Page 67 of Romancing the Grump
Ha.If only it were so easy.
I nod, watching as Nathan tightens my laces. It’s possibly silly that I’m letting him do this for me, but he seems like he knows what he’s doing, so who am I to argue? “What were you looking for when you checked the blades?”
“Rust, nicks, anything that might keep you from gliding smoothly across the ice.” He ties the final knot on the first skate. “How does that feel?”
I nod. “Good? I think? How is it supposed to feel?”
“Tight, but not cutting off your circulation. Can you wiggle your toes?”
“Wiggling,” I say. “It feels good.”
He nods and starts in on my other skate.
Five minutes later, Parker has texted letting us know she’s almost here, Nathan’s skates are on, and we’re standing together on the ice, a perpendicular hockey stick between us. “You hold on right here, all right?” He positions my hands on the center of the stick, with his hands on either side, then gives me an easy smile. “That’s your only job. I’ll take care of everything else.”
“So, what, you’re just going to skate backward?” I say, proud of myself for sounding playful instead of scared. “How will you know where you’re going?”
He smirks like he thinks my question is funny and starts to pull me forward. “I’ll be fine.”
I roll my eyes. “Show-off,” I mutter under my breath, but Nathan only grins.
“Relax your knees a little,” he says, “and lean forward the slightest bit. Try to keep your center of gravity over your knees, even if it means leaning into the stick. I’ll be holding it the whole time, so it’s okay if you have to push on it to keep your balance.”
I nod shakily and do as he asks.
“Good. See? You’re doing it.”
Slowly, we make our way around the rink, Nathan literally doing all the work. His movements are effortless, his feet moving easily as he shifts and glides and slides us over the ice. When we pick up a little speed, I can’t help but smile. Thisiskind of fun. Terrifying, but still fun.
After a few more circuits around the rink, Nathan drops off the hockey stick, propping me against the wall long enough for us to say hi to Parker, who has finally shown up.
“Look at you!” she says. “You look so great out there. Let me get my skates on, then I’ll come out and film a little.”
Nathan holds out his hands. “Want to try it this way?”
If it means more contact with him, I absolutely do.
He moves in behind me, holding both my hands, his chest pressed close to my back. “Instead of just gliding,” he says, his voice close to my ear, “I want you to pick up your feet. Don’t think of it like walking—more like you’re doing a subtle high knee. Just focus on lifting and sliding the skate forward a little at a time.”
“You won’t let go of me?” I ask.
“I won’t let go,” he says. “Not until you tell me to.”
He is so patient with me. And true to his word, he doesn’t let me fall. More than once, he shifts his body faster than what should be possible, looping an arm around my waist just in time to stabilize me. He is impossible to jostle—sturdy and steady and solid.
He’s also happy. There’s a lightness about him out here, his face a little less guarded. I get the sense that Nathan doesn’t just love skating. Hebelongson the ice. Not like how I love hiking or listening to classical music or watching romantic comedies with Lucy. This is more than that. This is a part of him. Like it’s oxygen. Not just fun, but essential.
As soon as Parker is on the ice with us, things become less about me learning and more about me looking like Nathan and I are happily in love and having fun together. She films clips of us holding hands and hugging, and she must catch me falling on my butt at least a dozen times. But I don’t even care. Every time I fall, Nathan pulls me up, wrapping his arms around me until I’m steady again.
“Okay, I have to be done,” I finally say, letting most of my weight shift onto Nathan. “I’m gonna be so sore tomorrow.”
“You did great,” he says as he guides me off the ice.
I collapse onto the bench where we left our shoes with an audible groan. “I didnotdo great. I skated like an old lady.There were five-year-olds out there skating circles around me.”
He sits down beside me. “If it’s any consolation, you didn’tlooklike an old lady.”
I don’t have the chance to respond to his teasing—or is it flirting?—before a group of boys, maybe ten or eleven years old, skates over, stopping directly in front of us. They’re dressed in hockey gear, sticks in hand. The tallest one is wearing an Appies jersey with Nathan’s number, number twenty-three, emblazoned on the front.
