Page 55 of Overtime
I just don’t want a repeat of that with Aran.
When we get to the school, I’ve worked myself down to normal. The parking lot is packed with cars, and I have to be careful not to bump the one beside us with the door as I get out.
Aran heads to the back of the car and returns with his massive duffel bag. He says, “There are no rentals here, so I brought my older sister’s skates for you.”
“Crap, I didn’t even think of that. What if they don’t fit?”
“They should be okay. You’re a couple inches shorter than her.”
But fatter. What if my feet can’t even squeeze in?
With that new worry unlocked, I walk with him into the school. The corridors are lit up, and we make our way through them at his pace, which means we find the ice rink pretty fast and I’m a little winded.
The noise that hits us when we enter is unexpected. Here, the suburban half of town congregates on the seats or on the ice. Groups of kids play around, chasing each other. A parent teaches their kid here and there. Someone takes pictures of a big group in the middle.
I walk behind Aran as we descend the steps to an empty corner in the front row. He motions for me to go first. It makes sense. With his long legs, he’ll need the aisle.
I take a seat, and he does the same. First, he unzips his thick black coat. Underneath, he’s in a gray St. Cloud hoodie and black jeans. His thigh bumps into my knee as he bends down to open the bag and take out his black skates. He sets them aside and digs for a smaller pair.
“When you’re done putting them on, stuff your shoes in the bag.”
“Yes, sir. Captain, sir.” I salute.
He snorts a little as he sets out to follow his own command.
I take a page from his book and open my coat so I can bend forward easily. After making quick work of removing my boots, I discover the good and the bad news. The good news is that his sister’s skates fit. The bad news is that I’ll now have to learn how to skate.
Aran surprises me by grabbing my ankle and squeezing his finger into the skate. “You’re tying them too loose. You could break your ankle like this.”
“Oh, okay. I guess I’ll?—”
Before I can finish the sentence, he gets up on his feet. Or rather, on his skates. I crane my neck back, because he’simpossibly taller. But then he lowers to his knees, and my heart stops.
His knees surround my foot and hold it tight so it doesn’t jerk up with the motions. The tendons of his hands flex and release with the movements, fingers working with deftness as he undoes the strings of one skate and laces them back uptight.
“I could’ve done it myself, you know,” I say in a choked-up voice.
“Sure. And maybe you’d have broken something that way too.”
I smile. “No one’s getting hurt on your watch, huh?”
“Damn right.”
He pats my foot when he’s done. I don’t know if he even realizes it. Then he moves onto the next foot and starts all over again.
This is such a boyfriend move. Not that he’s… I mean, for my book. I’ll make a note of it.
“Thanks,” I say as he stands up when he’s finished.
“Get up.”
“Okay, okay.” I take a deep breath, brace myself against the seats beside mine, and stand up.
For all of one second. It’s like my brain can’t feel the whole bottom of my feet touching a flat surface and decides I’m free-falling. Which I sort of do—straight into Aran’s chest. Face first.
I yelp at the pain in my cheekbone. It takes me a second to realize I’m still upright, and it’s because he’s holding my upper arms.
Slowly, I ease my weight back on my heels. Trying to break the awkwardness, I look up and mumble, “Dude, is your chest made of stone?”
