Page 63 of Her Goal
“Scaredy cat, Hudson?” she challenges.
“No, but I don’t want to face suspension if this is against the rules. If you recall, I wasn’t the daredevil brother.”
“More like the angel,” she murmurs.
So is she with the way she floats in front of me on those long legs with that flowing hair and invisible halo. As I pass a framed photograph of several former Knights Hall of Famers, I remind myself why I’m here. It’s not to ogle Leah.
She steps through the doorway to the locker room and cocks a hip when I don’t follow. “You saw the folding table the other day, topped with tons of food, right? Uncle Tony works security here. Trust me, we’re good.”
“But Badaszek ...”
The motion sensor light flicks on and I catch her wink. “If he blows his knit hockey hat, I happen to know that you have something that would likely get him to forgive you.”
I turn into a solid brick of ice. “You!” I accuse.
“Forgiveme? Well, sure. I do harbor one-half of the responsibility for that little late-night dare. Cara is onto me, but I begged Hunter to return it.”
“You broke into my garage, left the boxes, and?—”
“Saw you fresh out of the shower in a towel,” she admits as a smile teases her lips.
I scrub my hand down my face. “It’s going to be a long night, isn’t it?”
She smirks. “You betcha.”
Whispers of desire interrupt the silence between us … or maybe that’s just my heartbeat.
“Grab your skates and meet me on the ice, Goalie.”
I follow orders, wondering if I’m going to regret this in the morning. When I still lived in the duplex, I remember Hunter sneaking out at night. Was he going to meet Leah? Did she ever sneak in? I’m not sure I want to know. This feels very much like a situation that could land me in hot water.
When I get to the ice, Leah is warming up, moving with fluidity and precision. It’s like she was born skating rather than walking with the elegance of her motions. Forget hockey hits and highlights, I could watch her carve invisible shapes on the ice for days. She’s tremendously talented, so why did she retire?
Rushing toward me and coming to a T-stop, she says, “Okay, big guy, you are going to master spins tonight.”
“Sounds like a late night at a frat house.”
“Head in the game, Roboveitchek.”
Can’t lie, I love that she’s one of the few people in the world who can correctly pronounce my last name. “Doesn’t that take years of practice?”
“Of course, but you already have a solid foundation with your edgework.”
After explaining some of the principles of weight distribution and physics, she demonstrates the two-foot spin at a regular speed and then, in slow motion, breaks down each segment of the movement and emphasizes lifting up through the legs rather than driving energy down.
I give it a shot, stumble and fall, which results in her nearly laughing me off the ice, which only makes me work harder.
Leah drills me, only giving me a break when I get dizzy.
When I see stars and start to tip toward her, she says, “No matter how hard I dig in, the ice is slippery and you’re heavier than I am. If you don’t get your feet under you, we’ll both fall.”
“Lall infove?” I slur, feeling ragged like I’ve been at a raging college party.
“I love you, man, but not like that.”
Right.
Head in the game.
