Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
POPPY
Between forcing Oliver to admit the Bee Gees deserve respect at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, beanie and scarf shopping at the Christmas Market, and now ice skating at Public Square—in a wheelchair—my heart hasn’t been this full in years.
Oliver and I aren’t holding hands, but we may as well be.
Our arms brush constantly. Our fingers skim every chance they get.
We aren’t kissing, but every time he skates backward in front of me, tugging on the rented wheelchair, our eyes catch and hold, and I can feel the weight of his gaze on my mouth. I can remember the taste.
“Why are they so good at ice skating?” I ask Scottie when Jake and Oliver have their third race around the rink.
“You know how it is,” she says, skating much more comfortably than I am. “Growing up in the Northeast.”
“I went skating with my dad once,” I say, but I’m pulling that memory from the recesses of my mind. “And on a field trip in third grade. But I haven’t skated since.”
“My family went a lot. And because I’ve been stuck with Jake since before I was born, so did he,” she says. “Between us, I’m a better skater than he is.”
“But you don’t want to make him feel bad?” I ask, thinking we have this in common.
She snorts. “Uh, no. I tweaked my back sleeping on my brother’s couch. I love making that turd feel bad.”
I laugh. She’s being patient to stay so near me, so I know she’s nicer than she’s letting on. “How long have you and Oliver known each other?”
“Mm, eight, nine months. He’s a tough nut to crack. I’m impressed he’s let you in so quickly,” she says, her eyes scanning my face. “You said your middle name is Grace. And your last name is Lewis, right?”
I nod. “Yup. My dad always called me Gracie Lou.”
Scottie laughs, a little too hard, honestly.
“Perfect,” she says. “That is perfect.”
“I think I’m missing something,” I say.
“Have you noticed Fletch’s phone case?”
“Uh, sure,” I say. It’s a generic green.
“Look closer, will you?”
I tilt my head up at her. How random. But before I can follow up, Jake and Oliver are rushing towards us, weaving past people with ease. Oliver has a wolfish grin on his face as he locks his eyes on me. I haven’t seen this look on him yet, but I like it.
I like it a lot.
They reach us at the exact same time. Oliver stops with a spray of ice to my left.
Jake sprays Scottie right in the face.
“I hate you,” she says, wiping her face and throwing the slush at him.
Jake laughs. “Whatever you have to tell yourself.”
I look at Oliver to laugh, but he’s panting and smiling at me, not paying attention to Scottie and Jake at all.
“If you were showing off to impress me, it worked,” I say, nudging his arm with mine. He reaches down and steadies my wheelchair, then wheels me forward a few steps so we’re side by side.
My hands grip the wheels nervously as I push myself slowly, the movement awkward but fun. I love the idea that wheelchair users can experience something so magical.
“If I’ve impressed you,” he says, “my work here is done.”
I try to move forward a little faster—but my skate catches the footrest. The chair jolts sharply, and I nearly tip forward. I let go of Oliver’s hand instinctively.
In one smooth motion, he drops his hands to my waist, stopping the tilt.
Instead of setting me back in the chair, he pulls me up to a stand.
I wobble on one skate, my balance precarious, but his palm pressed firmly against my lower back keeps me steady.
My heart hammers—and with him so close, I wonder if he can feel the butterflies fluttering in my stomach through my coat.
“Graceful,” he teases.
“Oh, you thought that was real?” I tighten my grip on his forearm, my pulse hammering at his nearness. If he weren’t over a foot taller than me, we’d be even closer. “I’m just lulling you into a false sense of security before I unleash my Olympic routine.”
“I’m not sure falling is big in the Olympics.”
I try to glare, but even if I weren’t clinging to him like the lifeline he is, it would have no effect. As it is, he mumbles under his breath, “Man, you’re cute.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I say, heat rising from my chest to my cheeks.
He helps me back into the wheelchair, and my stomach swoops at how careful he is with me.
“How’s your ankle been feeling?” he asks, his hand still on my shoulder.
“The boot is like a cast,” I say. “It actually helps.”
He frowns, unconvinced. “If it gets worse, you tell me. No more hiding injuries.”
“You got it, Coach,” I tease, but I’m not sure I’m lying. I think I could actually tell Oliver I’m in pain, and he would care.
It’s pathetic how emotional that thought makes me.
How scared, too.
Especially because I still haven’t told him about my job … the one thing that could make him leave—
I push the thought away. We’ve known each other for a few days. I have time to tell him.
Right, and that knot in your stomach is just hunger.
