Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Istepped into the practice facility, still not entirely sure what I’d agreed to. I’d received a text from Dani that morning—short, vague, and entirely unhelpful:
Come to the practice facility around noon. Bring your skates.
That was it. There’d been no other explanation or additional context. Just instructions that had me digging through boxes in my parents’ basement until I’d found an old pair of skates buried under piles of things I’d convinced myself I didn’t need anymore.
The practice facility was quieter than usual. It was the midday lull, the space between morning skate and afternoon lifts. The ice was empty, the surface glassy and bright under the arena’s lights.
I heard an engine rumble to life, and I turned just in time to see a Zamboni rolling out from the tunnel.
With Dani Callahan driving it.
She was leaning casually against the steering wheel, one arm draped against the back of her seat, her posture loose. When she saw me, her mouth curved into a grin that was entirely too pleased with itself.
“Need a ride, pretty lady?” she called out.
I burst out laughing. “Who trusted you with the Zamboni keys? Or did you hot-wire that thing?”
“Being the oldest player in the league comes with a few perks,” she said smoothly. She slowed the machine beside the boards. “Wanna go for a spin?”
I folded my arms, eyeing her. “This isn’t some kind of ultimate hockey player fantasy, is it? Fooling around on a Zamboni?”
Dani widened her eyes in mock innocence. “Woah—who said anything about fooling around? I just thought you might want to experience a lap around the rink.”
I stepped closer, still skeptical. “There’s only one seat.”
“Yeah,” she said, her tone completely unbothered. “Tragic. I guess you’ll have to sit on my lap.”
I stared at her. She stared back. The Zamboni’s engine idled between us.
“This feels like an HR violation,” I said.
“Good thing I don’t work in an office,” she returned with a grin.
I hesitated—just long enough to pretend I was still thinking about it—before I stepped up to the Zamboni. There wasn’t much room behind the steering wheel, but Dani shifted to make space. I let her help me climb up before carefully settling back against her.
If she’d had practice earlier that morning, I couldn’t tell.
For once, her hair was dry. But she still smelled clean like bar soap.
The equipment hockey players wore typically had a particular, nauseating odor that was singular to the sport.
It was a marvel that her skin never seemed to absorb the unique stench of hockey pads.
Her left hand settled at my waist. “Comfortable?” she asked.
Her voice was low and near my ear.
“This is deeply unserious,” I scoffed.
“That’s the best kind of serious,” she replied.
She nudged the controls, and the Zamboni lurched forward.
It was a tight fit behind the wheel. It made me hyper-aware of the warmth of Dani’s body compared to the refrigerated air of the rink and the way her breath brushed my cheek when she leaned closer to steer.
We moved in wide, lazy circles around the rink. For a second, I wondered if I’d misread the situation—if this was just Dani being Dani: playful, ridiculous, harmless. Maybe she did just want to drive a Zamboni and make me laugh.
But then her hand tightened at my waist. Just a little.
“Relax,” she said quietly. “I’m just driving.”
“Uh huh.”
The Zamboni continued its slow loop, the two of us alone in the cavernous rink.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call yesterday,” she openly apologized.
I was in no position to turn and see her face. I’d have to take her words at face-value.
“It’s okay,” I casually dismissed.
“It’s not okay,” she rejected. “You probably thought I was ghosting you.”
“I didn’t.”
It wasn’t the complete truth. I had checked my phone for signs of life to the point of embarrassment. But I didn’t want her to know that. I was feeling too much, too soon.
The Zamboni idled by the boards and Dani cut the engine. The sudden quiet felt louder than the engine noise had been.
She hopped down first and then turned back to me, her hands already settling at my hips. She helped me down, lowering me carefully to the ice. The contact lingered for a moment longer, her grip steady and grounding.
She hooked her thumbs on the front belt loops of my jeans. “Did you bring your skates?”
“Uh huh.”
I’d been in a panic earlier that morning, digging through boxes in my parents’ basement until I’d found my skates.
It hadn’t occurred to me until then just how long it had been since I’d gone ice skating.
I’d lived in plenty of snowy cities over my career, and I could have always rented skates.
It made me wonder if I’d subconsciously avoided ice rinks because of their association with Dani.
