Page 51 of Her Goal
“Hudson Roboveitchek.” He plants his hand on my waist. It’s a heavy weight anchoring me and not entirely unpleasant.
I roll my eyes but probably look like I’m having a seizure because his touch both tickles and electrifies me. “I was thinking, power and speed.”
“Also Hudson Roboveitchek.” He takes my hand in his.
He’s insufferable. “The same goes for figure skating, but with the added elements of rhythm and smooth movements. But that’s not just for show. Beneath what you see on the surface is an intentional balancing act of action, including launching, hovering, and landing.”
Before I know it, we’re sloppily dancing on the ice.
He says, “You make it pretty, but I’m a big blocky pylon that has to keep the puck out of the net.”
“And what I’m trying to explain can help you. Hockey involves a lot of sustained movement. This too, but also bursts. When executed at the right time, if you can control those, you can save more goals.” He spins me away from him and then back into his arms with a whoosh that steals my breath.
“That sounds like a great plan in theory, but in practice—” He squints like he doesn’t buy it.
We’re close. So close I can name the constellations formed in the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose. Too close.
Hudson dips me backward and I feel clumsy like I might slip out of his grip. Upright again, I say, “Okay, you’re the goalie.”
“We’ve established that.”
I huff but position myself squarely in front of him. “I’m your pairs partner.”
“I thought that’s what we were doing.”
“But I’m also the puck.”
“So you’re saying my pairs partner is the puck.”
“Exactly, but you want to keep it as far away from you and the net as possible.”
Please get the subtext here, Robo, or I’m a goner.
“Do I?” He wears that stupid half smile and his eyebrows bounce.
Now Hudson is just being difficult. Nonetheless, I return his hand to my waist and take the other in mine and once more, we do the simplest ice dance. Our skates bump and then his leg nearly twists around mine.
I grind out, “You have to lead.”
“Well, then let me.” His gaze drops to meet mine, sending a sudden and intense ripple through me. It’s not commanding or cocky, but it is confident and I’m afraid I like it.
Unfortunately, he’s not wrong. I tend to take control when I can—it’s a byproduct of being swept up in a family like mine.
However, when I do relinquish the reins, Hudson and I finally fall into sync, gliding easily across the ice. There’s no escaping his northern evergreen scent, the slight pink in his cheeks, or the proximity of his lips. I look down, away, anywhere but at him until I abruptly let go as I’d planned to do all along.
Catching him off guard, I say, “Get to the goal. The opposing team is coming down the ice with the puck.” Pushing off, I come at him as the puck and he gets into position, traditional goalie stance acquired.
Fully embracing my role as the puck, I don’t stop until Hudson’s arms are around me.
“Whoa there.” Our faces are inches apart again and he boosts me into the air in the traditional pairs lift. I’m reluctant to admitthat the whole sequence is a perfect marriage of figure skating grace and hockey power.
Once back down, catching my breath, I say, “If I were the size of a regulation hockey puck and made of vulcanized rubber, I’d have slid into the net.”
“So the solution is …?” he asks.
“To make the puck your pairs partner. When you see it, embrace it, but don’t let it slam into the net.”
His eyes brighten and his nod tells me he gets it now, but he still hasn’t let me go.
