Page 81 of The Fireman and the Flirt

“Let’s ice skate,” I said, trying to play the part of a cool date.

The building was dark and empty when we entered.

“This is how horror movies start,” I said.

“One second. Stay right here.” Derek kissed my hand and then walked off somewhere, leaving me alone in the dark.

“This is definitely how horror movies start,” I shouted. I used my phone’s light to scan my surroundings. I was by a wall with a bulletin board covered in flyers offering lessons and advertising different leagues. I might as well have been in a foreign country. This was pure athlete territory.

All of my hesitation and fear about ice skating vanished when the lights turned on. Twinkly lights had been strung around the perimeter of the rink. A disco ball reflected color across the ice. Disco balls belonged above ice rinks—not above beds in creepyShrekshrines.

And there, in the center of the ice, hands in his pockets, looking as good as he did in the halls of high school, was Derek, skating toward me.

“Did you do this?” I asked, not wanting to blink. I wanted to file the image of Derek set against glowing lights away in my core memories. “Are we trespassing?”

“I know the rink owner. Same guy who owned it years ago.”

“Is this where your old guy hockey team is practicing?”

“I decided not to join.” A pained look crossed his face. “Too much of a time commitment.”

With his crazy firefighting schedule plus caring for a daughter, I couldn’t imagine how he did anything. It made me extra grateful that he carved time out for this date.

“Cal helped me string the lights.”

“Now I’m really impressed.”

“I hope you don’t mind, but I told him about us.”

“Wow.”

Telling people about us meant he was serious, something that I technically already knew, but had to keep reminding myself of. While I appreciated my mind’s fierce self-preservation, I wished I could make it back off at times.

“I would drop leaflets from the sky if I could.” He skated closer, dipping his hands around my waist. I fit perfectly inside his bushy forearms. “I like you, Cary Perkowski.”

“I like you, too.”

“I know.” He winked at me before glancing back at the rink. “Shall we?”

I wanted to kick myself for being a baby about skating. I wasn’t going to be on the ice alone. Derek would be there beside me. He was right. He wouldn’t let me fall.

“Let’s skate,” I said.

Derek grabbed me a pair of skates. He offered to lace them up for me, but I could do it myself. I wasn’t the damsel in distress in this relationship. He did help me stand up, though. My wobbliness made me regret not getting into rollerblading when I was a kid.

He played music from his phone, a playlist of Throwback Thursday ‘90s jams. I breathed in the scent of him on the hoodie I was wearing. We held hands and skated around the rink. As expected, I was spastic and tried to take baby steps on the ice.

“Sorry,” I muttered. I was really trying to concentrate and not make a fool of myself.

“Push off with each foot.” Derek left me stranded so he could demonstrate. He glided across the ice with the burly hunch of his back that all hockey players had. I was too distracted by how cuddly he looked in his hoodie to pay attention to his feet.

“Now you try it.”

Here went nothing. I closed my eyes and channeled my inner Adam Rippon. And then I thought about how wonderful his friendship with Gus Kenworthy was during the Olympics. It was a rare example of gay friendship in the media. Were they still friends?

“Cary?”

I blinked my eyes and remembered I was supposed to be skating, not having parasocial thoughts about gay Olympians.

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