“But you’d better not let me fall,” I warned.
She lifted a hand to my mouth. She brushed the pad of her thumb along my lower lip like she was brushing away an errant crumb that I knew wasn’t there.
“I won’t,” she vowed.
The moment felt heavier than simply a conversation about ice skating safety.
Her hazel eyes shifted as she regarded me, like she was cataloguing my facial features.
She gently trapped my chin between her thumb and forefinger and tilted my head up just slightly, until I was raising up on my toes to kiss her.
The kiss wasn’t rushed or surprising. It felt settled, like something we’d already agreed to and were now returning to without question.
Her hand stayed at my chin, while my fingers curled lightly at the front of her jacket.
The kiss deepened just enough to make my chest tighten, to make the quiet rink feel smaller, like the world had narrowed to the limited space between us.
We broke apart slowly, neither of us moving very far.
I cleared my throat and stepped back first, reaching for my skates like I needed something practical to anchor myself.
Dani noticed them immediately.
“Reese.”
“What?”
“I might have to report you to the cops for this,” she scolded. “Those skates—they’re a crime.”
“They’re fine,” I scoffed.
She confiscated one of the skates and turned it over, inspecting the blade. “When’s the last time you used these?”
I hesitated.
“That’s what I thought,” she sighed, already turning toward the hallway. “Come on.”
“Hey—”
She didn’t slow down.
I followed her anyway.
The equipment manager barely glanced up when we walked in.
He looked exactly how I’d expect a New England ice rink manager to look—thick through the shoulders, a little grayer than he probably liked, with a permanent flush across his cheeks that had nothing to do with the temperature.
He wore a Bruins beanie pulled low on his head and a zip-up jacket with the team’s logo stretched tight across his chest. He looked like the kind of man who had probably been working in rinks longer than I’d been alive and who trusted exactly no one to do things properly except himself.
“Tell me you didn’t let her step on my ice with those,” he scowled.
“I didn’t,” Dani replied easily. “I intervened.”
I crossed my arms, bristling. “They’re not that bad.”
“They’re a liability,” Dani said.
The equipment manager made a low, unimpressed noise in the back of his throat as he took the skates from her. He turned one over in his hands like he was examining evidence at a crime scene. His thumb ran along the blade, and whatever he found seemed to personally offend him.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “What’ve you been doing with these? Opening cans?”
I opened my mouth to defend myself and then immediately closed it again. There was no winning this.
“Give me ten minutes,” he said, already turning away. “Before she eats it out there and takes you down with her.”
“Thank you, Frank,” Dani said, completely unfazed.
“Unbelievable,” I complained.
Neither of them paid me any attention.
By the time we made it back out to the ice, the blades of my skates had been miraculously restored, and Dani seemed significantly less stressed about my chances of survival.
She dropped onto the bench in front of me before we stepped out, crouching between my knees like it was the most natural thing in the world. I’d barely gotten one lace halfway tightened before she reached up and plucked it from my hands.
“Give me that.”
“I know how to tie my skates,” I protested weakly.
“Yeah?” she said, bracing one hand against the toe of my skate to steady it. With the other, she yanked the loose laces free, undoing my work entirely. “Because this looks like you’re about to go out there and snap an ankle in the first thirty seconds.”
I huffed, but didn’t stop her.
She started from the bottom, rethreading the laces through each eyelet with quick, practiced pulls.
Every few rows, she gave a firm tug, locking the tension in place before moving higher.
When she reached my ankle, she slowed slightly, tightening with more care, anchoring my heel back into the boot.
There was something oddly nurturing about it—being handled like this, like she knew exactly what she was doing, and I didn’t have to pretend that I did.
“Too tight?” she asked.
I flexed my foot experimentally. “No. That’s actually good.”
“I know,” she said, tying it off.
She did the other skate without asking, her shoulder brushing lightly against my knee as she leaned in.
For a second, I found myself watching her instead of the rink—the focus in her expression, the familiarity of the motion, the way this clearly wasn’t just muscle memory, but something she cared about getting right.
“Okay,” she said, finally straightening. “Rule number one—don’t lock your knees.”
“Great. Already off to a strong start,” I muttered.
She grinned. “You’ll be fine. I’ve got you.”