Page 147 of Waiting Game

He pouts again as he waddles forward. “How do you move in these?”

“With ease,” I counter as, a couple paces later, I slide onto the ice.

The chill of the air, how it feels on my skin, the smell… it’s home to me.

As I turn into a fast spin, I settle so that I can watch him wobble toward me.

“This is impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible.”

“This is. Why do people wear these? Hockey skates are so much better.”

“Big baby.”

He harrumphs but when I skate toward him and gently guide him, he improves quickly. He meant it when he told me he had to learn finesse—Jesus Christ.

By the end of our short twenty minutes on the ice, he’s puffing away like he ran a marathon. But he managed a couple ‘mini’ spins with only one fall midway through.

“You’re going to need a massage on your thighs,” I inform him as I remove my skates. “You’ll have used different muscles with these.”

He pulls a face. “I haven’t fallen like a noob in years.”

I know he’s genuinely hurting because he doesn’t ask me to ‘rub him off’ later.

Doesn’t make me cut him any slack, though.

“Lies. I’ve seen you during a game.”

“There’s a difference between being fed the stick and being forcibly tripped and skating in a straight line.”

My lips curve. “Are you going to be this much of a brat throughout every class?”

His only answer is a grunt.

I’ll take that as a yes, then.

Once he’s onterra firma,he’s back to the regular Cole I know and…like.

“We should grab coffee. I need to be at the rink in an hour for the game.”

Nodding, oddly relaxed and happy from being in his company even if part of that included him whining like a toddler, I gather my things and dump them in my bag as he does the same.

Admittedly, I don’t dump the book.

I place that carefully in my hoodie, well aware that the cafeteria here is heated below temperatures befitting the gateway to hell so it’ll be more useful as padding for my gift.

From the pleased glint in his eye, he notices my careful handling of the book.

As we drift upstairs, he snags a hold of my hand.

It’s a light knotting of our fingers but I like that too.

So I squeeze back.

Then, we make it to the cafeteria and he orders my usual—he remembers from our day dates—and he also requests my favorite sandwich—egg salad with pickles.

When we take a seat, he watches me guzzle half a bottle of water before I unfasten the wrapper.

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