Chapter Seven — Tessa
Chapter Seven
Tessa
The charity skate began with six hundred children, four hundred parents, thirty hockey players, and one deeply flawed assumption.
The assumption was that Rhett Callahan knew how to behave around cameras.
“Stop waving,” I said.
“I’m greeting the public.”
“You’re encouraging them.”
“That’s generally how greetings work.”
A group of middle-school girls near the rink entrance squealed when he smiled at them.
Rhett smiled wider.
I looked at the ceiling.
“Your ego is visible from space.”
“It’s part of the uniform.”
He wore his Lakeview jersey over a black thermal shirt, dark hockey pants, and skates with the guards still on. His hair fell over his forehead in a way that looked accidental and definitely was not.
I had seen him in jeans.
Sweatshirts.
A button-down.
None of those had prepared me for the jersey.
Which was ridiculous.
It was fabric.
Navy fabric stretched across broad shoulders.
With his name across the back.
CALLAHAN.
Not a problem.
I adjusted the sleeves of my borrowed Lakeview sweatshirt.
Rhett noticed.
“Cold?”
“No.”
“You’re pulling your hands inside your sleeves.”
“I do that.”
“When you’re cold.”
“When I’m irritated.”
“Then you must be freezing.”
I looked at him.
He grinned.
The arena concourse buzzed around us. Volunteers handed out rental skates. Children bounced in place. Parents took pictures beneath a balloon arch shaped like the Lakeview wolf.
The communications team had placed Rhett and me beside the rink entrance for photos.
Not couples photos, technically.
Community partnership photos.
Which apparently required him to stand close enough that our shoulders touched.
“Natural,” the photographer called. “Just talk to each other.”
Rhett leaned down.
“She keeps saying that like we don’t already have a gift.”
“We have a problem.”
“Chemistry.”
“Administrative inconvenience.”
“Same spark. Worse branding.”
The camera clicked.
I kept my smile in place.
Barely.
The photographer lowered her camera.
“Perfect. Now one looking at each other.”
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” Rhett said.
I turned.
He was already looking at me.
That unsettled me more than it should have.
No teasing smile.
No exaggerated charm.
Just him.
Watching.
The arena noise seemed to soften around us.
Then his eyes dropped briefly to my mouth.
The camera clicked again.
I looked away.
“Done,” I said.
The photographer checked the screen.
“Very done.”
That was not reassuring.
Rhett stepped beside me as we moved toward the rink doors.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You stopped breathing.”
“I was posing.”
“Professionally?”
“Unlike some people.”
“I take public service very seriously.”
“You winked at a grandmother.”
“She winked first.”
I pushed open the rink door.
Cold air rushed over us.
The ice glowed beneath the overhead lights. Music played through the arena speakers. Families crowded the lower seats while volunteers helped children step onto the ice.
Several hockey players were already skating slow circles with kids hanging from their hands.
Cam spun backward while talking to a boy in a wolf hat.
Eli guided three little girls in matching pink helmets along the boards.
Noah had apparently become responsible for a birthday party.
Rhett stopped beside me.
“Ready?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“How is that good?”
“You’re honest.”
“I am always honest.”
He looked at me.
“You told Dean Walsh you enjoyed public speaking.”
“That was strategic.”
“You told Paige the banner photo was fine.”
“It was usable.”
“You told me you weren’t cold.”
“I’m not.”
He held out his hand.
I stared at it.
“What?”
“You’re going on the ice.”
“That was never agreed.”
“It’s a skate.”
“I’m coordinating.”
“You’re wearing skates.”
“I was told they were required for the photo.”
“You let university communications put blades on your feet and didn’t ask why?”
“I was busy.”
“That’s adorable.”
“Do not.”
He kept his hand out.
Children moved around us.
Music echoed.
The ice waited.
I had not skated in years.
Not since my father decided extracurricular activities needed to contribute to a measurable future.
Skating had not qualified.
“I’m not good,” I said.
Rhett’s expression changed.
Not amusement.
Something gentler.
“That’s okay.”
“I don’t like being bad at things in public.”
“I know.”
Of course he did.
He had noticed that too.
“I can stay near the boards.”
“You can.”
“And you won’t let go.”
The words came out before I could reconsider them.
His eyes lifted to mine.
“I won’t.”
No joke.
No smile.
Just the promise.
That made it harder to refuse.
I placed my hand in his.
His fingers closed around mine.
Warm.
