Page 28 of The Dating Coach
From behind us came exaggerated gagging noises. "Get a room!" Frank yelled. "There are children present!"
"I'm almost eighteen!" Mia protested.
"Still a child!" Frank insisted. "Henry, cover her innocent eyes!"
We broke apart, laughing, and rejoined our ridiculous found family. But Liam kept hold of my hand as we walked, and I let him.
Chapter 14: Liam
The Winter Festival had transformed the campus quad into something out of a romantic holiday postcard – twinkling lights strung between trees, vendors selling hot chocolate and questionable crafts, and a temporary ice rink that looked like a lawsuit waiting to happen. I'd suggested attending as "practice" for my dating skills, but really, I just wanted an excuse to spend time with Gemma outside of crisis management and chemistry tutoring.
"This is excessive," Gemma declared, but she was smiling as she watched students attempt to navigate the ice rink in rental skates. "Who thought giving college students sharp blades and encouraging them to move at high speeds was a good idea?"
"Probably the same person who thought deep-fried chocolate sandwich cookies were a healthy carnival snack," I said, nodding toward a vendor whose sign proudly proclaimed 'Artery Clogging Specials!'
"Hey, don’t disparage deep-fried chocolate sandwich cookies until you've tried them," she defended. "They're a religious experience."
"A religious experience?"
"You see God right before the heart attack hits." She grinned at my expression. "Come on, hockey boy. Show me your moves."
"On rental skates?" I looked dubiously at the scarred pieces of equipment the rink attendant handed over. "These things have toe picks. It's like asking a racecar driver to navigate in a golf cart."
"Excuses, excuses." She was already selecting her skates and lacing them up with practiced efficiency. "Afraid I’ll outshine you, Delacroix?”
Twenty minutes later, I was forced to admit that figure skates were my nemesis. I'd caught the toe pick three times, nearly taken out a group of freshmen, and was currently clinging to the rink wall like it was a lifeline.
"This is humiliating," I groaned as Gemma glided past, backwards, because apparently she was part graceful ice angel.
"This is hilarious," she said, executing a neat turn that made several guys stop and stare. "The great Liam Delacroix, brought low by rental skates."
"These aren't skates, they're torture devices." I attempted to push off from the wall and immediately caught the pick again. "How are you good at this?"
"I figure skated before switching to swimming," she said, circling back to me. "Turns out ice time at 5 AM builds character. Also, ankle strength."
"Why'd you switch?"
"Couldn’t afford the rink fees." She shrugged like it didn't matter, but I caught the flash of old disappointment.
She reached out her hands. "Come on. I'll teach you."
"Teach me?" I stared at her outstretched hands. "I've been skating since I could walk."
"You've been playing hockey since you could walk," she corrected. "This is different. Trust me."
And I did. That was the thing – I trusted Gemma Spears implicitly, which should have been terrifying but felt as naturalas breathing. I took her hands, letting her guide me away from the wall.
"The trick is to think of it as dancing, not skating," she said, skating backwards while I stumbled forward. "Smooth movements, weight transfer, embrace the toe pick instead of fighting it."
"Embrace the toe pick sounds like really bad self-help advice," I muttered, but I tried to follow her guidance.
"See? Better already." Her hands were warm in mine despite the cold, and I found myself focusing more on that than on my feet. "And one, two, three, turn—"
I turned. Successfully. Without dying. "Holy shit, I did it!"
"Language, Delacroix. There are children present." But she was beaming at me, proud and bright, and I forgot about the rental skates and the cold and everything except how beautiful she looked with snowflakes catching in her hair.
"Gemma?" A male voice cut through the moment. "Gemma Spears?"
