Chapter Sixteen Summer #2
“It’s nothing compared to the real thing, but it’s not bad. The kids love it, that’s for sure.”
There are a few of them out on the ice on the other end. They’re gathered around on one knee, listening to who I assume is a coach. It’s kind of cute, seeing all the little kids with their gear on. They look like they’re playing dress-up.
“This is the five- and six-year-old group,” Ezra says, watching as they all lean in, putting their hands in the middle. “Not a single one of them knows what they’re doing, and it’s kind of adorable.”
“They’re just trying to be like their idols.” I bump my shoulder against him. “Like you.”
“I don’t think I was ever anyone’s idol.”
“You were,” I tell him, absolutely sure of it. I might not have watched him play before, but I remember how much my dad talked about him. There’s no way kids weren’t clamoring to be just like him.
He smiles softly and squeezes my hand. “So, want to skate?”
“You were serious about that?”
“Yes, but only if you want to. I know you said you don’t know how, but I’d love to teach you. We could call it an exchange. You give me cooking lessons, I give you skating lessons.”
“But we haven’t started your cooking lessons yet.”
“That’s because you can’t keep your hands off me, Sunny.”
I shove him, and he doesn’t budge an inch. “That’s your fault, too, Mr. Rawlings.”
“I don’t hear you complaining,” he says with a knowing smirk.
My cheeks flush. “Quit bragging and find us some skates.”
Ezra leads us around the rink, waving to the coach on the ice, who looks like he’s wrapping up the practice with the kids, then down a tunnel. We stop in the equipment room, where we find a pair of skates to fit me, then head to his office, where he says he keeps his own bag of gear.
When we make it back out to the rink, the kids are gone and the ice is completely clear. I’m glad because I would have been really embarrassed if the five- and six-year-olds showed me up with their skating skills.
I watch as Ezra expertly puts on his skates, and I try to mimic him but give up.
He laughs. “I got you, Sunny.”
I don’t miss his wince as he drops down in front of me, and I know it’s because of his hip.
He tries to act like it doesn’t hurt him, but I see how he favors his left side and the faces he makes when he stands and sits.
He’s in pain, and I wish he’d talk about it more than he does.
I wish he knew it was okay to not be okay.
I’m not going to judge him if he isn’t 100 percent all the time.
“How do those feel?” he asks.
“Uh, weird? You said they felt unreliable before, right? That seems like an understatement now.”
He smiles. “You’ll get used to it. Let’s get on the ice and see how they feel then.”
I let him help me up, my knees shaking as I try to figure out how to stand on the impossibly thin piece of metal. How this is even considered safe, I don’t know, but I’m willing to give it a shot.
“Want to watch me do a few laps first while you get comfortable with the skates?” he asks when we reach the edge of the ice.
“Please.”
“Just hold on to the boards.”
I nod, gripping them tightly as he lets me go.
He steps—no, more like jumps—on the ice, and then he’s gone. He’s fast. Much faster than I anticipated, given his injury. There’s no way I’ll be able to keep up with him.
I watch as he takes a few laps around the rink, his thick thighs pumping. He should look silly out there in his dress shirt and slacks, but he doesn’t. He looks completely natural and at ease.
If I thought he looked free when speeding down the two-lane roads, I was wrong. It’s nothing compared to how he looks right now.
Sadness tugs me. I hate that he lost this. I hate that he had to give up something that meant so much to him.
“You okay?” He comes to a stop in front of me, snapping me out of my haze.
“Huh? Oh, yeah. Just worried about keeping up with you.” It’s not a complete lie, but I also don’t want him to know that I was feeling sorry for him. He’d hate it, and I know that because I’d hate it too. We’re a lot alike in that regard.
“I promise I’ll go slow. I won’t let go until you’re ready.”
He holds his hand out to me just like he did at the cidery, and just like then, I relinquish all my trust to him and slip my palm against his.
Slowly, he pulls me onto the ice. It’s immediately slippery, and my first instinct is to flail my arms out to try to steady myself.
“Engage your core,” he says, gripping my hand tighter.
“Core? I don’t even have a core!”
He laughs. “You do too. You’ve got it.”
“I’m going to fall!” I yell, feeling my legs slip out from underneath me.
“Engage! Engage!” he instructs, grabbing my other hand. “Come on, Sunny. You’ve got this.”
And maybe it’s his encouragement, or maybe I just get tired of failing, but he’s right—I do have this.
