I’m surprised when I wake up the morning after returning from Thanksgiving break and see a text from Kolby asking me to meet him at the rink, of all places. But he says he has something important to show me, and who am I to argue?
Besides, he has a lot of explaining to do, and I’m hoping whatever he has up his sleeve includes answering some of the million or so questions I have after meeting his sister last night and finding out about the shit that went down with his parents.
The rink is quiet when I show up after econ class. It usually is this time in the middle of the day, since our practices are either early morning or late afternoon. I expect to find Kolby in the locker room, where we usually meet for our skating lessons, but it’s empty. I pull out my phone to text him when Frank, the Zamboni guy, comes in.
“Looking for your friend?” he asks. “The one you’ve been teaching to skate?”
“Yeah. Have you seen him?”
“He’s already out on the ice.”
For the second time today, Kolby’s managed to surprise me. I thank Frank, lace up my skates, and pull on a pair of gloves before heading onto the ice, where I’m met with surprise number three. A surprise trifecta, I guess you could call it.
Kolby’s gliding across the rink. Backward. I blink and rub my eyes to make sure I’m not seeing things. But nope, that’s definitely him. He’s wearing the same beat-up purple North Face and gray sweatpants he always wears for our lessons—although he’s broken out those ridiculous rainbow mittens again, which I haven’t seen since our first session. And he’s definitely skating backward, his knees bent and his skates moving in and out, carving S curves in the ice.
It’s not perfect, and it’s sure as hell not pretty, but he’s making slow, steady progress across the rink. And we haven’t worked on that skill yet. I wasn’t planning on introducing it until after the long holiday weekend.
He sees me, changes direction so he’s facing forward, and skates over, executing a perfect snowplow stop a couple of feet in front of me.
“So? What do you think?” He has the eager look of a Little Leaguer on his way to Dairy Queen after hitting the game-winning home run, all wide eyes and toothy grin.
“I think someone’s been holding out on me,” I deadpan. “Did you really need skating lessons, or was this whole thing just a way to get into my pants?”
He scuffs at the ice with the blade of his skate. “Would you be mad at me if it was?”
I tap a gloved finger against my chin like I’m thinking it over. Truth is, I’m the furthest thing from mad. The idea that someone would go through all that trouble to get with me is kind of flattering and a huge boost to my ego. But there’s no harm in making Kolby sweat it out a little, right? “I haven’t decided yet.”
“Well, it wasn’t,” he insists. “I’ve been practicing. Frank sneaks me in between classes when no one is using the rink.”
“Frank lets you mess up his perfect ice?” He’s notoriously strict about people messing with it once he’s got the surface glassy smooth. In his defense, it’s a bitch to maintain, and Coach Keller has been known to pitch a fit if it’s not up to snuff at game time.
Kolby shrugs and smiles, popping that naughty dimple that always makes my stupid heart race. “He’s easy to bribe. He’s partial to peanut M&Ms and Red Vines. You know, he’s more than the Zamboni guy. Or ice technician, as he prefers to be called. He also does all the maintenance at the arena. He’s got a degree in mechanical engineering from WPI, but he likes working at the university because it gives him more time to spend with his family.”
I didn’t know any of that stuff. Hell, I just learned Frank’s name last week. Leave it to Kolby to get the guy’s entire life story within minutes after meeting him.
Too bad he’s not as forthcoming about his own backstory, a little voice in the back of my brain nudges me.
Give him a chance, another voice answers.He asked you to meet him here. Maybe he wants to do more than show off his skating skills.
I let myself drift back a few inches, then glide forward, then back again, then forward. I think better when I’m in motion. Voice number two wins out, and I decide to let things ride and see where this is going.
“Now I get why you didn’t want me to add more lessons,” I say, bumping him playfully with my hip. “You were already getting extra ice time.”
His cheeks flush, matching the red in his rainbow mittens. “Guilty as charged. I wanted to impress you.”
“You’re always impressing me.” It’s not a lie. I’m constantly amazed by how quickly he makes friends, how easily he manages to fit in wherever he goes but still stand out in the crowd.
How he makes me feel like I’m the center of his universe, the most special person on the planet, and not because I can slap a puck into a net.
He scuffs the ice with his skate blade again. “Except when I’m too chicken to share my baggage with you.”
“You can share now, if you want. I’m listening.”
“Come on.” He grabs my hands and starts moving backward, dragging me with him. “Let’s skate. I’ll feel more comfortable spilling my guts if we’re doing something else, too.”
“Okay, but I’m skating backward and pulling you. As impressed as I am with your progress, I think we’re both safer if I take the lead this time.”
He lets me take over, and we glide across the rink in perfect synchronization. It’s always like that with us. Almost as if we can read each other’s minds and anticipate each other’s movements. And it’s not only on the ice. We’re the same way in class. In bed.
