I tell myself this has to be a good idea even as my skin prickles with doubt. Not only will I have a partner to practice with but I can explain Heath to Maggie too, and since he’ll be connected to my audition—which she’ll understand me wanting to keep secret—that’s all the reason I’ll need to give her not to mention him to anyone. And Heath and I can still see each other whether there’s a cloud in the sky or not. We’ll have a reason that goes beyond our brothers.
We won’t need the rain anymore.
“So you need somebody to practice with, off the ice?”
“The submission deadline for the audition is at the end of August,” I say. “So it would only be for six weeks or so.”
“I can probably do that,” he says, though I can tell from the way he keeps shifting his feet that he’s not sure this is a good idea.
So far we’ve spent an hour together here and there, usually with several feet of a tree branch between us, and they haven’t all gone well. What I’m asking for now will bring us much, much closer. And practicing—working with and physically relying on each other—is intimate.
The first fireworks burst in the darkening sky. I’m suddenly afraid, and my feet have barely left the ground.
CHAPTER 23
I’m early to our first practice. Heath is late.
When he pulls up and gets out of his truck, I jump up from the branch and brush off the back of my black leggings like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t. That guilty feeling intensifies as he approaches, his hands shoved into his pockets and his shoulders hunched high like he’s trying to ward off an icy wind.
Nothing about this afternoon is icy. We’re both already sweating, and we haven’t done anything yet.
“Sorry, I’m late,” he says. I wait for him to offer an explanation, but he doesn’t.
“It’s fine,” I say too brightly. “Gave me some time to mentally run through what I want us to work on. Thanks again for agreeing to help me.”
Heath doesn’t respond, but after a long moment he lifts his shoulders in an impatient gesture. “Is standing here part of what you want us to work on?”
I blink at him, the only response I allow myself to have to his curt words. They are way too reminiscent of our earlier interactions. I’d thought—hoped—we’d moved past that, or that we were at least trying to.
“Why are you even here?” I ask, softly but surely.
His response is just as calm. “I said I would help, so I’m here.”
“Last time we talked you seemed okay with helping me. Now you don’t.” That is putting it mildly. He’s practically vibrating with suppressed annoyance. I know I haven’t done anything to account for the shift.
“It’s freaking hot out here.” Only he doesn’t sayfreaking.
Yeah, it is hot, but it’s always hot. Sometimes I forget what it feels like not to have sticky skin. He’s not angry about the weather, so I don’t say anything, but I keep looking at him. He’s not a fan of that, because he starts to openly scowl at me.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Why are you mad?”
“’Cause I suddenly need a reason?”
“To be mad at me? Yeah.”
He half snorts. “Same reason, different day.”
I might have accepted that answer a couple weeks ago, but not anymore. His anger isn’t about me, not directly, but digging for the reason will likely make it worse. I don’t have to stand here and take it though.
“I don’t want your help if this is how it comes. I can literally go anywhere else if I want to be treated badly.”
His scowl slips. First a little, then a lot. In another minute, his features smooth completely. It’s like watching a gun uncock. He swallows before speaking.
“I’m sorry.” And it’s nothing like the clipped apology he gave me for being late. The words don’t come as easily, but this time he means them. “I had a bad day, but I don’t need to take it out on you.”
“Cal?”