I follow his instructions as he tugs me farther away from the wall, feeling more stable as we move. My knees are still knocking together, but I trust myself just a little more.
“There you go,” Ezra says, grinning proudly. “You’re doing it.”
“I’m pretty sure those five-year-olds were better than me.”
“They were, but that’s okay. They’ve had practice. You haven’t.”
“Were you ever this bad?”
“I fell right on my face the first day. In front of everyone, including all the older kids. It was mortifying.”
“You’re just making that up to make me feel better.”
“I am not. It really happened. They called me Bambi for three years after that.”
“They did not.”
“Did too,” he argues from a few feet away.
Wait—he’s a few feet away!
“Hey! You let go!” I feel myself slipping right away. “You said you wouldn’t!”
“I said I wouldn’t let go until you’re ready, and look at you. You’re doing good. Just keep your core engaged. Keep your legs in it. You’ve got this.”
His words urge me on, and before I know it, we make an entire lap around the two-hundred-foot rink.
Sure, we go infinitely slower than Ezra did on his three laps, but I do it.
I’m out of breath by the time we make it back to where we started, and I cling to the boards like a lifeline.
He chuckles, then hands me a water bottle he stashed on the benches before we started.
“You okay?”
I nod, taking a long drink. I wipe my hand over my mouth when I’m done. “It’s fun. Not nearly as cold as I thought it would be. I’m actually sweating a little.”
“I know.” He reaches out, swiping a bit off my forehead, then wiping it on his fancy shirt. “It’s a workout, huh?”
“Big-time. No wonder hockey players are always out of breath on TV.”
“Want to sit and take a break?”
“Yes, please.”
We make our way over to the bench, and I sigh as I sit down. My legs are killing me, so I don’t know how Ezra is doing this when he’s already in pain.
“So, what’d you think?” he asks after a few quiet moments. “Are you going to be the next PWHL star?”
“Uh, no. I’ll stick to staying in the kitchen, thank you very much.”
“Good. I like you there.” He wrinkles his nose. “That would have sounded really bad if you weren’t a chef, huh?”
I laugh. “Just a little.”
“How’s, uh, how’s the menu coming? I mean, not that I’m rushing you or anything. I know that kind of thing takes time.”
“But we’re getting down to the wire. I know.
” I exhale heavily, doubt creeping its way in.
I had felt so confident about the menu when I first agreed to make it, but now I’m fretting over every item because I don’t want to fail Ezra or myself.
“I don’t know. Is it silly that I’m sweating it a bit?
This is the first time I’ve made a menu all on my own.
Before, I just made whatever people told me to.
I’ve never had the chance to make it my own.
I thought it was what I always wanted, but now that I’m getting the opportunity, I’m feeling the pressure. ”
“Well, don’t. It’s nothing serious. It’s just a cidery.”
I level him with a look. “It’s not just a cidery, Ezra. It’s your business. It’s your baby. I don’t want to mess that up for you.”
“And the kitchen is your baby. It’s okay if you mess it up. That’s part of being a business owner. Sometimes we get it right and sometimes we don’t.”
“I don’t own the kitchen, though.”
He rolls his lips together. “No, I guess you don’t, but you understand the point I’m trying to make.”
I nod because I do. He’s telling me this is my project and that I should make it my own. I love how much he trusts me, but it doesn’t make me any less nervous that I’m going to screw this up completely.
“Hey,” he says, his hand cupping the back of my neck and rubbing at the tension I hadn’t even realized I was holding there. “You’re going to do great. I know you will.”
“Thanks.” I lean into his touch. “That feels good. I like having your hands on me.”
“Yeah? I like having my hands on you.”
I’m not quite sure who makes the first move, but we’re no longer sitting side by side.
I’m between his legs, my arms around his neck, and my lips on his.
His big hands hold me steady on my skates, and I relish the way they feel wrapped around me, making me feel safe and cared for.
Ezra seems to have a way of doing that, and though I’m trying my best not to get used to it, I am anyway.
When I finally pull away, we’re both out of breath, and his pupils are dilated so much that the green is almost nonexistent.
“We should probably go,” he says. “Before I do something reckless and fuck you on this bench.”
“That doesn’t sound reckless to me.”
“There’s another class in ten minutes.”
I wince. “Okay, so maybe a little reckless.”
“Just a bit.” He kisses me again, this time just a quick peck, then pats my ass. “All right. Let’s go. We still need to close the cidery, and apparently I have a cooking lesson to get to.”