Chapter 16
Children Are Excellent Judges Of Character
"Absolutely not."
Calder doesn't even glance up from retaping his hockey stick. I lean harder against the boards beside him until my shoulder bumps lightly against his arm.
"You already said that yesterday."
"And I was right yesterday too."
"You promised you'd help me sometime."
A quiet laugh slips out of him.
"That never happened."
"You absolutely did."
"I think your brain started inventing conversations after your fourth hour of training."
I kick lightly against the side of his skate.
"You're helping with beginner lessons."
Calder finally looks up at me. Tired. Suspicious.
"Arabella."
The warning would probably work on somebody else. Unfortunately for him, I know exactly how often Calder says no before giving in.
"You'll survive."
Calder studies me for another second.
"Children are terrifying."
The laugh escapes before I can stop it. His eyes flick toward me automatically. The sharpness in his expression softens for a fraction of a second before he looks back down at the tape wrapped around his stick.
"Please," I say. "I need somebody tall enough to catch the tiny falling humans."
"That feels irresponsible."
"You play hockey. You're basically designed to survive collisions."
Calder exhales slowly through his nose. Resigned.
Not convinced. Just resigned. A second later he bends down and grabs one of the equipment bags beside my feet without another argument.
Warmth settles low in my chest. Not because he agreed.
Because this is familiar now. Calder complaining the entire time while helping me anyway.
"Your manipulation tactics are unethical," he mutters while straightening.
"You're still carrying the bag."
"That proves absolutely nothing."
I grin and fall into step beside him as we head toward the beginner rink.
Our shoulders brush once, then again a few seconds later, and neither of us moves away.
The realization sneaks up on me unexpectedly.
A few months ago I would have noticed every accidental touch.
Now I only notice when I stop and think about it afterward.
Calder reaches automatically for the coffee balanced dangerously in my hand while I wrestle with the rink door.
"Careful."
The cup disappears from my grip before I can react.
I blink at him because he does things like that constantly now—small adjustments, tiny interventions, the sort of things people only do after paying attention for a long time.
I don't even think before holding the door open for him while he carries the equipment inside, and the exchange happens so naturally neither of us comments on it.
"You realize the kids are going to love you."
Calder looks genuinely alarmed. "That sounds exhausting."
"You're secretly nice."
"I need you to stop spreading malicious lies about me."
I laugh softly and move toward the equipment bin.
The stack of cones is awkward enough that I have to shift my grip twice before lifting it, and I barely get them off the ground before Calder reaches over and removes half from my arms. No hesitation.
No discussion. One second I'm carrying them, the next I'm not.
I open my mouth automatically, then close it again, because arguing would require energy, and because Calder would ignore me anyway.
He starts walking toward the ice with half the cones balanced against his hip, like helping was always the plan, like there was never any version of this morning where he wasn't going to show up.
The first tiny disaster happens less than three minutes into the lesson. A little girl in purple gloves steps onto the ice, panics immediately, and grabs the boards like the rink has personally betrayed her.
"I can't do it." The declaration arrives with complete certainty. Calder, standing beside me, looks vaguely alarmed.
I bite back a laugh and skate over. "Yes you can."
"No."
"You absolutely can."
The girl glares at me as though I have deeply offended her.
"She's stubborn," Calder says from somewhere behind me.
I glance over my shoulder. "I wonder who she reminds me of."
"Slander."
The little girl giggles, and a second later abandons the boards completely to attach herself to my arm instead, which feels like even more progress. I crouch carefully beside her.
"There you go. Slightly less terrifying already."
Her expression remains deeply serious. "Still scary."
"That's okay. Most fun things start out terrifying."
The girl considers this with the concentration of someone evaluating an important life decision. Then she nods once. Apparently satisfied.
I glance up.
Calder is still standing a few feet away.
A cluster of tiny children keeps drifting toward him for reasons that seem increasingly obvious.
One nearly skates directly into his leg.
Another grabs his sleeve to stay upright.
