THE INSTANT I walk in the door of Moorbridge Skating Center, I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia. The air is frosty, even outside the rink itself, and the ugly red carpet underneath my feet needs replacing. The faded banners hanging from the ceiling, the long rows of skates behind the front counter, the smell of popcorn and slightly burnt hot chocolate wafting over from the concessions stand… it’s exactly like every other skating rink, which means it feels like home. I might not want to be there—and trust me, the entire drive over I was mentally dragging my feet—but at least it’s comfortable. I’ll bet the benches are rickety and the Zamboni breaks down on occasion.
“Hello?” I call as I walk to the counter. I don’t see anyone around, but there were a couple of cars in the lot.
“One moment!” A woman hurries out of a door labeled “Office,” tossing her long hair over her shoulder. She’s in skinny jeans and a pink sweater that says, “Lutz do this!” on it in script. I’m terrible at guessing ages, but if I had to, I’d say she’s in her mid-thirties; her brown eyes crinkle at the corners as she smiles, holding out her hand for me to shake. “Hi, I’m Nikki Rodriguez. Cooper, right?”
“Yeah. Lawrence Ryder sent me over?”
She smiles warmly. “And how’s Larry?”
I’m sure that Coach Ryder didn’t go into the details about why he wanted me to volunteer. She probably thinks I’ve been itching for something to add to my resume, instead of being forced to help her out so I won’t lose my cool the next time a guy chirps in my vicinity. “He’s good.”
“Good, good. Today’s lesson starts in just a couple of minutes, so want to get on your skates? Penny’s down there already.”
“It’s just ice skating, right?” I ask. I scratch at the back of my neck in embarrassment. I probably should have done some research on the website before I came over. I want to ask who Penny is, too, but I don’t want to sound like a total idiot.
“This class teaches ice skating and introduces the kids to ice sports,” she says. “Most of them are six or seven years old. This session just started, so they’re pretty much all beginners. Don’t worry, you’ll be great. Just help them keep their balance and learn to find their way on the ice.”
“I’ll try.”
“Larry said you were the best on the team.” She gives me a grateful smile. “I’ll be in the office if you need anything. Thanks, Cooper.”
This is the way to keep myself on the ice where it counts, so despite the squirming in my belly, I head down the stairs to the rink itself. The ice looks fresh and glossy, which is a good sign. I park myself on a bench and lace up my skates.
“There you are.”
I look up at the sound of the voice—and find myself staring at a girl my age.
Scratch that. A beautiful girl my age.
I must be pretty fucking hard up, because I can feel my face redden and blood going to another, more embarrassing place as well. She’s a redhead, her long, light orange hair tossed over one shoulder. Freckles cover every inch of her face like a universe of tiny stars on her skin. Her eyes are blue like mine, but paler, like ice on a winter morning. She’s swimming in an oversized gray knit sweater, but her leggings cling to her thighs and calves enticingly. She has a pair of well cared-for white Riedells dangling from her hands. As we stare at each other, she licks her lower lip, and my stomach tightens.
This is bad. Terrible. I’m about to be around kids. I can’t be thinking about how much I want to peel off her sweater to see what her tits look like.
She cocks her head at me. “Cooper, right? Cooper Callahan?”
I clear my throat. “Yeah.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. She’s skinny, barely any curves to speak of, but that realization just makes me want to get my hands on her, see how big they look on her soft, fair skin. Do the freckles continue all over her body? God, I hope so. “Cool. Are you going to just stare at me, or are you going to help?”
I stand up. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure who to expect.”
She gives me a look, almost like she’s offended, which is weird, because I’ve never seen this girl in my life. I wouldn’t forget a girl with hair like fire and eyes like the sky in early spring. “The kids are coming in soon,” she says. “This is a beginner class, so nothing too intense. They’re still learning how to balance on the ice.”
“Gotcha.”
She gestures to a bag leaning against the boards. “Set up some cones. Couple yards apart, enough to skate between.”
I salute her. “Aye, m’lady.”