Steady.
He stepped onto the ice first, then turned and guided me forward.
My blade hit the surface.
My ankle shifted.
I grabbed his arm.
He caught my waist.
“Got you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re attached to me with both hands.”
“I’m preventing an injury.”
“Mine or yours?”
“Yes.”
He laughed.
I tightened my grip.
“Do not move.”
“I have to move eventually.”
“No.”
“We’re blocking traffic.”
A seven-year-old skated past us backward.
He waved.
Rhett waved back.
I glared at the child’s unnecessary confidence.
“Show-off,” I muttered.
Rhett looked down at me.
“That was a first grader.”
“He knew what he was doing.”
“So do I.”
“That is not comforting.”
He shifted one hand from my waist to my forearm.
“Look at me.”
“I am looking at the ice.”
“That’s the problem.”
“The ice is where I’ll fall.”
“You won’t.”
“You cannot promise that.”
“I can promise I’ll catch you.”
The words landed differently.
Too softly.
Too close.
I looked up.
He was standing directly in front of me.
One hand holding mine.
The other steady at my waist.
His expression had gone still.
Again.
The version of Rhett I was starting to understand lived in those quiet spaces.
Not in the smile.
Not in the jokes.
Here.
Where he stopped performing.
“Move one foot,” he said.
“Which one?”
“Either.”
“That seems imprecise.”
“Trust me.”
“That seems worse.”
His mouth curved.
“Tiny step.”
I moved my right skate.
Nothing terrible happened.
“Again.”
I moved the left.
We slid forward.
Barely.
But forward.
His smile appeared slowly.
Not triumphant.
Proud.
“That’s it.”
“I moved six inches.”
“Historically significant.”
“Do not make this dramatic.”
“Tessa Monroe, first woman to cross a frozen arena through sheer force of irritation.”
I laughed.
The sound escaped before I could stop it.
He lit up.
That was the only word for it.
His whole face changed.
Like my laugh had done something to him.
Something real.
“Again,” he said.
“The skating?”
“The laugh.”
“No.”
“Cruel.”
We moved another few feet.
Then more.
He skated backward, guiding me.
I kept both hands around his.
The crowd became less important.
The cameras too.
There was only the cold air, the scrape of blades, and Rhett watching every shift of my weight like catching me was the only thing that mattered.
“You’re staring,” I said.
“I’m supervising.”
“You accused me of that.”
“I’m learning from the best.”
I loosened my grip slightly.
His hands adjusted immediately.
Still there.
Still steady.
We reached the center line.
I looked around.
We had moved farther than I realized.
Pride rose warm in my chest.
Rhett saw that too.
“Look at you.”
“Don’t.”
“You’re skating.”
“I’m being dragged attractively.”
“Very attractively.”
There it was.
The flirt.
Usually I knew what to do with it.
Dismiss it.
Return it.
Ignore it.
This time, I believed him.
That was the danger.
I looked away.
His grip changed.
Not tighter.
More careful.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“You do that.”
“Do what?”
“Disappear while you’re still standing here.”
The observation caught me off guard.
I looked at him.
“Sometimes you say things that sound intelligent.”
“It’s alarming for both of us.”
I smiled.
Then my skate slipped.
Everything tilted.
Rhett caught me before I hit the ice.
One arm around my waist.
My hands locked around his shoulders.
Our bodies collided.
Hard enough to steal my breath.
Not hard enough to hurt.
For one suspended second, I was bent backward over his arm.
His face inches from mine.
His breath warm against my mouth.
The arena disappeared.
No music.
No crowd.
No children.
Only his hand spread against my back.
My fingers gripping his jersey.
And the look in his eyes.
Not playful.
Not surprised.
Hungry.
The word arrived before I could stop it.
My pulse raced.
His gaze dropped to my lips.
I knew exactly what would happen if neither of us moved.
And for one reckless second—
I wanted it.
The realization frightened me more than the fall.
“Rhett.”
My voice came out quieter than intended.
His eyes lifted.
The hunger softened.
He straightened me slowly.
Carefully.
But his hand remained at my waist.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Neither of us stepped back.
His thumb moved once against my side.
The smallest touch.
It burned through the sweatshirt.
A camera flashed somewhere near the boards.
The world returned.
I moved away.
Too fast.
My skates wobbled.
He reached for me.
I lifted one hand.
“I’m fine.”
His expression closed.
Not cold.
Guarded.
