I laugh, and he reaches over to interlace his fingers with mine. Even through our gloves, I imagine I can feel the heat of his skin, and I tilt in a little closer, bumping our shoulders together as we walk.
We’re almost to Lincoln Center when we spot her: Xinyan and a couple of other students I don’t recognize, all trotting toward the park with what look to be cafeteria trays tucked under their arms.
Jamie spots them the same time I do. “Hey, Xinyan!” he calls, and she turns toward the sound of his voice.
“Well, look who it is,” she says, grabbing the elbow of one of herfriends to make sure she isn’t left behind. “The prodigy himself. And herself,” she adds with a nod toward me.
“What the hell are you guys doing with those?” Jamie says, gesturing toward what are indeed cafeteria trays.
“Sledding,” Xinyan says promptly. “Wanna come?”
Jamie glances toward me, and I shrug. “Sure. We could both use a break from practicing, right, Jamie?”
We’re still holding hands, a fact I realize only when Xinyan’s gaze flits however briefly down to where our fingers are inter-clasped. But she doesn’t say anything, and Jamie doesn’t let go.
There are some small hills here on the west side of Central Park, and that’s where Xinyan leads us. One of her friends hoots and tosses the tray on the ground and throws himself after it, sliding down the hill on his stomach. I instantly imagine him hitting a rock or something and flipping over the front of the tray headfirst and breaking his neck, which probably means I’m getting old.
I make sure to go last, after watching everyone else make it down safe and alive—including Jamie, who recklessly chooses to do it standing up like he’s on a surfboard, both arms held abreast like wings, wavering in an attempt to balance. He makes it about three quarters of the way before tumbling off, stumbling into the snow and laughing.
“I suppose if you break your arm, that makes it easier for me to win,” I say when he makes it—breathless—back to my side.
“Hey, it’s your turn now. If you dare.”
I snatch the tray out of his hands and sit on it—feet facing downhill, obviously, because I’m not a testosterone-fueled idiot—and push off. It’s not as fast-moving as I’d expected. A little underwhelming, actually…at least until the last ten feet, when my tray hits something hard under the snow and bounces the rest of the way down, ripping a shriek from my throat.
Jamie and Xinyan are laughing at me from the top of the hill. “You have to get a running start,” Jamie informs me once I get back to the top.
“And go down headfirst? I don’t have a death wish, unlike you.”
“I can push you, then,” he offers.
“Oh, you’d love to push me down a hill,” I say, giving him a suspicious look. “But yeah. Sure. Why not?”
I plop back down on the tray and glance over at him.
“Ready?” he asks.
“As I’ll ever be.”
He braces both hands against my shoulder blades and shoves me off.
He’s right; with the extra assist, I move a lot faster, the crisp winter wind nipping at my cheeks as I speed down the slope. The tray comes to a stop before I do, and I tumble off at the bottom, lurched onto my knees. The snow’s soft, at least, and with adrenaline still surging through my veins, I find myself laughing.
“See?” Xinyan calls from up top. “Not so bad, is it?”
“Yeah, okay, I’m a convert.”
We take turns going down, since there are only three trays between us. The guys are particularly rowdy, like they’re in a weird competition to see who can be the most foolhardy.
“Honestly, it’s amazing that men survive to age twenty-five,” I tell Xinyan, watching one of her friends try to go down the hill standing on the tray backward.
“Jury’s still out on these particular men,” she says.
“True.”
I bundle my hands deeper into my coat; it’s gotten colder as the night deepens. I’m starting to get what Jamie meant when he talked about the way the chill seeps into your bones here. “So, are you feeling ready? For Stockholm, that is.”
Xinyan visibly shudders. “Honestly? I’m trying to pretend itisn’t happening. Every time I imagine being on that stage, I want to throw up.”
