Page 69 of Promise Me

“And … will you come with me—inside, I mean?”

She bites her bottom lip with a nod.

“Of course, I will. Since you’ll be coming to dinner with me as well.”

I should have seen that one coming.

I nod, and then we don’t say anything else as we get to the doors. I freeze, and Sadie doesn't rush me. Instead, she just stands next to me for as long as I need.

It feels like hours, but in reality, it’s only seconds before I feel her hand slide into mine, her fingers lacing with my own and curling to hold on tight.

I look to my left to see her watching me. She doesn’t signal to the door or make any kind of gesture that I should make my move. She just stares right back at me. As if she knows this moment can’t be rushed.

I feel like a wimp. I mean, hell, I’m a grown man. I should be able to walk in there and face my fear, but it’s not that easy.

Her hand squeezes mine once more, and for some reason, the warmth of her next to me is all I need. Without letting go, I open the door and walk in, pulling her right behind me.

The smell hits me first, followed by the sound of the Zamboni cleaning the ice. This place looks exactly the same as I remember, but I don’t have time to go down memory lane. The chatter from the locker room gets louder, and suddenly, boys who, by their size, I can only assume are in high school start to filter out.

The one at the front of the group stops in his tracks. He swings his helmet in one hand and holds his stick in the other.

“Dillon, slap me,” he says and hits the back of his hand against the chest of his teammate next to him.

“Why?” the other kid asks.

“Because I'm 100 percent certain thattheHudson Asher is standing in our rink, looking right back at me.”

I nod hello and wave with the hand that isn’t locked with Sadie’s. I could let go, but I don't want to, and neither does she it seems.

“Oh, it’s him all right,” the other kid says, and then the entire team rushes out, all of them stopping to do a double take.

Finally, after a few seconds, the one at the front moves his stick to the other hand and reaches out.

I do the same and shake it.

“This is crazy. What are you doing here?” he asks.

“Do you live here?” another asks.

“Is it weird to ask if you can sign my skates?” someone asks from the back, starting a domino effect of requests.

“If we get to ask for things, I want to know his net move. It’s a classic!”

“No, the one when he skates backward and can still make a goal.”

One by one, they either high-five me or shake my hand. Sadie tries to pull away, but I keep her close.

“I think I need to see the kind of moves this team has first,” I say in a joking tone that reminds me of razzing with my old team.

“Oh, you’re in for it,” one kid says, and then they all start up with the questions again.

“Whoa, whoa, this doesn’t look like warm-ups,” a man says as he struts from the locker room. He stops short when he notices the team’s silence, and then sees me.

“Well, this tracks then,” he says and holds out his hand. “Coach Beacher.”

I shake it. “Hudson Asher.”

The team erupts again, and then Coach Beacher shoos them onto the ice.

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