Page 55 of Heart Check
I’m already mentally tabulating how many days are between now and the game. How much I can create by then,how much it would cost to get supplies. It’d be a stretch at this phase of the semester, but honestly, it’s a good idea. I’m mad I didn’t think of it myself.
Sabrina’s a good friend in more ways than one.
“Let me think about it and get back to you soon?” I say.
“Sure. Just don’t think too long! We have wheels to put in motion!”
Dawson clears his throat. His smile is illuminated in blues and oranges from the rink lights, and his posture is so easy, so comfortable. Like he’s enjoying listening to us bond. “So… can I steal my date yet?”
My face burns like I might combust—my date—but Sabrina just rolls her eyes. “It’s not my fault if I’m more interesting.”
Dawson raises an eyebrow. “We’ll see about that.” He hops over the boards, gliding backward with one hand extended. “Well? Can I have this skate?”
I choke back a laugh.Corny.But I grab his hand and let him tug me out onto the ice. The relief on his face loosens one of the tight threads knotted in my chest. Dawson was actually worried about being rejected. This is new and weird for both of us. But maybe that’s okay.
I’m so wobbly I’d fall over if Dawson weren’t gripping my hand for balance. Skating uses all sorts of muscles in my ankles that’ve been dormant for years, and I’m clinging to him like a lifeline. I wince—is this karma for all the years I spent demeaning the talent it took to play hockey? This iswayharder than it looks. And they do it at speed, while passing a puck around and shooting on goals? And people are trying to knock you down the whole time?!
“I take back everything I said about your sport,” I shoutover the pop music. “You deserve every bit of adulation you get. You couldn’tpayme to do this.”
“Not even a multimillion-dollar NHL salary?” Dawson grins.
I pretend to consider it. Before I can fire back, the music shifts to something jazzy and slow. The businesslike pressure of his grip suddenly feels like somethingelse, something sparky and electric and romantic. I’d almost been able to forget he was anything but the guy keeping me from faceplanting on the ice. But now all I can think about is how soft and warm his hand feels in mine.
I don’t let go. Just in case. For safety.
“This is a nice change from the rink DJ,” Dawson says as we loop behind where the home goal would normally be.
“What?” My throat is dry. I’m working really hard to act normal but not at all sure I’m succeeding.
“Usually it’s cheesy old stuff that gets the crowd going. ‘Seven Nation Army’… ‘Don’t Stop Believing’… and ‘Sandstorm’ is bound to play, like, a dozen times.”
I snort. “No wonder you guys are so angry all the time. You’re being slowly tortured by an aging DJ.”
Dawson throws his head back in a full-body laugh, and it illuminates his whole face. It’s so distracting I almost skate right into someone.
“Come on,” he manages eventually, grinning down at me. “We’re not angryallthe time. Don’t I look happy right now?”
My hand burns where his fingers lace through mine. His eyes crinkle at the corners from his smile, and every line in his face is soft, relaxed. I’m not sure I can keep looking at him head-on—but I’m also not sure I can look away. “Yeah,” I say. “You look pretty happy.”
“And you?” His expression turns a little more serious. “I know this isn’t usually your thing, but… are you having an okay time?”
He searches my eyes like the answer really matters to him. Like he wants me to be as happy on the ice as he is. Like it might hurt his feelings if I’m not.
So I’m more honest than usual. “It’s a lot more fun than I thought it would be,” I admit. “I never fit in with these things, you know? I always kinda hung out on the sidelines before.”
Dawson’s grip tightens on mine, and he steers us around a corner. “Maybe you kindakeptyourself on the sidelines.”
I blink. “What?”
“I mean, I thought you hated me for a long time. Not exactly behavior that makes a guy want to skate with you, you know?”
I scowl. “Well, just because I thought you were conceited and considered yourself better than everyone else.”
Dawson’s eyebrows shoot up, and he lets out a harsh bark of laughter. “Are you kidding? Harper, I always figuredyouwere too good forme.”
I read once that egotistical behavior usually comes from deep egoinsecurity, but I’ve never quite understood it until now.
Maybe what looked like ego was just Dawson’s shield. Puffing himself up before a game to cover the fear of losing it; acting like hockey is the only thing worth caring about because he’s terrified of being without it.
