18 - Nathan
Nathan
My lungs burn.
I glide in a slow arc, hands over my head, chest heaving. The scrape of my blades echoes in the empty rink. Sweat is trickling down my spine under my sweatshirt.
Across the ice, Wesley bends at the waist, palms braced on her knees. Her ponytail has half-fallen out, strands plastered to her cheek. She’s breathing as hard as I am.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
Then she straightens and calls across the ice. “Alright. I’ll admit it. This was a good idea!”
My hands drop to my hips as I huff out a laugh.
Before turning toward her, I coast backward for a few strides. I didn’t realize how hard I’d pushed until now.
She wasn’t supposed to be that close.
Halfway down the rink, I’d expected space. I wasn’t going full out, figuring that she’d be so far behind I could take it easy. Instead, I felt her there, close enough that I could hear her edges dig in when she took the corner too tight.
I underestimated her.
Again.
I slow as I reach center ice, studying her while she skates toward me. She’s flushed, eyes bright, with her competitive spark still flickering even in defeat.
God, she’s good at everything.
For a split second during the backstretch, I thought about letting her win. Not because I wanted to go easy on her, but because I wanted to see what she’d ask for.
I meant it when I said anything. There is nothing she could dream up that I wouldn’t try to make happen. The thought surprises me, but I chalk it up to being friends. I’d do almost anything for most of my close friends. It doesn’t have to mean anything more.
Instead, I picked up my pace, creating a gap, so that I could slide through the finish with my pride intact. If I had let her win, she would’ve known.
Wesley misses nothing. Whether it was in my stride or the way I coasted a turn, she would’ve seen it. Then, she would’ve razzed me about it for the rest of my life.
She stops a few feet away from me now, hands on her hips, still catching her breath.
“You were sandbagging,” she accuses between inhales.
I grin. “You wish.”
She narrows her eyes, studying me like she’s trying to solve something. There’s color high on her cheeks. A strand of hair sticks to her lip, and without thinking, I reach out and brush it away.
My fingers graze her skin.
She goes still.
So do I.
Up close, I can see the way her pulse jumps at her throat. Mine’s not exactly calm either.
“You almost had me,” I say, because it feels safer than whatever else I could say.
Her brow lifts as she pulls out her hair tie, just to gather her hair and pull it up again. “Almost?”
I shrug. “Corner three. You cut it tight. I thought you were going to try to pass on the inside.”
“I was.”
“Yeah. I know.”
A smile curves her mouth, slow and satisfied. “Were you worried?”
“Not even a little.”
She just looks at me.
I shake my head. “Although you were faster than I expected. You might be in the wrong sport.”
“Small confession,” she says, rolling her lips together, “I may have played hockey until high school. Then I had to commit to one sport. Soccer was the only choice.”
A grin tugs at the corner of my lips. Of course she did. It makes me even happier that I brought her here. Every time she opens up, telling me something personal about herself, it’s like getting a new piece to my favorite puzzle.
I haven’t had fun like this in a while. Even with my friends, there’s always looming pressure. This kind of fun adrenaline, without cameras or stress, is addictive.
She steps closer, the toe of her skate nudging mine. The contact is small, but deliberate.
“You don’t let people win, do you?” she asks.
“No.”
“Not even me?”
I glance down at our skates touching, then back up at her. “Especially not you.”
Her exhale is shaky this time, and not from the race.
“You’re competitive,” I add, softer. “You’d rather lose for real than win because I feel bad.”
At that, her chin tips up. “I don’t need you to take it easy on me.”
“I know.”
That’s the thing. She doesn’t need anything, and for some reason, that makes me want to give her everything.
“Do you do this often?” She slides back from me.
“Sometimes.” I let her glide away. It’s safer with the space between us. “When I was eight, my dad snagged tickets to this open skate event that was hosted here.”
Memories flash back to that day and the way my hands shook as we arrived. She watches me carefully, letting the silence spur me along.
“I’d been playing hockey for years at that point, but to come here? It was a dream. I wore my Boston Blades jersey, which was way too big.”
She laughs. We both start skating slowly, side by side.
“I was the first kid on the ice, and I remember thinking this was it. This ice. This arena. That day, it all became my dream. I like coming out here by myself.”
“I’m sure eight-year-old Nathan would be proud of where you are.” She spins a quick circle, motioning throughout the arena.
“With all of the shit going on with my contract and how I’m playing, he’d probably be disappointed.”
The words are honest, but saying them out loud cuts deep. It’s a confession that I’ve never let myself voice. I’ve gotten used to disappointing everyone around me, but it’s disappointing myself that I’m not sure how to live with.
“Bullshit.” She shoves my shoulder. “You just said it. This ice was your dream. You did that. You’ve done it for ten years. Whatever happens next with your contract, you have to know that eight-year-old Nathan would do it all again if he knew it would get him to where you are right now.”
I swallow hard. She makes it sound so simple. So obvious. Something inside me aches a little less. She watches me while I try to regain my composure.
We take the turn slowly, but with her eyes trained on me, her skate bumps into mine. She wobbles, instinctively grabbing my arm. The sudden movement catches me off guard, and we go tumbling down. I’m careful to catch her so that she doesn’t hit the ice.
Instead, she lands half in my lap, our faces only inches apart. We’re both silent for a second, my hands lingering on her waist. Then, we break out into a fit of laughter.
She bites the inside of her lip as she shifts, an unconscious motion. A nervous tic. I’ve noticed it before. I notice everything about her.
The laughter dies in my throat as my gaze drifts to her mouth and lingers there.
My brain betrays me immediately, replaying our kiss in full color. Her hands in my hair. The way she’d surged forward, not hesitant in the slightest.
Last time we were this close, we were surrounded by a crowd. An entire bar full of people considered us a couple. It was the reason and the excuse. Now, there’s no one here but us. The space between us is charged.
She’s close enough that I can feel the heat from her body pressing against me, close enough that if I leaned in a little…
My entire body comes alive at the thought.
It’s not until she clears her throat sharply and springs to her feet that I realize my mistake. I hadn’t just been thinking of leaning in, but actually doing it.
“Oh,” she says, gliding toward the bench, looking anywhere but at me. The wall between us slams back into place so fast it almost makes my head spin.
Fuck.
I straighten, silently cursing myself. There’s no way to play that off. No way to pretend I wasn’t about to kiss her. I catch the flicker of questions in her eyes.
We unlace our skates in near silence.
She slings her bag over her shoulder and starts toward the tunnel without looking back. The distance she creates feels deliberate, as if putting us back where we belong.
I let her take three steps.
Then, “Hey,” I say.
She stops, turning halfway toward me.
“We should probably figure out when we need to be seen together again.” I try to meet her eyes, but she won’t let me. “You know, another public date.”
She hesitates. “Not this week.”
The answer shouldn’t sting, but it does.
“Okay,” I say, even though every part of me wants to argue. It hasn’t even been a week since our last one, but it already feels like too long. “That works.”
Fake dating is her domain. I’m only there to help her sell it when she needs to.
She nods, relief flashing across her face. “I know you have leave for an away trip Saturday, and since tomorrow’s Thanksgiving, we can plan to meet when you get back?”
“When we get back,” I confirm.
She gives me a small smile, then turns and walks away.
I watch her go, shoving my hands into my pockets. My head is spinning with everything I didn’t say and almost did.
But standing there alone, I know the truth. She’s said it from the beginning.
She might find me attractive, and there might be tension, but she doesn’t want me the way I’m starting to want her. I have to figure out how to stop wanting her anyway.