Page 27 of Yule Know It When You See It
I set up for the turn, spotting Axel keeping his distance but watching me. Using weight distribution, I plunge into the spin, going faster and faster, the world turning into chaos around me. Did I mention it’s been nearly twenty years since I’ve done any of this? As familiar as it all had felt, I forgot how to keep from getting dizzy. When I come out of the turn, I lose my balance and stupidly lean back. My skates start skidding underneath and away from me. I regain my composure, toppling forward, tripping, and—Axel catches me.
I’m at his mercy, my weight held by his arms, I stare up at him dumbly, not bothering to move yet. His hands feel strong at my back, despite this stupid pea coat, which is often too thin in colder temperatures, but now feels as thick as an iceberg.
Axel searches my face and grips me tighter to pull me upright. “I know you said you could take care of yourself, but I wouldn’t have heard the end of it if I let you fall and you chipped a tooth or something on the ice.” A masculine chuckle echoes from the pit of his stomach, and I’m so close to his chest, I can feel the rumble on my cheeks.
“Mmhm,” I think I say, but I’m far too caught up in staring at Axel’s lips. They’re just plump enough to remain masculine and surrounded by his beard. Would the hair tickle? Would it make my mouth red?
My hands work their way up his exposed arms, the light scattering of blonde hair tantalizing my fingertips. Veins snake underneath his skin on the underside, and without thinking, without processing what I’m doing, I lean forward. Axel’s gaze darkens once he realizes where this is going, and his hands press tighter to my back, pulling me closer to him. Our faces draw nearer, lips so close I can feel his breath against my skin—warm and minty.
“Heads up,” a man’s voice shouts, deep with a Chicagoan accent.
We jolt to attention, the voice belonging to a man on a Zamboni already driving around the rink to rewet the ice in time for hockey practice.
I clear my throat and reluctantly pull from Axel’s grasp. “Guess we should get our notepads ready, hm?”
“Yeah,” he starts, face stony, a wrinkle forming in his brow. “Guess we should.”
Isn’t this just like us? We almost have a moment—a tremendous one that would change the course of our relationship—and we pretend as if nothing happened. I wonder if his reasons are the same as mine. If I admit it, it boils down to one simple word:fear. And not fear of rejection or the unknown, but more so the trepidation that this would end like every other relationship I’ve had—heartbreak, disappointment, and a complete waste of time.
“Come on, Romance,” Axel whispers, taking my hand and pulling me across the ice. “We don’t need you getting run over by a damn Zamboni.”
I stifle a laugh and let him pull me versus skating myself. When we’re back on less slippery ground, I slip the guards over the blades and sit to undo the laces.
“How long has it been since you’ve skated?” Axel sat next to me, working the laces of his skates.
“Probably twenty years.”
Axel’s eyes go wide. “Wow. You looked great out there. Came right back to you, huh?” He leans one arm onto his knee, tightening the muscles and showing me just howcuthe is.
“Yeah.” I look away, feeling my cheeks warm, and let out a nervous laugh. “Except for that last spin, of course.”
“Hey,” Axel says gruffly.
Oh boy. Here we go.
“I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.” He wraps his knuckles against his thigh.
“Uncomfortable?” I slide the skates out of the way and dig my notepad from my purse.
Axel coughs into his fist and points at the ice. “Yeah. All the close quarters during that skate and everything.”
The skating.Zeromentions of how close we were to swapping spit.
“Oh,pfft. No. Not at all.” I sweep my hand through each pocket of my purse, unzip every zippered compartment, and can’t find a single pen. “Platonic partners skate like that all the time together. That’s all that was.”
But I didn’t want it to be. Is that whathewants?
Axel’s fingers comb his beard, and he nods, his attention shifting to the hockey players entering the ice. “Yeah. Alright. Good.” He slips a notepad no bigger than his hand from his back pants pocket and produces two pens, handing me one.
Biting my lower lip, I take it from him and whisper with the petiteness of a snowflake, “Thank you.”
We sit in utter silence for all of practice, occasionally jotting notes and stealing glances at each other. We don’t shy away from the proximity of seats so close together, but we don’t bring up the almost-kiss. It’s been brushed under the proverbial rug to be stomped on by everyone passing by. But the fleeting moment, the closeness, the skating, all of it is not nearly as confusing as the awareness of sitting in silence next to a man for an entire hour and not once feeling jittery or anxious.
Who would’ve thought one could possess such an immense hatred for an inanimate object? That damn Zamboni. To say I’d been surprised seeing Theo arrive early to the rinkandin skates would be grossly understated. And the shock I felt when she not only already knew how to skate butthatwell? The sight alone, I swear, got me semi rock hard. And I entirely blame that particular appendage for suggesting the duet skating because it wasn’t a desire but aneedto get my hands on her in any way I could.
But I didn’t predict her stumbling and landing in my outstretched arms. Didn’t anticipate the hammer my heart would become, pounding at my ribcage. Every neuron in my body told me to kiss her, but I didn’t want to step over any unknown bounds. But then her gaze darting between my eyes and lips created this sort of hope she had the same thoughts. And we stood there too long, spentwaytoo much time rationalizing the spark between us. If we’d have acted on impulse, we would’ve been halfway through the kiss by the time the Zamboni driver yelled at us.
I sit in my office chair, pausing after writing for another ten minutes because surely, I’ve punched out over four hundred words by now, right? Uh-huh. Try seventy-three. And it’s been like this all day. I’ll be lucky to have a whole page done of this article and sincerely hope the big Hawks game itself entices inspiration for both of us, or we’re going to be up to our ears in Simone’s wrath.
