“Mom,” Cody complains.
Knew she was his mom. “On it,” I promise. “Free of charge.”
She didn’t have to ask. I never would have let him walk to his car on his own in the dark. Cody’s not even the smallest guy I’ve ever seen, but he doesn’t have a fighter’s build.
Cody scowls at me from the other side of the concession stand. I lean against his counter, still holding onto my mop. “Any chance I can get a soda?”
“No. Do you have any idea how much high-fructose corn syrup they put in those? It literally erodes your arteries. Besides, you can’t afford it.”
He says no a lot, but he’s so cute spitting those nutritional facts that I don’t mind. I work on sweeping and mopping. He helps customers. I watch him from afar because I can’t help myself. He doesn’t smile, he isn’t friendly, but he works with precision. He’s quick and gets through a long lineup of people without any hiccups.
Most everyone’s gone by ten pm. I saunter over to Cody’s counter, adjusting my hat. I was given a dark blue cotton button-up to wear over my shirt, but other than that it’s my jeans, ballcap, and a pair of boots. I wipe the sweat off my brow with the back of my hand and undo the top buttons of my shirt, noting Cody’s blue checkered mackinaw and black toque. He’s not sweltering in that thing?
“Need any help? No,” I say at the same time he does.
His mouth opens and then he closes it. “I don’t need help.”
“Okay, then I’ll sit here and wait for you.”
I hop my ass onto the counter. If smoke could escape his pores, he’d be a little dark rain cloud. Finally, he settles a hand on his hip. “Go home, Ari.”
“No. You’re not walking out to your car by yourself.”
He says I can’t have soda; I say he can’t walk to his car in the dark.
“You’re infuriating, you know that?”
“I’ve been told.”
“I walk to my car by myself all the time.”
I shrug. “You don’t anymore.”
“I existed before you, you know?”
“Debatable.” I smirk.
He scowls, spinning away from me to lock the rest of the concession items away. I stare the whole time. I don’t think theman knows how hot he is. Does he do Pilates? Because damn, that ass in those jeans.
“I don’t have a person,” he admits as we’re walking out of the building. “Keeping up the lie is exhausting.”
I haven’t asked him about it, so I’m left to assume he was experiencing some kind of internal dilemma about it.
“I knew you didn’t—not because you couldn’t,” I add just in case he goes there again. “You flirt too much with me.”
“I do not flirt with you.”
“Yes, you do.”
I close the door to the rink for him, and he locks it behind us. Cody’s position is somewhat managerial. His parents own the rink. Didn’t know that. But it does beg the question, why didn’t Cody play hockey?
“Do you skate?”
“N-No,” he stutters.
We step into cool night air that only feels warm by comparison to being in an ice rink for the past six hours.
“Why not?”
