“I never learned to ride a bike.”
“What?” Now that shocks him.
“It’s a balance thing. I couldn’t do it. My brother made fun of me all the time because I wrecked every time I tried. Nana told me to stop after I tore a ligament in my knee.”
“Well, I’m here to keep you from serious bodily harm. I’m not going to let you get hurt, sweetheart. Just trust me.”
Sighing, I take a tentative step forward and stumble. True to his word, he catches me before I can even attempt the face plant.
“Like this.” He shows me how to move the skates on the ice and I try my best to mimic him. It’s not as easy as he makes it look.
“This isn’t working.”
“Stop being a Nervous Nancy. Just hold onto me and I won’t let you fall.” His gray eyes flash with amusement.
Holding onto him turned into clutching him for dear life as we start to skate around the rink. The motion is easy to pick up, but I wasn’t joking about my balance. I’m not klutzy unless I’m on anything that requires me to balance like a bike or roller blades, or in this case, ice skates.
“Relax,” he tells me.
“Easy for you to say,” I say while trying not to fall.
“Okay, this really isn’t working.” He stops and does something totally unexpected. “Time for a piggyback ride.”
“What?”
He squats and looks over his shoulder. “Get on.”
“You’ll drop me and then we’ll both end up at the ER.”
He laughs and the deep, rich sound goes through me in the best possible way. “I’m not going to drop you. I bench press three times your weight.”
“Show off,” I mutter, but I do climb on his back and hold on for dear life when he stands up.
“Let me show you what it means to fly, sweetheart.”
And he does just that. He takes off like he has wings on his feet and within seconds he picks up speed and everything isflying by at a blur. I can’t help but laugh as the wind he’s creating rushes me.
“Told you!” he shouts as he skates even faster.
He was right. I love it now that I’m not worried about falling. Itislike flying. How the hell does he go so fast? And he’s worried about four seconds? If he goes this fast during a game, he’s got nothing to worry about.
When he comes to a stop a few minutes later, he’s barely winded. I swear I’m breathing harder than him and he did all the work.
“So?” he asks after putting me down, his eyes twinkling. “Do you understand now why I love the ice so much?”
“I think you just like to go fast.”
He bursts out laughing. “I can go slow when I need to.”
“Hutch!”
He cringes and looks past me. A man in his mid-fifties or so is standing at the edge of the ice looking very stern.
“Hey Coach!” Hutch tosses him a wave, but he looks worried.
So Mister You’ll Be Fine If You’re With Me is now not so sure about that.
The coach walks over to us and arches a brow.
