And maybe it’s his encouragement, or maybe I just get tired of failing, but he’s right—I do have this.
I follow his instructions as he tugs me farther away from the wall, feeling more stable as we move. My knees are still knocking together, but I trust myself just a little more.
“There you go,” Ezra says, grinning proudly. “You’re doing it.”
“I’m pretty sure those five-year-olds were better than me.”
“They were, but that’s okay. They’ve had practice. You haven’t.”
“Were you ever this bad?”
“I fell right on my face the first day. In front of everyone, including all the older kids. It was mortifying.”
“You’re just making that up to make me feel better.”
“I am not. It really happened. They called me Bambi for three years after that.”
“They did not.”
“Did too,” he argues from a few feet away.
Wait—he’s a few feet away!
“Hey! You let go!” I feel myself slipping right away. “You said you wouldn’t!”
“I said I wouldn’t let go until you’re ready, and look at you. You’re doing good. Just keep your core engaged. Keep your legs in it. You’ve got this.”
His words urge me on, and before I know it, we make an entire lap around the two-hundred-foot rink.
Sure, we go infinitely slower than Ezra did on his three laps, but I do it.
I’m out of breath by the time we make it back to where we started, and I cling to the boards like a lifeline.
He chuckles, then hands me a water bottle he stashed on the benches before we started.
“You okay?”
I nod, taking a long drink. I wipe my hand over my mouth when I’m done. “It’s fun. Not nearly as cold as I thought it would be. I’m actually sweating a little.”
“I know.” He reaches out, swiping a bit off my forehead, then wiping it on his fancy shirt. “It’s a workout, huh?”
“Big-time. No wonder hockey players are always out of breath on TV.”
“Want to sit and take a break?”
“Yes, please.”
We make our way over to the bench, and I sigh as I sit down. My legs are killing me, so I don’t know how Ezra is doing this when he’s already in pain.
“So, what’d you think?” he asks after a few quiet moments. “Are you going to be the next PWHL star?”
“Uh, no. I’ll stick to staying in the kitchen, thank you very much.”
“Good. I like you there.” He wrinkles his nose. “That would have sounded really bad if you weren’t a chef, huh?”
I laugh. “Just a little.”
“How’s, uh, how’s the menu coming? I mean, not that I’m rushing you or anything. I know that kind of thing takes time.”
