Her head snaps toward me.
“You what?”
“They were in your brother’s storage closet.”
“You went through Zane’s storage closet?”
“I went through my best friend’s storage closet,” I correct.“There’s a difference.”
She looks at the bag beside the bench like it might disappear if she stares at it long enough.
“I haven’t worn those in years,” she says quietly.
“I know.”
For a moment, she doesn’t answer.
“You’re not even supposed to be skating yet.”
“I’m not skating,” I say.“I’m supervising.”
“You’re on the ice.”
“I’m standing on the ice.”
“That’s skating-adjacent.”
“That’s recovery-adjacent.”
She laughs. Which is exactly what I was hoping would happen.
“Sit,” I say, nodding toward the bench.
She hesitates. Then sits.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she admits while pulling her shoes off.
“You don’t have to,” I tell her.
“That’s not helpful.”
“You don’t have to skate,” I clarify.“You just have to stand.”
“That’s worse.”
I kneel in front of her before she can argue again and slide one of the skates closer.
“Trust me,” I say quietly.
She watches my hands instead of the ice, which tells me everything I need to know about how nervous she still is.
“You’re not allowed to laugh,” she warns.
“I’m absolutely allowed to laugh.”
“Blake.”
“I won’t laugh,” I promise.
