Chapter Twenty-Two #2
We get out of his Jeep, and the skies are a brilliant shade of blue. It’s warm and sunny, and it would be a perfect day to go to the beach. In fact, a group of my sorority sisters did a yoga class on the beach this morning. Others, like Sofia and Maddie, were headed out this afternoon.
But I’m excited I’m going to spend it on the ice with Wyatt instead.
“I’m glad you wanted to come,” he says, opening the back door and retrieving a pair of hockey skates. He shuts the door and comes over to me, reaching for my hand. I put it in his, and we begin our walk up to the complex. “I needed this.”
“What do you mean? You’re on the ice as much as I’m in the pool.”
“I need to be active so I can think of other things,” he says. “The scrimmage is Tuesday, and it’s starting to dominate my thoughts. I know I have reading and homework to do, and I’ll do it, but my mind was wandering when I tried to work yesterday afternoon.”
The yellow jersey. The pressure is weighing on him. I can feel it in his words.
“I would think skating would make you think of hockey,” I say.
“Not when I’m with you.”
I suck in a breath.
“When I’m with you, I think of you, Grace,” Wyatt says, his voice low.
My pulse quickens. My heart bangs against my ribs. The space between us is thick and heavy, and I want to be closer. I want his mouth on mine, to kiss him thoroughly and know what he tastes like. To have his hands on me, to be able to press my lips against his neck and taste his skin—
“I’m glad,” I say, trying to keep these thoughts in check.
“Me too,” he says. Then he clears his throat. “Have you skated before?”
“A couple of times. I was very good friends with the wall.”
He chuckles as he pulls open the door to the complex. “I’ll be your wall this afternoon.”
When we walk up to the counter, I see you can skate for free with a student ID. I retrieve mine from my tote bag as we wait. When it’s our turn, the girl behind the counter looks at Wyatt and smiles. “I don’t need your ID,” she says. “I know who you are.”
I’m reminded of how popular the hockey team is on campus.
In the times I’ve been with Wyatt, he’s often recognized.
I wonder what extra pressure that adds on him.
As I show my ID and we’re checked in, I think about how his choice of wanting to be on the ice with me is an interesting one.
He’s inviting me into his world in a way, by asking me to skate with him.
I glance at his profile as we make our way to the skate-rental counter. I will give him the safe space he needs to talk. About hockey. The team. The scrimmage.
I will give him whatever he needs this afternoon, I vow.
I get myself a pair of skates, and Wyatt leads me over to a bench, where I take a seat. “I’ll do them for you,” he says as I take off my sneakers. “I’m an expert in skate lacing.” Then he grins, flashing me that dimple.
How can I not fall for him?
Wyatt puts my skates on, lacing them up quickly. Then he frowns. “You need gloves,” he says, staring at my hands. “I’ll go get some from the pro shop.”
“No, I’ll be fine!”
“No, you’ll be cold,” he protests in return. “I’ll be right back.”
Wyatt dashes off, and even though all these signs are positive, I have to remind myself that this is a friendship, no matter how much my feelings have changed. Do I think Wyatt might be catching feelings?
Yes, I do.
But he has never had a relationship. Not like the kind I want.
He could still walk away in a couple of weeks.
I glance down at his hockey skates on the ground, and I know the clock is ticking on us.
But I shove the thought away. Enjoy what you have, I remind myself.
And see if his feelings can come to a place where they might override his fears.
Because my heart might be broken if they don’t.
Before long, Wyatt is walking back from the pro shop, two pairs of gloves in his hands. One is black, and I smile when I see the other set is bright pink.
“Here you go,” he says.
I take the pink knit gloves and slip them on. “Thank you.”
“To be fair, I only have hockey gloves, so I got some for myself,” he admits, grinning. He takes a moment to lace up his skates, then we store all our belongings in a locker. Finally, we’re ready to hit the ice.
Or fall on it, which is the most likely scenario for me.
The air is colder as we get closer to the rink, and I shiver inside my sweatshirt.
I can smell the ice, and there’s something energizing about it, similar to how I feel when I smell the chlorine from a swimming pool.
That it’s someplace I want to be. There are all kinds of people skating, from young children to families, and pop music blares over the speakers.
“All right, ready?” Wyatt says, stepping onto the ice first.
“Promise you won’t let me fall!” I cry, putting my hands out to him.
His brown eyes turn molten as he stares down at me. “You won’t fall with me, Gracie. I promise.”
I nod, and when I put my hands in his, I feel like I’m putting a piece of my heart in them, too.
Wyatt skates backward on the ice, helping me along. I burst out laughing. I feel so unsteady and unsure, and my balance is off.
“Bend your knees,” he instructs as he holds my hands. “And do little marches with your feet.”
“Are you going to skate backward the whole time?” I ask, still laughing.
“Easier to talk to you this way. Bonus for me, I get to see your face.”
So. Many. Feelings.
We continue to move, and once I feel more comfortable, Wyatt tells me to do two marches and glide.
“Oh my God, I’m skating!” I cry, delighted.
“You are,” he says, grinning. “We’ll work on you gliding on one foot next.”
“Let’s not get crazy.”
He bursts out laughing. Once he’s stopped, he stares down into my eyes. “Thank you.”
I wrinkle my brow in confusion. “For what?”
“I spent all weekend thinking about the scrimmage. This is the first time I haven’t. I needed this. Just to be Wyatt, just to be out on the ice, just to skate with nothing on the line.”
Just like that, I understand what he needs. He doesn’t need to talk about his worries about Tuesday. Or what his dad might say, or how his game might have to change if he’s paired with different teammates. Wyatt needs to be Wyatt. A college student. A boyfriend. A guy teaching his girl to skate.
And nothing is fake about this.
“Well, I wouldn’t call what we’re doing skating,” I say teasingly. “You’re inching backward while I move at the speed of a sloth.”
He bursts out laughing, and I cherish the sound as it floats across the ice. “Sloth skating.”
I begin to laugh, too.
We continue to skate, and the joy I see on his face is all the reward I need. Tuesday will come. Wyatt will finally know if he’s achieved the thing he’s worked so hard for all summer, and I will cheer him on, encourage him, and tell him everything I think he should hear.
But for now?
He’s merely Wyatt Jacobs, teaching his Gracie girl how to skate.
And that’s all he needs to be.