Chapter 16
Sixteen
Camden
The Reed clan—including myself and Quinton—is together from dusk ‘til dawn the following three days, what with the NHL’s mandatory break in games for the holiday.
We spend most of the time holed up in the apartment, and after calling my own parents and brother, I spend the holiday being immersed in the Reed family Christmas traditions: lasagna for dinner, various games of cards, and a rather hilarious round of White Elephant.
But with Christmas being over, so is the brief reprieve from all things hockey.
The Knights have back-to-back games tonight and tomorrow, and attending both carves out a big chunk of the time we have left in the city.
Logan’s mood is complete shit because of this, of course, but his parents do their best to brighten it by taking us to spend the late morning wandering through MoMA—which was his only request for our visit here.
Not that it cancels out all the hockey he’s being forced to watch, but it’s something.
“We’re gonna go grab a bite to eat. Would you like to join us?” Logan’s mom asks as we wander down Fifth Avenue.
I’m about to say yes, already starving from all the walking we did through the museum, but Logan answers before I have the chance.
“I think we’re gonna hang out for a bit. Just the two of us.”
Mrs. Reed’s warm eyes shift from me to her son, and a smile pulls at her lips. “Okay, sweetheart. We’ll find you two when we’re done.”
Logan’s gloved hand leaves mine the second his parents are out of sight down the block, and I’m hit with a slight twinge of sadness from the lack of heat against my palm through the fabric.
The two of us walk a couple blocks in silence, and I catch him fiddling with his fingers from the corner of my eye.
I think it’s a nervous tic, though I doubt he has any clue he does it.
But I’ve caught him fidgeting with his fingers, a pen, the pages of his sketchbook, more times than I can count over the past few weeks.
That, and biting his lip, which has started to frustrate me to no end. Mostly because every time he does it, my attention ends up fixated on his mouth, and that in itself is—
The loud blare of a horn honking and Logan yanking me back on the curb pulls me from my thoughts…and out of the way from being hit by a taxi.
Whoops.
We walk a few more blocks before Logan turns, ducking between rows of shops, heading in the direction of a sight I recognize from various movies: Rockefeller Plaza.
Despite the sun being hidden behind a blanket of clouds, the attraction—the skating rink and tree included—is as brightly lit as it would be in the sunshine.
The tree glitters with multicolored lights and ornaments, giving a festive backdrop while towering over the dozens of people skating around the ice set into the ground below.
I stop to observe the skaters, watching as couples glide around the rink, hand in hand, along with a few kids showing off for their parents. Logan, however, continues heading down the set of stairs leading to the rink and some of the shops on the lower level.
“Where ya goin’?” I call out to him where he’s already standing at the bottom of the steps.
Logan’s eyes cast a wary glance between me and the rink, once again pulling at his gloves. His lower lip is caught between his teeth now too, and I have no clue what has him so on edge.
“I want you to teach me how to skate.”
The statement is enough to stun me silent, leaving me to stare dumbfoundedly at him.
He told me himself, learning to skate was something that never held any interest to him, and that was when he had a hockey legend at his disposal to teach him. Which begs the question…why now?
Why me?
I don’t really have a chance to overthink it, though, because Logan’s already shaking his head.
“Actually, it’s stupid. Just forg—”
Absolutely not.
I’m down the stairs before he can change his mind, slipping my gloved hand into his and pulling him through the door for the skate rentals.
“Forget it and never have the opportunity to be better at something than you?” I supply, unable to keep myself from grinning. “Yeah, fat chance of that.”
He rolls his eyes before shaking his head again, but his cheeks take on a pink tint, though it could have something to do with the cool December wind whipping around the plaza.
But damn if it isn’t really fucking cute.
“Okay, well the condition is you’re not allowed to laugh at me if I fall flat on my ass.”
I wave him off, not the least bit concerned with his stipulation. “You’re not gonna fall.”
“I haven’t tried this in like fifteen years, so I highly doubt—”
“You won’t fall,” I cut in, shooting him an imploring look. “I won’t let you.”
Discomfort and apprehension line Logan’s features—tensing his jaw and causing his eyes to dart away—but he clears his throat and nods anyway.
“All right, fine. Let’s get this over with.”