She keeps on giving me that weird look, but after a moment, she just shakes her head slightly. “Whatever. See you out on the ice.”
Fucking hell. It’s no wonder I haven’t been getting laid recently. M’lady? If Sebastian heard that, he’d piss himself from laughing so hard.
I pick up the bag and skate onto the ice, the cool, crisp air hitting my cheeks above my beard. I give my head a shake. I need to focus. Why didn’t Coach mention I’d be working with someone so fucking gorgeous? That sort of shit needs to come with a warning label.
I put out all the cones, and not a moment too soon, because then about ten kids come charging onto the ice.
Maybe this won’t be completely terrible. At least I get to check out Little Miss Red for the entire hour.
“Hi,” she says to the kids, hugging them one by one as they skate over to her on wobbly legs. I was around their age when I first got on the ice; after only knowing football fields, thanks to Dad, it was intoxicating. Uncle Blake helped give me a crash course in the basics, but pretty soon I was flying from end to end on my own.
“Penny,” one kid says, pointing to me. “Who’s that?”
“This is Cooper,” she says. “He’s going to be helping us out. He’s the right defenseman on McKee’s hockey team. Where I go to school, remember?”
I glance at her sideways, but she doesn’t look over. It shouldn’t make my stomach tighten pleasantly to hear she knows the position I play, but I can’t stop myself.
“Is he your boyfriend?” another kid asks.
I snort. That makes her look at me; she’s biting her lip like she’s on the verge of laughing. For a second, it feels like maybe there’s something sparking in the air between us; a camaraderie borne out of being the two adults in this situation, which is ironic considering we’re just a couple of college kids. But then she straightens, shaking her head slightly.
“No,” she says. “What do you know about boyfriends anyway, Madison?”
“Lots,” Madison says, crossing her arms over her chest.
I stifle my laughter as Red—well, I suppose her name is Penny, but with hair like that, I can’t resist—deftly brings the subject back around to the lesson. Coach might’ve been right about this. There’s something nice about seeing a bunch of kids be really into the same thing I am. Their eyes are round as saucers, and they keep whispering to each other as Red explains the lesson. They’re still working on skating without holding onto the railing, and I see apprehension in the way they’re crowded against the boards. At the very least, I can keep playing nice.
“Okay!” she says cheerfully. “We’ll do this exercise together, and then you’ll get to practice on your own. Remember, keep your knees bent. We want to keep ourselves low and use our arms for balance. How do we fall again?”
“Not backwards,” a boy says. He’s wearing a hockey sweater, Ovechkin’s. His long blond hair nearly falls into his eyes.
“Right,” she says. “We want to protect our head. We also don’t want to use our hands to break our fall because we could hurt our wrists. When you keep your knees bent, you can fall onto your side more easily.”
She skates in a circle around me. “Want to show us, Cooper?”
“Falling?”
She nods. “Even hockey players fall sometimes, right?”
“We do.” I skate to the middle of the rink. “You’re going to fall, and that’s okay. She’s right, I fall a lot still.”
Usually because of a hit, but I don’t add that. I demonstrate how to fall, letting my shoulder take the impact instead of my head or wrists. After that, Red makes me show the kids how to do the little cone exercise. I do that twice, weaving from one side to the next, then watch as the kids line up and give it a shot themselves.
I thought this would drag on, but I get into the groove quickly. I save one boy from crashing into the boards and give extra feedback to a girl who keeps buckling her knees. They’re like newborn colts trying to figure out how to stand on their own, but to their credit, most of them get right back up after they fall.
When it’s time for practice, I skate over to the boy wearing the Alex Ovechkin jersey. His chubby cheeks are red from the cold. He’s fallen three times in a row now, unable to make it from the edge all the way to the cones.
I crouch down so we’re at about eye level. He’s holding on so tightly that the blood has drained from his fingertips. I pry them off one by one, holding him steady myself.
“I’ve met him, you know.”
He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “Who?”
“Ovechkin. He’s nice as f—he’s a nice guy. Really cool.”
The kid brightens. “He’s my favorite player.”
“Just him, or do you root for the Caps?”
