Page 40 of Fly Boy
“Maybe one day. Got to keep practicing for an advanced spin like that.” A woman leaning over the boards catches my attention, and I wave, bending down to speak to Daisy. “Look, there’s your mom. Why don’t you show her what you were working on?”
“Okay,” she cries out, waving back frantically before launching into the small section of the routine we practiced today. “Did you see me, Mom? Did you see?”
“Yes, baby, you were amazing,” she gushes. Meeting us at the rink door, she drops to her knees and engulfs her daughter in her arms. She glances up at me, an apologetic look on her face. “I am so sorry I’m late.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say before turning to Daisy. Bringing my phone out of my pocket, I turn off the music. “We had fun dancing to AC/DC, right, kiddo?”
She nods. “Miss Pippa is going to teach me to skate on one leg.”
“Really? Your dad will love that,” her mom laughs. “Why don’t you go get your stuff and let Miss Pippa have her day back, huh?”
Daisy takes her mom’s hand, speaking a mile a minute as they disappear down the chute. I close and lock the rink door behind me, glancing over my shoulder at Wyatt, my mouth drying when I find his eyes are already on me.
Balancing on a knife’s edge, we stare at each other, so many words that need to be spoken filling the space between us. Only, I can’t voice a single one even though now’s my chance. There’s no buffer for him to hide behind, no loud music he could feign not hearing me, no distraction of another skater dancing on the ice. We’re the only two in this place, with me still wearing his pilot’s hat.
Slowly, he gets to his feet, his steps as loud as the pulse in my ears. “She has your skates.”
“What?” I croak.
“The hideously bright pink skates with the princess crap on them...” He tilts his head toward the locker rooms, never taking his eyes off me. “That little girl has them. Why?”
“Because I don’t need them anymore.”
“Turning the young ones into ice princesses,” he murmurs, the edge of his lip twitching. But irritation flares in my veins at the nickname he’s unaware that pisses me off.
No, I didn’t get that moniker because my childhood skates were princess themed. And no, the nickname isn’t cute.
I square my shoulders, puffing my chest out. “New blades that are half decent cost a fortune. Her mom works three jobs, herdad is on disability, and she has two older siblings,” I growl. “Where would they find the money to buy them?”
“So this is what you do every Saturday?” he asks, his eyes flitting around the arena, ignoring my sudden outburst. “I thought you came here for extra training?”
I open my mouth, about to say something snippy, but think better of it. “It is extra training, just not for me.”
“Why?”
“Teaching my girls how to skate reminds me why I fell in love with it.”
“You are not what I expected,” he mutters, more to himself than me. “What about winning competitions? Doesn’t that make you love the sport?”
I half-shrug. “Doesn’t hurt. But seeing the kids' faces when they land a jump, even if it is sloppy...it’s a different sort of love. No one questions if your lesson was good enough that day.”
“Yet you still compete?”
I’m suddenly very aware of the boards pressed against my back, the plastic rim digging in as we stand, barely a whisper apart. When did he edge forward? He’s so close that I can see his eyes are blown, the blue almost non-existent as he stares down at me. I lick my lips, the movement out of my control, and Wyatt’s gaze drops to them, watching the sweeping of my tongue like it’s the most interesting thing he’s seen since walking inside the rink.
And I did a Biellmann spin just for him.
I hesitate, unsure—or unwilling, maybe—to answer the question he asked. His face becomes serious as he waits me out and eventually, I sigh, asking, “If you had people saying you couldn’t do something, would you do it just to prove them wrong?”
His eyebrows dip quickly before relaxing. “Am I good at what they say I can’t do?”
“The best,” I whisper.
His eyes search mine, and when he speaks, I can feel his breath on my lips with each word. “Yes. I’d do it and win every single fucking thing to prove they’re all fucking assholes. I would prove them all wrong.”
My heart hammers against my ribs as he leans forward. An unmistakable current thrums low in my body, the undeniable tingling everywhere that’s been a quiet hum since the pool sparks to life. He’s close enough that he can kiss me. We’re alone, and no one would know. I want it—the feeling of his lips on mine. Would they be cold because of the AC? Would the facial hair he keeps neatly trimmed tickle my skin?
“And with how you skated out there, I think you already have.”