I have to bite back my laugh at the indignation in his tone, the irony not lost on me that he’s the one who had this idea in the first place.
One I realize he must’ve planned in advance once the desk worker confirms the reservation he made online.
But rather than pointing it out, I aim a winning smile in his direction as I tell the worker my shoe size and wait for Logan to do the same.
The worker grabs our skates and sets them on the counter for us, and with them in hand, we head over to the benches to lace up. It takes me all of a minute to get myself situated thanks to muscle memory, but Logan is still struggling beside me.
Without thinking much of it, I drop to a knee in front of him and start tightening the laces some more, pulling each of them another half inch before tying them snuggly at the top. I do the same on the other skate, feeling his penetrating stare on the top of my head the entire time.
“There,” I state, meeting his gaze when I’ve finished. His expression is unreadable, and a little rush of heat slices through my stomach at the worry I might’ve overstepped. “Uh, sorry. It’s just that the more stable your ankles are, the more you’ll trust your feet on the ice.”
He doesn’t say anything, just silently nods before attempting to stand. I rise to my full height with him, offering a hand in case he loses his balance, but it seems like he doesn’t need it. For now, at least.
“Do they feel okay?” I ask as he takes his first step toward the rink.
“I think so.”
Anxiety pours off him in palpable waves as we make our way to the rink’s entrance, but rather than drawing attention to it, I simply step out onto the ice. My skates glide over the surface with ease, taking me a few feet away from the edge before I turn and skate back to him.
His apprehension is still written all over his face when I stop at the wall, but I can clearly see him attempting to work out how I made it on the ice so effortlessly. Which, of course, is thanks to years of practice.
But everyone has to learn the basics, and that’s exactly what I plan to teach him.
“Okay, so instead of stepping straight out like I just did, you’re gonna grab the wall and step in sideways,” I direct gently.
There’s still a glimmer of hesitation in his gaze, but also a surprising amount of trust as he does what I say, placing one skate on the ice.
“Perfect. Now slide it over a little and make room for your other foot.”
He does so while keeping one hand on the wall, and just like that, both of his feet are on the ice. Without thinking, I gently push him forward with my palm on the small of his back, but he instantly tenses beneath my touch.
“What are you doing?”
“Just moving you a few feet away to keep the entrance clear for other skaters,” I say, realizing I probably should’ve let him know that ahead of time. “Just keep your hand on the wall and I’ll stop you, okay?”
After we halt safely out of the way, his gaze moves back to me, clearly waiting for me to direct him on what to do next.
“Okay. So to learn how to skate forward, you’re gonna bend your knees a little and turn your feet so your toes are pointing to around ten and two.”
“Am I learning to drive with my feet now?” he asks, a little panic in his voice.
Though it’s a rhetorical question, and he’s being a smartass, I can’t stop an amused laugh from slipping out. “And here I thought I was supposed to be the court jester.”
He must be really nervous about this, because he doesn’t slip in any sort of joke or barb, so I clear my throat and give him his next set of instructions.
“Now you’re gonna start taking small steps like a penguin.”
Gaze snapping to mine, he glares hard enough to melt the ice beneath his feet.
“Hilarious,” he says, unamused.
“Except I’m not kidding.”
His expression softens as his teeth sink into his lower lip. I’m about to offer him an out, say we can go do something else, but I don’t get the chance before he asks, “Can I keep my hand on the wall at least?”
“Yeah, you can hold on until you feel comfortable letting go.”
Despite his obvious discomfort, he does what I tell him, taking a few small, waddling steps a penguin would be proud of.
“This is not what you look like on the ice,” he grumbles while continuing down the edge of the rink.
I slowly skate beside him, doing my best to choke back a laugh at his huffiness.
“How quickly you forget I’ve been doing this longer than I could read,” I joke in an attempt to lighten the mood. Or at the very least, get him to crack a smile.
It doesn’t work.
“I look stupid.”
“You’d look more stupid lying flat on your ass,” I point out. “And to prevent that, you need to learn to walk before you learn to run. Or glide, in this case.”
He penguin-walks ten more feet down along the wall, and I continue at his side, acting as a shield against any skaters passing by who could accidentally collide with him. Once he’s made a bit of progress like that, I offer my next instruction.