“I didn’t think you’d want any prying eyes to witness your humiliation.” On their own, the words might sound like an insult, but any bite is undercut by his teasing smile.
“But yeah,” he continues, waving me inside. “It’s safe. Everyone’s gone. Except the Zamboni guy. He’s hanging out watching TV and eating dinner in the visitors’ locker room so he can resurface the ice when we’re done. I didn’t want it to be too slick for your first lesson.”
And there go my insides again, melting into a puddle of goo. Here I was thinking Adam was protecting himself, afraid someone would see us together and get the wrong—or is it the right?—idea, when all along it was me he was worried about.
I wonder if he’s like this with everyone. You know, one of those guys who’s always thinking of others before themselves. Or is he only this way with me? The first would be nice. The second would be nicer. Selfish, but nicer.
I follow him through a maze of corridors to the Bulls’ dressing room. Their digs are a heck of a lot better than the drama department’s. We’re stuck with peeling paint, rolling costume racks that are on their last legs, and one lonely couch held together with duct tape. They’ve got LED lighting, flat-screen TVs, and plush leather sofas. As in more than one. Signs point the way to a weight room, sauna, and even a flipping barber shop. The whole thing is on the level of a spa at a five-star resort.
I make a mental note to lobby Dr. Zimmer for some upgrades. Heck, even a couch without tape would be a major improvement.
Adam leads me to a cubby with his name above it and pulls out two pairs of skates. He hands the smaller pair to me and sits on the wooden bench in front of his locker.
I stare at the skates in my hand like they’re radioactive. “What am I supposed to do with these?”
He pats the bench next to him. “Sit. I’ll show you. The key is to make sure you tie them tight enough so your ankles are supported and your feet don’t slide around.”
I sit, as instructed. I have the sneaking suspicion I’d do almost anything this guy asked me to without batting so much as an eyelash. “Easy for you to say.”
“Don’t worry.” He loosens the laces on his skates and puts them on. “I won’t let you hit the ice with crappy equipment. What kind of a teacher would I be if I did that?”
“The kind who’s working for free. You know what they say about getting what you pay for.”
I follow his lead, undoing my laces and awkwardly managing to shove my feet into my skates. It looked so much easier when he did it.
He bends lower to tie his skates. “You’re helping me with improv. I’m helping you with skating. That’s what friends do, right? Scratch each other’s backs.”
Great. Now I’m picturing the long, strong fingers lacing up his skates on my back, his nails leaving little half-moons in my skin as he clings to me. It’s a good thing Adam texted me to ditch the skinny jeans for our lesson and go with sweats. They’re way more forgiving of unexpected boners.
“Is that what we are? Friends?” If you ask me, that’s the real F word. Even though I guess that’s where we’re headed.
“I’d like to think so,” he says, looking up from his skates.
What I see in his eyes surprises me. There’s intensity and uncertainty and something that looks suspiciously like longing. He lets his laces drop and sits up. For the first time, I realize how close we’re sitting, our thighs and shoulders almost touching. I can feel his breath on my cheek and smell that outdoorsy body wash I’ve come to associate with him.
For a heartbeat, I think this is it. He’s going to kiss me. Then he snaps back like someone slapped him and runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.
“When I’m done with my skates, I’ll tie yours,” he says, picking up his laces. “That way you can see how they’re supposed to feel and do it for yourself next time.”
So that’s that, I guess. Friends it is. I suppose it’s better than this frenemy thing we’ve been doing. Or it will be.
If my pecker—and my heart, which foolishly beats a little faster every time he’s near me—would learn to behave.
9
Adam
I can’t believe I almost did that. Almost kissed Kolby. In the goddamn locker room. There is something seriously wrong with me. It’s like I’m incapable of learning from my mistakes.
You know that saying out of the frying pan, into the fire? Chase was the frying pan. Kolby is the fire.
I lace up my skates then his in record speed. The sooner we hit the ice, the sooner I can forget what almost just happened and concentrate on teaching Kolby the mechanics of skating.
Step, step, glide. Step, step, glide. And of course the all-important how to stop and fall properly. That ought to keep my mind off Kolby’s way-too-tempting mouth.
“Did you bring gloves like I asked?” I say a little more brusquely than I intended.
Kolby, totally unfazed by my rudeness, pulls a pair of rainbow mittens from his jacket pocket and holds them up like he’s won the lottery. “These work? My sister sent them to me. Either it’s her way of being an LGBTQ ally or she thought it would be funny.”
