“See, you’re doing great,” I encourage when we’re a quarter of the way across the rink.
Of course, the second the words leave my mouth, Logan becomes unsteady and shaky on his skates. Instinctively, I grabfor his opposite elbow to give him some stability, and his fingers on his other hand wrap tightly around my bicep.
“You jinxed me,” he grumbles, glaring at me.
“Or you’re just learning,” I offer with a laugh. “You can’t expect to be perfect at it from the jump.”
He rolls his eyes. “If it’s genetics, then I should be. Oakley was doing this when he was in Kindergarten. So were you.”
“Yeah, but it’s easier to learn when you’re little. Lower center of gravity, or whatever physics is involved.”
A little huff leaves him, and he mumbles something under his breath that I can’t quite hear. I do think I catch the words “coming from a six-foot-three behemoth”in there, but I can’t be certain.
“You just have to keep going. It only gets easier from here,” I promise before releasing him. I still keep his hand in mine, though, letting him set the pace as we skate closer to center ice. By the time we’re three-quarters across, most of the tension and anxiety seems to have left his body, a fantastic improvement from even five minutes ago.
Unfortunately, mine is now chock full, thanks to my increased awareness of the other people on the ice as we pass by them—the othercouplesskating around and holding hands and being disgustingly cute. Not because they’re doing anything wrong or I’m worried Logan might collide with one of them; it’s because I’m jealous as hell. It’s because I want what they have.
It doesn’t matter that Logan and I look like all of them from the outside; I still know the truth.
We’re nothing like them. Because we aren’t real.
But, fuck, how I desperately wish we were.
My jaw aches from clenching it—same with my free hand I keep balling into a fist—and I shove the thoughts away. We might be selling a fantasy to everyone else, but I have to remember to live in reality.
This is just a lesson. Nothing more.
“So what comes next?” Logan asks once we reach the other side of the rink.
For the most part, he’s remained steady, not even needing my hand for support—not in the physical sense at least. It’s been more for confidence than anything. But nothing builds confidence like flying solo for the first time, so…
“What’s next is me letting go.”
His jaw tenses as he looks over at me, his fingers tightening around my hand as well. But instead of fighting me on the idea or refusing, he just nods.
So after turning him around, I release his hand, letting him glide beside me completely on his own, back toward the center of the rink.
He looks damn good, moving at a steady speed that’s just quick enough to have his scarf flapping slightly behind him. Compared to where he was when he stepped foot on the ice earlier, he may as well be a completely different person.
The only issue comes when a little girl skates up out of nowhere, not paying attention to where she’s going, and he realizes he doesn’t know how to stop—a rather large oversight on my part. Fortunately, I’m already there, grabbing his hand and pulling him in another direction before he can collide with the girl.
“You good?” I ask as I turn on my skates to face him. I place both my hands on his shoulders, my gaze traveling over his face, looking for any physical evidence of a collision, despite knowing there wasn’t one. “I’m sorry. I should have taught you to stop before I let you go solo, but you looked ready and—”
“I’m good.”
My lips part, and I’m about to start rambling on with another apology when the craziest thing happens. A massive grin breaks out across his face, his eyes almost squinting with how far up hischeeks are being pulled, and he starts laughing. It’s a sight and sound so rich with genuine happiness, one impossible to fake, and I can’t help but join him. Partly because it’s so infectious, but also because I realize this is the first time I’ve ever seen him like this.
For the briefest second, he’s not my grumpy roommate with a chip on his shoulder. He’s not the black sheep who hates skating or hockey. He’s not my fake boyfriend who, up until recently, couldn’t stand to be in the same room as me.
He’s just a guy, living in the moment.
But like all moments, they’re fleeting at best, and so is his smile. It slowly fades as our gazes stay locked, little puffs of winter air floating between them. But then my attention drops to the source, finding his lips parted ever so slightly, and I know I’m fighting a losing battle with my willpower.
Because seeing him that carefree and happy makes it damn near impossible to not kiss him. To not bridge the gap and—
“You fake it a little too well when you look at me like that,” he whispers, breaking through my thoughts and dragging my focus back to his face.
“Like what?”
