Page 28 of Welded Defender
“Have you ever been to one of these?” Wes asks, falling into step beside me.
I shake my head. “No. Closest thing to a county fair when I was a kid was something set up in a Walmart parking lot.”
“This,” Wes says grandly, “is culture.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, the sound slipping out raw and surprised. Landon glances at me then, something soft flickering in his eyes before he looks back toward the rink.
Blades carve silver trails across the ice. A girl in a pink parka spins in wobbly circles while a boy races backward, arms windmilling when he nearly collides with an elderly couple holding hands.
“Absolutely not,” I say when Wes’s elbow digs into my ribs, nudging me forward.
He clutches his chest, staggering back a step. “What do you mean, absolutely not? This is the best part.”
“I’ll fall. Or worse.”
“You won’t.” Landon’s voice is quiet, certain. He doesn’t look at me when he says it, just watches the skaters with that unreadable expression.
Wes elbows him. “You gonna teach her, Captain?”
That earns him a sharp look, but Wes just smirks.
“Captain?” I ask.
“Hockey,” Wes supplies. “High school team. He was a beast on the ice. Scouts came to watch him and everything.”
“Wes.” Landon’s tone carries a warning, but Wes ignores it.
I glance at Landon. “Really?”
His jaw tightens, like he’d rather be anywhere than standing in this conversation. “That was a long time ago.”
Which somehow makes me want to see it even more.
Wes grins like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “One lap. Come on, Marcy. You’ve got Landon here to catch you. Safer than airbags.”
My stomach flips at the idea, but I hear myself say, “One lap.”
Landon’s gaze snaps to mine. There’s something unreadable in it—caution, maybe, or surprise. But he just nods once. “Deal.”
The skates pinch at my ankles, the laces cutting red lines into my skin through my jeans. My ankles wobble inward with each step across the rubber mat, arms windmilling for balance. Three feet away, Landon glides onto the ice in one fluid motion, pivoting to face me without a single misplaced edge.
“You okay?” His eyes flick to my white-knuckled grip on the railing.
“No.”
His lips twitch upward. He extends his arm, palm up. “Give me your hand.”
My fingers hover above his for half a second before landing. Even through two layers of wool, heat radiates from his skin to mine. His other hand finds the curve of my waist as my blade touches ice.
The surface betrays me instantly. My feet shoot forward while my upper body pitches back—but Landon’s fingers curl around mine, his grip an anchor in the sudden chaos.
“Easy.” His voice drops low, a rumble I feel more than hear. “Bend your knees. Let the blades glide.”
“I’m going to die.”
“You’re not.” He steps closer, the wool of his coat brushing against me. “I’ve got you.”
My pulse hammers in my throat, and I can’t blame it entirely on the fear of falling.
