12. Maisie #2
I raise a brow. “What makes you think I don’t know how?”
“Please.” He snorts. “You glide around like a ballerina. Bet you’ve never even body-checked someone.”
“Correct. I’ve also never tried to impress someone with a waltz and nearly broken my tailbone.”
He smirks and pushes to his feet, stick in hand. “C’mon. Let me make a hockey girl out of you.”
I pause for half a second before gliding over to the edge of the rink, where his gear bag sits unzipped. He pulls out a puck and drops it onto the ice.
I come to a stop a few feet from him, eyeing the stick in his hand. “You’re gonna have to show me what to do,” I say. “I’ve never even held a stick before.”
His mouth quirks, and a low laugh escapes him.
I narrow my eyes as the innuendo hits me. “Don’t say it.”
He holds the stick out to me, a grin still tugging at his lips. “Didn’t say anything.”
I snatch it from him with a sigh, trying to ignore the heat climbing up my neck.
It’s heavier than I expected. I shift my grip awkwardly. It feels like I’m holding it wrong—which, judging by the way he immediately laughs, I am.
“Alright,” he says, skating around behind me, wrapping his arms around mine.
His chest brushes my back, and it takes everything in me not to lean into him.
“Top hand here.” He adjusts my left hand.
“Bottom hand here.” His fingers brush my right hand, lingering just a second too long. “That’s your power hand. Like this.”
I can’t breathe.
“You good?” he asks, his low rumbly voice making my skin break out in shivers.
I nod. Definitely not good. Probably never been worse.
He nudges a puck toward us with the blade of the stick, then skates around to face me. “Alright. Try moving it. Just little taps.”
I shift my weight forward and tap the puck. It skitters across the ice in a straight line.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “Not terrible.”
I skate after the puck, clumsily steering it back toward him. It bumps off my skate and drifts off-course.
Austin chuckles. “You’re treating it like it’s fragile.”
“I don’t want to break it.”
“It’s a puck. It’s literally a hardened rubber disk designed to be smacked around at sixty miles an hour.”
I blow out a breath. “I don’t think I’m very good at this.”
He skates closer, tilting his head. “Aw, come on. Don’t give up just yet. If you can land a double toe loop, you can definitely figure out how to hit a puck.”
I glance at him, surprised. “You know what that is?”
He shrugs. “I googled some stuff.”
That makes something flutter weirdly in my chest. “Why?”
He shrugs again, rubbing the back of his neck. Oh god… is he… blushing? “Couldn’t stop thinking about the videos on your profile.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I glance away, hoping he doesn’t notice the way my face is definitely on fire.
He slides closer, positioning himself behind me again. “Alright, let’s try it again.” He adjusts my grip again, this time slower, his fingers wrapping over mine, big and rough. Not that I’ve noticed. Obviously.
I can feel his breath fanning against my cheek, the solid heat of him behind me, and I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that no one else is here.
He wraps his hands tighter over mine and gently swings the stick forward, hitting the puck so it glides cleanly across the ice. It’s easy. Way easier than when I tried.
I glance up at him. “Okay… that was cool.”
“You’re a natural,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t step back.
And I don’t move either.
“I didn’t do anything,” I reply, my breath thick, and my heart beating against my chest.
How is it possible that someone like him exists? Like, truly, his proportions are… unfair. If I weren’t actively trying not to notice, I’d be thinking about his biceps under that hoodie. About the veins on his forearms when he holds his stick.
He catches me looking and flashes that grin again.
I swallow harshly. “What?” I ask.
He chuckles as he grabs the stick from my hands, his hand flying to my hips as he spins me around until we’re facing each other, my hands instinctively flying to his chest. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
I narrow my eyes. “I hate you.”
He laughs again. I can feel the rise and fall of his chest underneath my palms, and all I can think about is how wide it is, how solid he feels under my fingers.
“No you don’t,” he says with a smirk. “You love me.”
I arch a brow at him. “You think everyone loves you.”
“They usually do.” He says it like it’s a fact. Like gravity.
And he’s not wrong. Girls love him. Boys love him. Professors—even the ones whose classes he never shows up to—somehow love him.
“Don’t expect me to,” I say, attempting to breathe.
He pulls me into him, one arm sliding around my waist. “Never. I prefer when you roll your eyes at me,” he says, his lips tugging into a smirk.
I glance at them, full and perfect, and I don’t know when I started thinking about what it might feel like to kiss him.
But the thought is there now. Buzzing behind my ribs. Settling in the hollow of my throat.
God, how is this real?
How is this me?
Because if you’d asked me a year ago—or even a month ago—I would’ve said no way. No way a guy like Austin Rhodes would ever look twice at me. No way I’d ever let myself want someone who flirted with every breathing girl on campus.
But he’s looking at me now.
And no one ever looks at me.
His eyes search mine, quiet and unreadable.
And then he glances down.
At my mouth.
My pulse spikes so fast I feel dizzy.
We’re so close.
I can feel the space between us pulling tighter. My lips part. My brain short-circuits.
“Hey!”
We jolt apart, eyes wide.
Austin’s grip slips from my waist and he whips around. “Shit.”
The janitor is standing at the edge of the rink, squinting at us under the fluorescent lights.
“Fuck,” Austin hisses as he grabs my hand. “Run.”
We take off, our blades scraping across the ice, stumbling as we hit the edge and fumble to pull the rubber guards onto our skates.
We bolt through the hallway, ducking into a supply closet.
Austin slams the door behind us, and as soon as we’re swallowed by darkness, I let out a breathless chuckle.
“Shh,” he says, chuckling as he covers my mouth with his hand. “You’re going to get us caught.”
I lift my eyes to his and I’m suddenly very aware that his body is pressed against mine in this dark, cramped space.
I should be freaking out.
But all I can feel is him.
His presence is like a gravitational force, pulling my focus to the shape of his jaw, the heat of his skin through his sweatshirt. I shift slightly and his hand drops from my mouth.
He doesn’t move away.
Neither do I.
I can feel him looking at me, even in the dark.
I want to say something—I don’t know what.
I want to ask what we’re doing. What this is.
But then the janitor’s footsteps echo down the hall and a door slams. And the moment breaks.
Austin lets out a hard exhale and takes a step back. “Come on,” he says, turning around. “Let’s go before they bust us.”
He opens the door, peeking into the hallway before slipping out of the closet. I follow quietly, stepping into the dim hallway behind him.
I pretend not to notice the distance he’s put between us. I don’t say anything, just keep my eyes on the floor, trying really hard not to feel disappointed.
And I hate that I do.
Because for a second, I thought maybe… maybe he was looking at me differently. That maybe he was going to kiss me. That maybe all the flirting wasn’t just him being him.
But I forgot who I’m dealing with.
Austin Rhodes flirts with everyone. One look, in a dark closet, doesn’t mean anything.
And I need to remember that.