Page 25 of Conrad

She glanced at him. “Did you play hockey?”

“I’m a Minnesotan. Of course I played hockey.” He smiled up at her, winked.

Wait—was he flirting with her?

“Did you get any shots?”

He handed over his Canon DSLR.

She flipped through the shots of the players in huddles and then moving up the ice, then the coaches skating up to assist, and then a close-up of one of the coaches instructing a kid, maybe thirteen, about correct hand placement on the stick?—

Her breath hitched.Wait—what?

She looked up at Lucas. “Is that Conrad Kingston?”

He took the camera, looked at the screen. “I think so.”

Aw.

“I told them we’d get some shots of you and the team when they break.” He frowned. “Where are your skates?”

“My, um . . . skates?”

“Aw, shoot. I texted you. Or—” He pulled out his phone. “Yeah, here it is, unsent.” He dropped the phone back into his pocket. “Okay, so I’ll see if I can find some. You do know how to skate, right?”

“Inhockeyskates?”

He shrugged. “Aren’t all skates the same?”

She sighed. “No. But I am Minnesotan. I suppose I can figure out how to stand up.”

Or not. Because twenty minutes later, oversized used skates on her feet, she ventured out onto the ice like a toddler.

It didn’t help that she’d spent the previous twenty minutes watching Conrad, her insides knotting up with a heat that she didn’t want to interpret. He looked good. Better than good—solid, a hockey superhero out there as he worked with the kids and then showed off a little as he taught them how to flick in shots from the crease, Simon suited up as goalkeeper.

He wore a serious, grim look—a close-up she nabbed via Lucas’s viewfinder—and she discovered he’d trimmed his beard even shorter than at the gala, had a sort of whiskered north-woods look about him, especially with the thermal shirt that poked out of his jersey. Not a Blue Ox jersey either, but Ice Hawks, so clearly he was buying street cred with the team.

While she looked like an idiot. Oh, this was a bad idea?—

“You need a hand there?”

She looked up, and of course Conrad skated right up to her like he might have been born on skates.

Of course he had.

He smiled at her, but it seemed a little tight, even as he held out his hand.

She grabbed it, wobbled, and he grabbed her other arm.

“Ho-kay. First time on skates?”

“Not even a little. I grew up on Lake Minnetonka, thank you.” She didn’t mean to snap, but—seriously. He needed to stop being so . . . fantastic.

Like holding her up as they skated to the center, where the team posed with their sticks. And then even kneeling in front of her so she could steady herself as she gave a thumbs-up for the camera and smiled.

More shots, and he wasright. there. Even caught her again when her feet defected.

“Gotcha,” he said.

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