By the time we make our way off the ice, I let Oliver push me to the edge of the rink, then transfer to my crutches, which have made a world of difference all afternoon.
My cheeks are flushed from both cold and …
well, the heat of being next to him. We flop onto a bench to remove our skates, our knees bumping together as we wrestle with stiff laces and half-frozen fingers.
Jake and Scottie are already done, and Jake’s signing autographs for fans while Scottie holds his hot cocoa.
“Can’t wait to watch you in the Olympics,” Oliver says, tugging off his skate and slipping into his sneakers.
“Right? I was magnificent.” I brace my crutches carefully under my arms and wiggle my sore ankle into my Mary Jane. “Do you think you’ll like being president of my fan club?”
“I think I’ll manage.” He stands and tugs me up next to him.
My legs are still wobbly as we hobble out of the rink on crutches. My limp isn’t as bad as it was yesterday, but even if my ankle were shrieking in pain, I wouldn’t care.
This is worth it.
“Hot cocoa?” he asks.
“Please,” I say. He nods and goes to get in line at the cart. A few feet away, I see a little kid lobbing a snowball at his dad, and inspiration strikes.
I scoop up a fistful of snow from the railing, pack it tight, and hurl it at Oliver.
It hits him in the back of his head.
He turns around, reaching into the back of his coat. “What the heck?” he asks. “That went down my sweatshirt.”
I wrinkle my nose. “If it helps, I was aiming for your butt.”
“That doesn’t help,” he says, still pulling on the back of his coat. He looks at the line, then back at me.
His mouth curves into a slow smirk.
And he runs toward me.
I shriek and try to bolt down the sidewalk, but I’m clumsily hopping on crutches, the square is full of people, and Oliver’s an ex-athlete.
For the second time today, I feel his arms snake around me, but this time, he lifts me so my crutches drop and pulls me so close, his lips skim my earlobe. “You’re going down, Elf.”
My feet kick as I laugh breathlessly. “Let me go!”
“Say mercy,” he orders.
“Never!” I wriggle, but it’s useless.
He has me.
And he can keep me, if he wants.
At least until I feel him stuff a shock of snow down the back of my sweater.
I yelp, arching away from the icy shock. He tries to tighten his grip, but I twist and escape, just to have him catch one of my hands before I can scoop up more snow.
People passing by grin at us. I hear Jake call out something that’s probably obscene.
But the only thing real to me is this—Oliver grabbing my hand, pulling me toward him until he pins my arms at my sides.
Both of us laughing and panting. Our eyes catch, and just like that, the noise of the square dims, the whole world narrowing to him and the heat burning under my skin despite the cold seeping through my clothes.
As chilly as I am, his gaze on me feels like a hug.
What I wouldn’t give for a real one.
These little touches already have my nerves sparking and my chest aching like something hollow inside me is finally being filled. If a snowball fight can do this, how would it feel if he wrapped his arms around my back and folded me against him, holding tight until I felt stitched together again?
But that’s dangerous territory.
Kissing Oliver was amazing. Hugging him, though? That might undo me completely.
“You two lovebirds ready for dinner, or what?” Jake asks, walking past us and throwing his empty cup into a nearby trash can.
“Or what,” I whisper so only Oliver can hear.
His lips tick up in a small smile.
And I’m done.
Dinner ends up at The Dog Pound, a bar & grill known for its burgers and brats, with jerseys and Christmas lights plastering every inch of wall space and at least ten TVs tuned to various football and hockey games. Jake angled for a swanky steakhouse, but Oliver vetoed.
“I’m more burger and fries than steak and potatoes,” he said when we piled into the car.
“No skin off my back, Coach,” Jake said.
Scottie looked up ratings and found this place, where we’re now waiting for our meals while we eat fried pickles and cheese curds, at Oliver’s suggestion.
“I’ve never had fried cheese curds before,” I say, popping two in my mouth. They’re warm and chewy and way more flavorful than the mozzarella stick flavor I was expecting. And the way they melt in my mouth? Mmm. “I think I’m in love.”
“I thought you were done being adventurous at restaurants,” he says, bumping his knee against mine. And leaving it there.
Under the table, I prop my foot up on the rung of my chair, taking pressure off my ankle. It’s throbbing, but tolerable. Clara really knew what she was doing.
I give my shoulders a little lift and look up at him. “Maybe it’s about the right kind of adventure.”
The server refreshes our drinks, and Jake makes a point of asking, “This is a Guinness 0, right? Non-alcoholic?”
The server nods. “I double-checked,” she says.