My heart skips as his gaze catches mine.
“To be honest,” he says, “I really wanted to wow you.” He glances out toward the empty rink. “Thought this might be cooler, a better way to make an impression.”
His words slam into me like a freight train. This man is trying to make a good impression on…me? Not because he has to. Not because there are cameras around or fans watching or sponsors expecting him to smile for a photo op. He arranged private ice in an NHL arena in the middle of summer because somewhere along the line, making me happy started to matter to him.
And maybe the most dangerous part is how carefully he did it.
“Come on,” he says. “You trust me, right?”
I narrow my eyes. “I feel like I should ask follow-up questions.”
“Or,” he counters, already backing toward the benches, “you could just follow me.”
“No pressure, right? I’m only hitting the ice with you, while professional ice dancers are nearby,” I exhale, long and dramatic, but my feet are already moving. “Fine. But if I embarrass myself, that’s on you.”
Ty chuckles as we head down to the bench area, the cold hitting harder the closer we get to the ice. I instinctively tuck my hands under my arms, shoulders hunching just a little.
“Okay, I admit defeat,” I mutter. “It’s freezing in here.”
Ty glances over, amused. “But, you brought options.”
I shoot him a look, already digging into my bag. “Don’t act like you weren’t making fun of the options ten minutes ago.”
“I wasn’t making fun,” he says. “I was appreciating the preparation.”
“Sure you were.”
I tug my sweatshirt over my head, the fabric instantlytrapping some warmth, and decide that if our date requires actual athletic skill, we’re both about to be disappointed.
When I look back up, he’s gone. “Ty?”
“Here.”
He reappears a second later, carrying a pair of skates like it’s the most normal thing in the world. He drops down onto the bench in front of me and nudges my foot lightly with his hand.
“Sit.”
There’s something about the calm and certain way he says it that has me doing what he says without argument. I shift onto the bench, setting my bag beside me, and extend one leg. He takes my foot, guiding it up onto his knee.
Okay. Hold up. That…feels more intimate than expected.
I still, just for a second, watching as he loosens the laces, his fingers moving with practiced ease. He’s focused, head tipped slightly down, lashes casting faint shadows against his cheeks in the bright arena lights. Little does he know my breath hitches at the sight.
“You sure you remember how to do this?” he asks, glancing up briefly.
“Wow,” I say, grateful for the reprieve so I can get out of my own head. “A girl can’t catch a break?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Just checking.”
He slides the skate onto my foot, steadying my ankle with one hand, the other pressing it into place. His grip is firm but careful, like he knows exactly how much pressure to use, the heat of his fingertips managing to basically sear through my pants. My fingers curl slightly against the edge of the bench as he starts lacing it up, pulling the strings through with quick, efficient movements. Each tug tightens the skate, his knuckles brushing lightly against my ankle, my calf.
It shouldn’t feel like anything. It’s just skates. And laces. Parts you need to ice skate. Yet every tiny touch, each movement sends a shock of electricity across my flesh like I’ve been hit by lightning and my brain has apparently decided to clock everysingle point of contact like it’s important information I’ll need for a test later.
He leans in a little closer to secure the top, his shoulder brushing the inside of my knee, sending a flutter of awareness straight up my spine.
“Too tight?” he asks.
“No,” I say, maybe a fraction too quickly. “It’s fine.”
