Page 65 of Resist

Coulton was tempted to point out that six months ago, Slade had been in the same boat as Ainsley, a newcomer to ice-skating.

Although Slade had learned a lot faster. The three of them had been on the rink for nearly an hour, and Ainsley was still fighting to merely balance on the skates.

“What the hell must be wrong with someone that makes them think, ‘Hey, you know what would be fun? Strapping sharp blades to our feet and sliding around on ice.’”

Coulton laughed. “You’re thinking too hard. Haven’t you ever roller-skated? Rollerbladed?”

“Those all classify as rich-people activities,” she pointed out, blowing a strand of hair out of her face.

Slade got a kick out of Ainsley’s comment. “Golf is a rich-people sport,” he said, adding to her list. “And that game they play in the fields with sticks.”

“Lacrosse,” Coulton said. “So what’s a poor person’s sport?”

“Basketball,” Ainsley and Slade replied in unison.

As Coulton had said, Slade had taken to Ainsley in an instant. Hell, Coulton had spent a good part of the day feeling like a third wheel as Ainsley and Slade talked about all things Cherry Hill. They’d attended the same schools, so Ainsley asked what teachers were still teaching. Then, they argued over which corner deli was the best. She’d even regaled Coulton and Slade with some funny stories about Jerome in high school.

“Okay. Let’s try this from a different angle.” Coulton shifted until he was standing behind Ainsley. “Instead of clinging to my arm, I’m going to hold you up with my hands on your waist. I’ll push you forward, while you work on moving your feet correctly. Okay?”

She gave him a dubious look that he ignored.

Coulton held on to her as promised, slowly moving across the rink.

Slade—the show-off—skated backward in front of them, offering words of encouragement. “You got it, Ains. Now, put more pressure on your right foot because you gotta make the turn.”

After a couple of laps around the rink, Ainsley finally seemed steadier, and when he released her waist, his hands hovering close to catch her if needed, she managed to propel herself forward and even managed to make a turn.

“I’m doing it!” she said excitedly.

Slade started clapping. “You’re doing awesome! Look at us skating like rich people.”

Ainsley stumbled slightly when she laughed at Slade’s joke.

The three of them continued to skate for another hour, Ainsley’s confidence growing with each lap she completed. With her able to support herself, Coulton and Slade started doing tricks to entertain her, spinning circles, racing each other up and down the ice, and skating backward.

“Next time, I’ll bring a stick and puck,” Coulton said to Slade. “I think you’re ready to learn how to play hockey.”

Slade rolled his eyes. “You can teach me, but I still want to play baseball.”

Coulton grumbled, his obvious disdain for Slade’s chosen sport, cracking up his skating partners.

He looked at his watch and sighed. “We’re going to have to leave now, or we won’t have time for lunch.” He was prepared for Slade to beg for more time, because the kid was never ready for the fun to end, but when Ainsley said she was starving, Slade grabbed her hand, leading her to the edge of the rink and helping her to the bench where they’d left their street shoes.

The rest of the afternoon passed too quickly for Coulton, who was genuinely enjoying Ainsley’s and Slade’s antics. They continued their list of rich-people things—the food edition—while they scarfed down greasy cheeseburgers and fries. Because it was game day, Coulton’s meal was a lot healthier and boring, salad and a grilled chicken breast.

When the meal was over, they piled into Coulton’s truck, and he drove to Slade’s apartment building first.

“Thanks, Coulton,” Slade said, leaning over the backseat to give him a fist bump. “You gonna keep coming out with us, Ains?”

Ainsley looked equal parts surprised and pleased by Slade’s question. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to see how things go.”

Coulton snorted. “She’ll be back.”

Ainsley narrowed her eyes, but there was no anger behind it. Mainly because Slade started giggling. “You better watch your back, Coulton. Ains is a Cherry Hill girl. No man’s ever gonna tell them what to do.”

“Yeah, Coulton,” Ainsley piled on. “You hear that. I’m Cherry Hill.”

Slade offered Ainsley the same fist bump, then climbed out of the car. Coulton waited until the boy was inside before pulling away from the curb.

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