I jostle his hands, but it throws off my balance, so I stop.
“I got selected for Team Canada. For the 4 Nations Face-Off.”
“That’s amazing!” The words burst out of me, and without fully thinking it through, I jump. Luckily, Miles catches me around the waist and sets me back on my feet.
He stares at me, mouth twitching. “You have no idea what that is, do you?”
“Guilty.” I beam at him. “Tell me.”
He skates, pulling me along. “It’s replacing All-Star Weekend this year. Kind of like a mini-Olympics, but not nearly that cool.”
“Sounds pretty cool to me. When is it?” I duck my chin against the cold.
“February.” His gaze drifts to something over my shoulder, then comes back to me. “I’ll be gone about a week and a half for practices and games.”
A month from now.
Once he’s back, we’ll still have four months. Time that suddenly feels like both plenty and nowhere near enough.