“Caps,” he says.
“Good stuff.” I point at the cones. “You know, Ovechkin had to learn how to skate when he was a kid. I had to, too.”
“I want to play hockey.” He bites his lip, looking over to where Red is showing a couple of kids how to spin. I follow his gaze, momentarily distracted by the look of concentration on her face. We lock eyes for half a second as she brushes her hair away from her face.
I swallow and turn back to the kid. “What’s your name?”
“Ryan.”
“Ryan what? What’s the back of your sweater going to say?”
“McNamara.”
I clap him on the shoulder. “That’s a good name. It’s going to look nice on you one day. But you need to learn to skate first, buddy.”
He nods, rubbing his nose again. “I know.”
“I’m going to skate over here,” I say, gesturing to the nearest cone. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
I stay crouched down, arms open, looking at Ryan with what I hope is an encouraging expression. I’m sure in a few weeks he’ll be learning to skate backwards; he just needs to take the leap and gain some confidence. After a few seconds, he pushes off the railing and skates over to me slowly.
When I steady him, I give him a high-five. “Nice job. Let’s do it again.”
When the lesson ends, Ryan hugs me, which definitely doesn’t suck. He asks if I’m coming to the next lesson, and because I doubt Coach will buy that I’m cured of what my dad apparently thinks are violent tendencies after one session—and fine, because I enjoyed myself—I nod and tell him I’ll see him next week.
When we’re alone on the ice, Red skates over to me, her cheeks flushed from the cool air and exertion. Her hair is messy, swept up around her like a ginger halo. She scrunches up her cute little nose. Something about her feels familiar, but I don’t know where I’d have seen her. Maybe she’s on McKee’s figure skating team? We have one, but I don’t know much about it. Our paths could have crossed on campus half a dozen times, although if that’s the case, I have no idea why I wouldn’t have introduced myself. I scrub my hand over my face, letting a scowl replace the smile I wore throughout the lesson.
“That bad, huh?”
I work my jaw, my frustration at the whole situation rushing back now that I don’t have something else to focus on. “No, it’s just… it’s not like I asked for this.”
“You were good at it.” She nudges her shoulder against my arm. “I thought you’d be terrible.”
“You know I know how to skate.”
“Not at the skating, at interacting with the kids.” She grins, and fuck, it’s cute. I work to hold back a groan. During the lesson, I managed to ignore the zing that would race from my scalp to my toes whenever I felt her near me, but now my body is doing its hardest to remind me I haven’t gotten laid in way, way too long for a guy my age. “It was really sweet.”
I scrape at the ice with my toe pick. “Yeah, well, tell that to my coach. He thinks this is going to help my game, but honestly…”
I trail off, because it’s one thing to complain about my dry spell with my brother, and another entirely to announce it to a stranger.
“Honestly what?” she asks.
I look at her. Maybe it’s her eyes that look familiar? Did we have a class together freshman year or something? Fuck it, I don’t know her anyway, and it’s not like I can get any more pathetic. “Honestly, I just need to get laid. It’s been months and I’m wound too tight.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you hockey players have an entourage of puck bunnies following you around?”
I shrug. “I don’t hook up with the same girl twice.”
“Why not?”
“Do you always have so many questions about other people’s sex lives?”
She looks up; she’s not the shortest girl in the world, but I still have several inches and nearly a hundred pounds on her. She must have a figure skating background; her poise on the ice has a presence of its own, and quality skates like that don’t come cheap. She reaches out, her delicate fingers a mere inch from my chest. Her nails are perfect little ovals, white with orange tips. I have the absurd urge to take her hand in mine and examine the differences, the places where my palms are rough and hers are as smooth as the inside of a seashell.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was about to kiss me.
My breath stutters.
We lock eyes, and she seems to make some sort of decision.
And then she actually kisses me—on the cheek, I mean. Her lips are feather light against my beard. When she speaks, it’s in a whisper against my ear. She’s trembling, but I’ve got it worse. I’m frozen in place while my mind and body scramble to keep up with her.
“Hook up with me.”
