Page 77 of Left-Hand Larceny
He slides his hand up to cup the curve of my kneecap.
“You know you don’t have to be anything with me,” he says.
The ache in my throat sharpens.
“I know,” I say. But I don’t.
Not yet.
I don’t argue when he leads me into the locker room and sets down a pair of skates.
Tristan’s. I recognize the small white boots. Vic was not amused having to buy figure skates, but his need to make his wife happy won out.
I wonder if Ragnar texted her. Or if she routinely loans out her skates to the girls players want to impress here on the ice.
He helps me out of my shoes—the skyscraper stilettos I borrowed from my mother—and pulls a pair of wool socks from somewhere like a damn magician. Ragnar carefully eases the skates onto my feet. His hands are steady, threading the laces with quiet focus. He props the skate blade against his thigh as he pulls the laces tight. It reminds me of those old movies where the girls had to get their corsets tightened until they passed out.
“This okay?” he asks, tugging them snug.
I nod. I’m not sure I can speak.
He helps me up—just a little awkward in the borrowed skates—and leads me out onto the ice.
The surface glows under the overhead lights, pale and perfect and empty. The boards rise around us like a silent cathedral. The cold seeps in through my satin dress and I shiver, but I don’t want to leave.
Ragnar wheels out a net and gestures for me to follow. He straps one pad around my left leg, then the other around my right. They’re miles too big. Loose, basically propped on the top of my skates. Then the chest protector. The gloves. It all smells like him—sweat and soap and something warm underneath.
When I look at myself in the glass of the boards, I laugh.
“I look like a turtle in a dress.”
“You look like a goalie,” he says.
I glance back. “You’re not going to shoot pucks at me, right?”
He frowns. “Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know. You’re mad.”
“Not even a little.” His voice is soft but firm. “I just want you to feel safe.”
My throat tightens again. Tears sting the back of my eyes. Ragnar helps me shuffle into the crease. The gear is stiff and heavy and I can barely move, but I feel cocooned. Protected. He keeps a firm grip on my waist as he glided me across the rink towards the red net.
“Okay,” he says, voice lighter now. “Look out across the rink. Tell me what you see. I-spy style.”
“I-spy?”
“Yeah.”
I swallow. “Um… I spy something orange.”
He smiles. “The Gatorade bottle on the bench.”
“Yes.”
He nods. “Good.”
We go back and forth a few times. A piece of black tape on the glass. A rogue puck near the blue line. A towel someone left behind after last practice.
