Page 134 of Ice Mechanic

“I’m your boyfriend and I don’t know how to fix cars,” Chance points out.

“Don’t worry. I have a bunch of beginner friendly engine repair tutorials all picked out.”

Chance groans while I laugh maniacally. However, that laughter turns to whimpers of fear when I take another step toward the ice.

“I got you,” Chance says, holding my elbow for balance.

I windmill my arms, moving jerkily. “You said this wasn’t what you were expecting? What did you think I meant?”

Chance tilts his head, eyes rolling to the ceiling as if contemplating whether he should share. Finally, he returns his dark blue eyes to me and says, “Kissing.”

Heat rams straight through my cheeks. I wrench my elbow away from his hold and immediately regret it. The slices of iron death attached to the bottom of my shoes slip out from under me and gravity tries to body-slam me into the ground like a WWE wrestler on a Tuesday night match.

Chance quickly wraps his arms around me. I end up flopping into his chest, which is really just a mass of bricks underneath a soft white T-shirt. It hurts almost as much as getting bonked in the head with thick library books.

I ease back a little.

Chance leans forward, bringing his face even closer to mine. A cheeky smirk tugs on his lips. “Ah, this is good too.”

I can literally feel my scalp blushing.

I clear my throat and push him away, not too far though because letting him go would mean face-planting in a violent display of flailing arms and legs. “If it’s this hard to walk already, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to get on the ice.”

Chance accepts the subject change and the slight distance between us with grace. He slides one giant hand through his hair and the soft black strands shift messily in all directions revealing, yet again, that there is not a single hairstyle he can’t pull off.

Except maybe the Fabio one he had in high school.

“I’ve got you,” he says confidently.

Chance leads me to a bench just behind the boards. He sits beside me and laces up his skates like a fireman shrugs into gear at the sound of alarms. In what feels like a second, he’s on his feet again—having gained an unnecessary set of extra inches—and offers his hand to me.

I hesitate. “It’s okay. I can do it.”

“Don’t trust me?” He arches a brow, his lips quirked upward.

“No, it’s not that. But… can you help meandstay upright yourself?”

“I skate better than I walk,” he returns cheekily. “You’ll be fine.”

With a cloud of doubt swirling around me, I set my hand in his and totter behind him. The moment I set one leg on the slippery ground of hardened water (or whatever ice rink floors are made of), I immediately regret it.

“No, no, no. I need to go back,” I whine.

Chance turns to face me so gracefully, I’d believe it if he said he was a figure skater before he signed up for hockey. “April, just breathe and put both feet on the ice.”

“I can’t. I can’t.” My brain is sending up red flag after red flag. Ice wasnotmeant to be walked on. If humans were designed togo gallivanting on slippery slopes, we would have been born with metal plates jutting out of our toes so we could glide.

“April…” Chance tries to pull me forward.

I resist.

The tug of war costs me dearly. While I have one foot anchored on the solid part of the ground, my other foot is on the ice and surging ahead like theTitanicat that iceberg.

“Chance!” I squeeze his hands for dear life as I drop into a mid-split. “Chance!” Frantically, I climb my way up his arms to stop my slow descent.

He tugs me back to my feet with the strength of his bulging biceps alone and then returns my hands on his.

“Tink, sweetheart, I got you. Just follow me.”

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