Page 40 of Faking All the Way
“You can’t promise that.”
“I can promise that I’ve got you. I’m a professional at this, remember? I’ve taught kids how to skate. I’ve helped teammates work on their technique. I can definitely keep one person upright on the ice.”
She scrunches up her nose, still looking a bit apprehensive, but she stands up once her skates are on. We make our way to the edge of the ice, and I step on first. That familiar feeling settles over me the second my blades hit the surface, like something clicking into place in my chest. This is where I belong, where everything makes sense.
I turn to offer Kat my hand, and she takes it with a grip that comes close to cutting off my circulation.
“You’ve got it,” I assure her, trying not to wince. “Don’t think about it too much. Just step on.”
She does, and immediately her legs start doing that thing where they want to go in opposite directions. I steady her with both hands on her waist, and she grabs my forearms tightly.
“I’ve got you,” I remind her in a low voice. “Just breathe.”
“Breathe.” She inhales sharply. “Right. I can do that.”
I skate backward slowly, guiding her forward with small movements. She’s stiff and tense, every muscle locked up.
“Showoff,” she mutters, watching as I navigate backward without a second thought.
“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet, bright eyes.” I shoot her a wink. “I’m just getting warmed up. “
To prove my point, I let go of her hands and rest one of them on the rink’s wall to make sure she’s steady on her legs before I push off. The wind hits my face and the blades of my skates slide smoothly across the ice, my body knowing exactly how to move without my brain having to consciously tell it. I pick up speed, looping around the rink a few times before doing crossovers in the corners, tight and controlled.
By the time I circle back to Kat, she’s stopped trying to move. She’s just standing there, one hand on the wall, staring at me with her mouth slightly open.
“What?” I ask, skating up to her and coming to a quick stop with a small spray of ice.
“That.”She gestures vaguely in my direction. “I mean, I knew in theory that you were a professional hockey player, but seeing it is completely different. You move like you were born doing this. Like the ice is where you belong, and walking on land is just something you do to be polite.”
The awe in her voice makes my chest feel tight. Over the years—before my injury and the terrible season that followed—I’ve heard praise from coaches, commentators, and plenty of fans. But somehow, her reaction means more than any of that.
“Come on,” I say, offering my hands again. “Your turn to try.”
She takes them, and I start guiding her forward again with slow and steady movements that let her get used to the feeling of gliding instead of walking. She fights against the ease of it at first, trying to control every micro-movement instead of just letting the ice carry her.
“Relax,” I tell her with a reassuring smile. “Stop overthinking it. Feel the ice under your blades. It’s like butter, right? Workwithit instead of against it.”
“Easy for you to say,” she protests, wobbling as she tries to push off with one foot. “You’re not the one about to fall on your face in front of half the town.”
“You’re not going to fall. I’ve got you.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
She looks up at me, her green eyes wide, her dark lashes fluttering slightly. Her throat works as she swallows, and then she gives a little nod.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “I trust you.”
The honesty in her tone makes my heart do something complicated in my chest, and I nod, giving her hands a little squeeze.
We make a slow, careful lap around the rink, and gradually I feel her body relax into the movements a bit more. She’s still wobbly, still struggling to keep her balance with every push, but she’s starting to get the rhythm of it.
“Better,” I murmur, and she rewards me with a quick grin.
“This is actually kind of fun,” she admits. “When I’m not panicking.”
“See? I told you.”
