“I don’t want to break it.”
“It’s a puck. It’s literally a hardened rubber disk designed to be smacked around at sixty miles an hour.”
I blow out a breath. “I don’t think I’m very good at this.”
He skates closer, tilting his head. “Aw, come on. Don’t give up just yet. If you can land a double toe loop, you can definitely figure out how to hit a puck.”
I glance at him, surprised. “You know what that is?”
He shrugs. “I googled some stuff.”
That makes something flutter weirdly in my chest. “Why?”
He shrugs again, rubbing the back of his neck. Oh god… is he… blushing? “Couldn’t stop thinking about the videos on your profile.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I glance away, hoping he doesn’t notice the way my face is definitely on fire.
He slides closer, positioning himself behind me again. “Alright, let’s try it again.” He adjusts my grip again, this time slower, his fingers wrapping over mine, big and rough. Not that I’ve noticed. Obviously.
I can feel his breath fanning against my cheek, the solid heat of him behind me, and I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that no one else is here.
He wraps his hands tighter over mine and gently swings the stick forward, hitting the puck so it glides cleanly across the ice. It’s easy. Way easier than when I tried.
I glance up at him. “Okay… that was cool.”
“You’re a natural,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t step back.
And I don’t move either.
“I didn’t do anything,” I reply, my breath thick, and my heart beating against my chest.
How is it possible that someone like him exists? Like, truly, his proportions are… unfair. If I weren’t actively trying not to notice, I’d be thinking about his biceps under that hoodie. About the veins on his forearms when he holds his stick.
He catches me looking and flashes that grin again.
I swallow harshly. “What?” I ask.
He chuckles as he grabs the stick from my hands, his hand flying to my hips as he spins me around until we’re facing each other, my hands instinctively flying to his chest. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
I narrow my eyes. “I hate you.”
He laughs again. I can feel the rise and fall of his chest underneath my palms, and all I can think about is how wide it is, how solid he feels under my fingers.
“No you don’t,” he says with a smirk. “You love me.”
I arch a brow at him. “You think everyone loves you.”
“They usually do.” He says it like it’s a fact. Like gravity.
And he’s not wrong. Girls love him. Boys love him. Professors—even the ones whose classes he never shows up to—somehow love him.
“Don’t expect me to,” I say, attempting to breathe.
He pulls me into him, one arm sliding around my waist. “Never. I prefer when you roll your eyes at me,” he says, his lips tugging into a smirk.
I glance at them, full and perfect, and I don’t know when I started thinking about what it might feel like to kiss him.
But the thought is there now. Buzzing behind my ribs. Settling in the hollow of my throat.
