Page 25 of Home Ice

"Brant!"

"Lily? It's fine. They don't open until eleven. I checked. So they won't need this table."

"You checked? Does that mean you know the people who own this place?" I look up at the name over the awning and check for security cameras while I'm at it.

"It means I'm not a time traveler from the 1800s. I know how to use the internet. And it said they don't open until eleven. So here." He holds out his hands, but I'm not sure what to do. I look for a gate, but there's nothing. There's not even a gap big enough for me to squeeze through. "I can't get in there. I can't climb this fence."

"Lily, no one is asking you to climb the fence. Just come closer and stand still so I can lift you."

"Absolutely not! You are not trying to lift me over this fence! You'll hurt yourself, or drop me on top of it. Or both. Then we're screwed. We won't have any choice but to call for the paramedics. And police tend to follow paramedics when there's a crime involved. Can you imagine the headlines? No. Let's just go back home and we can microwave this."

He puts one hand on a hip in what I'm sure is a mocking imitation of me. "So dramatic. Let me guess, you were the lead in your high school production of Grease? You were Sandy?"

I scoff. He could not be further from the truth. I was forced to be a wallflower in high school, and I wouldn't have been allowed to even audition for Sandy, let alone earn the part.

"Do you forget that I'm an elite goaltender, Lily?" He flexes like he's in a bodybuilding competition. He's trying to be funny, but there's nothing funny about those biceps or the tightening they cause below my belly.

"Oh, you're elite now?" I tease, looking anywhere except at those arms. Staring into the sun is less dangerous.

"I'm no Shannon Szabados, but I'm good. And pretty sure I can lift a girl over a fence, especially a fence that barely comes up to my waist."

"Not going to happen. No." There's no way I'm letting him lift me. What if I'm heavier than he thinks I am? I would die from embarrassment and possibly a broken back. Nope. He's going to have to give in on this because I am not. "Stop! Put me down!"

"Quit squirming, or I will drop you."

"You shouldn't be in a position to drop me in the first place!" I swing my feet up and over the fence and he lowers me to the ground beside him.

As soon as he does, he doubles over with a grunt. His right hand whips to his lower back. "Okay, so I hate to say this… Ugh, maybe you were right."

I drop the bags of food onto the nearest table and rush to his side. He groans again, and I blow out a deep breath to fight back the panic. "I'm going to run my fingers along your spine, and I want you to tell me where it's tender, okay?" I press lightly at the middle of his back, well above where I suspect any injury, and run my fingers down gently. I only make it past a few vertebrae when he bolts up. My heart thuds against the walls of my chest until I realize the noise he's making is laughter. "Brant, don't you even."

"Did you really think I would hurt myself lifting you over that? You weigh next to nothing."

"You are so lucky we are in public and that I really don't want the main entry on my Wikipedia page to be about the time I beat up Brant Morrison." I cover my mouth and shout into my palm.

Brant makes a show of keeping as far away as possible while still pulling a chair out for me and still laughing. "Sit, before you give yourself a heart attack." I do. Then he sits beside me. Dangerously close for someone who just pulled a stunt like that. And dangerously close for a person who makes my breath catch every time he gets too near. "I hate to be a jerk," he says, "but I have two issues with what you said. First, you wouldn't be able to beat me up. I'm a hockey player. We fight all the time."

"You're a goalie," I remind him. "When is the last time you were in a fight?"

"Maybe I haven't been in a fight, exactly, but I've seen plenty of them. I'm sure I absorbed all the best moves by being so close."

"That's not even how that works," I say.

"And second, you don't have a Wikipedia page. What if getting arrested for breaking and entering with me is your one chance at fame? I'm doing you a favor. You're welcome. Now let's eat before this gets any colder."

"How do you know I don't have a Wikipedia page? You looked me up?"

The corner of his lip curls up. I wish it didn't send my pulse racing again. I wait for him to say something, but he just pulls out container after container until I forget about it. And about the fact that we're trespassing.

"What did you order?"

"Not everything, if that's what you're thinking. I don't know what you like, so I just told the lady to give me what she thought were the best things on the menu."

"She apparently thinks everything is the best thing on the menu."

"We'll have leftovers. Leftovers are good. So, tell me what charity you think we should represent?"

I take the packet of plastic silverware he's holding out for me and set it on the table as I open the unmarked container closest to me. My chest flutters when I see what it is. Not a sign, I tell myself. Just an omelet. An omelet smothered in green chile sauce. One of my favorite foods, and the breakfast dad would always cook for me.

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