A third appears to have decided he belongs to her now.
Calder handles all of it with the same expression he usually reserves for unexpected penalties - mild confusion, resignation, acceptance of circumstances beyond his control.
The little girl beside me follows my gaze. "Is he your friend?"
The question catches me off guard. Before I can answer, one of the children nearly falls backward. Calder catches him automatically with one hand, barely looking.
The child immediately launches into a detailed explanation about dinosaurs.
Calder listens. Actually listens. Like this has become his responsibility now.
Something warm settles unexpectedly beneath my ribs.
I've spent months watching him at practices and games, watching him fight, compete, push.
I've seen the version of Calder that treats every challenge like something to be beaten.
This is different. A little boy collides directly into his hip and Calder steadies him without breaking conversation.
Another child appears at his elbow, then another.
Somehow he's become the centre of a small, chaotic orbit.
He seems completely unaware of it, which is probably why it's happening.
The realization makes me smile before I can stop it.
Children are usually excellent judges of character, and apparently every single one of them has already figured out something Calder is still pretending isn't true.
The lesson dissolves into controlled chaos after that.
Tiny skates scrape unevenly across the ice.
Children fall approximately every thirty seconds.
Parents apologize constantly while I reassure them that this is completely normal.
I move through all of it on instinct, retightening loose skates, fixing crooked helmets, and holding tiny hands while wobbling children try convincing themselves they understand how balance works.
Somewhere along the way, I realize my body has stopped feeling quite so heavy.
Not better.
Just quieter.
The ache in my wrist is still there. My ankle still complains every time I pivot too sharply. But neither of them seem quite as important as they did an hour ago.
I laugh when one little boy loses control completely and slides directly into Calder's legs at alarming speed. Calder catches him automatically before he can hit the ice.
The kid stares up at him. "You're huge."
Calder blinks once. "Yes."
The boy immediately decides this is the greatest answer he has ever heard.
I laugh harder. When I glance up again, Calder is already looking at me. The expression catches me off guard. Not amusement. Something closer to curiosity. Like he's seeing something he wasn't expecting to find.
I look away first.
A few minutes later, one little girl finally lets go of the barrier by herself. Only for three seconds. Barely enough time to count. Still.
"Yes!" I cheer. "There you go!"
The little girl freezes. Her eyes widen. "Really?"
The question hits me unexpectedly hard. Because I know that feeling. The uncertainty. The need for someone to tell you the tiny victories count too.
"It absolutely counts."
Her entire face lights up. Not because she skated three feet.
Because somebody noticed. That settles strangely in my chest. I skate backward in front of her while she tries again.
And again. Each attempt slightly steadier than the last. Nobody is judging her.
Nobody is scoring her. Nobody is measuring her worth against perfection.
She's just learning. For the first time all week, the thought feels almost foreign. A quiet laugh sounds somewhere nearby.
I glance over.
Calder isn't watching the kids. He's watching me. The realization lands harder than it should. Because I suddenly understand what he's seeing. Not the skater. Not the athlete. Not the version of me that spends every day chasing impossible standards.
Just me.
Happy. The thought arrives unexpectedly enough that I almost miss the next child wobbling toward me. Calder shifts closer automatically a second before a tiny boy ricochets in my direction at full speed. His hand catches briefly against my shoulder.
Steadying.
Gone again almost immediately. The warmth lingers anyway. Calder looks down at me where I'm kneeling on the ice surrounded by tiny, chaotic children and says quietly, "You smile differently here."
The words steal the breath from my lungs because he isn't wrong.
I do. The realization follows me for the rest of the lesson, especially once I notice Calder has stopped pretending he hates being here.
He still complains, frequently, but the complaints lose some credibility when he's delivering them while helping a six-year-old stay upright.
"Your fan club's growing," I tell him while skating past.
A little boy immediately latches onto Calder's sleeve. "Can you help me stop falling?"
Calder looks personally betrayed by this development. "You people are exhausting."