The smile returned a second later.
Too easy.
Too quick.
“Of course.”
I hated that I had caused it.
“Tessa!” Paige called from the boards.
She waved both hands.
A communications assistant stood beside her holding a clipboard.
I skated toward them.
Or attempted to.
Rhett stayed beside me without touching.
That was worse.
At the boards, Paige leaned close.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“You almost kissed him.”
“I almost fell.”
“That was not the part I meant.”
I looked over my shoulder.
Rhett had already been surrounded by children asking for autographs.
He crouched to their level.
Smiling.
Laughing.
Back to normal.
“Nothing happened,” I said.
Paige followed my gaze.
“Right.”
The communications assistant stepped forward.
“We need the two of you for the video.”
I remembered the terms.
“No couples challenge.”
“Not that,” she said quickly. “Just a short message about the charity.”
I relaxed.
Slightly.
Rhett joined us.
His expression gave away nothing.
“Ready?”
The assistant positioned us near the bench.
“Thirty seconds. Tell people why today matters.”
Rhett looked at me.
“You go first.”
I frowned.
“You’re better on camera.”
“Maybe.”
He stepped back half a pace.
“But you’re better at saying things that matter.”
There it was again.
Honesty.
Quiet and inconvenient.
The camera light turned on.
I looked into the lens.
Spoke about the children’s recreation fund.
About access.
Community.
The importance of giving kids a place to belong.
My voice steadied as I continued.
When I finished, Rhett took over.
He talked about his first pair of skates.
Used.
Too big.
Bought through a program like this one.
I turned toward him.
I had not known that.
His voice remained light, but the words were not.
He spoke about how one opportunity could change a child’s whole life.
How sometimes belonging started with somebody making room.
The camera clicked off.
The assistant smiled.
“That was perfect.”
Rhett nodded.
I waited until she walked away.
“You never told me that.”
“About the skates?”
“Yes.”
“You never asked.”
“That’s not fair.”
He looked at me.
“No?”
“You act like everything has a joke attached.”
“Most things do.”
“Not that.”
“No.”
His answer was quiet.
I wanted to ask more.
About his family.
About the boy he had been before everyone knew his name.
About how much of his charm had grown from learning exactly what people needed him to be.
But his expression had gone distant.
Not closed.
Waiting.
For me to decide whether I actually wanted the truth.
Before I could speak, Cam skated up behind him and slapped both hands onto Rhett’s shoulders.
“Congratulations.”
Rhett turned.
“For what?”
Cam grinned at me.
“You two are trending again.”
I closed my eyes.
“No.”
“Yes.”
He held out his phone.
The photograph had already been posted.
The one where Rhett caught me.
His arm around my waist.
My hands on his shoulders.
Our faces too close.
The caption read:
Callahan saves the day. Again.
The comments were worse.
Or better.
Depending on whether a person enjoyed public humiliation.
One read:
That is not a fake-dating face.
Another:
Just kiss already.
My stomach tightened.
Rhett took the phone from Cam.
His jaw shifted.
“Who posted this?”
“University account.”
“Without approval?”
Cam shrugged.
“I guess the media team thought charity waived consent.”
Rhett handed the phone back.
“I’ll get it removed.”
I looked at him.
“You don’t have to.”
“Yes, I do.”
“The photo is fine.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Is it?”
I looked at the image again.
At my face.
At his.
At the moment I had almost forgotten every rule.
“No,” I said.
His shoulders eased slightly.
“I’ll handle it.”
“Rhett.”
He waited.
“Thank you.”
The words felt insufficient.
Still, something moved through his expression.
Then his smile returned.
Gentler this time.
“Try not to fall for anyone while I’m gone.”
I folded my arms.
“That line was terrible.”
“You understood it.”
“I regretted understanding it.”
“Progress.”
He skated away.
I watched him cross the ice.
Fast.
Certain.
Beautiful.
That was not a word I intended to use.
But it fit.
Paige moved beside me.
“You’re in trouble.”
“I know.”
“You admit it?”
“I meant the photo.”
“No, you didn’t.”
I looked at the boards.
At the families.
At the entire arena full of people who thought Rhett Callahan and I were becoming something.
The rumor was supposed to help one event.
Then one more.
Then disappear.
But every time he touched me, the pretending became harder to locate.
And when he looked at me like that—
I was beginning to think the dangerous part was not that everyone else believed the lie.
It was that I was starting to hope it might become true.