Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“You talk a big game, you know,” I say, my voice low, unmistakably teasing.
Flirty, even.
She crosses her arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means…” I inch closer. “You’ve got a lot to say about hockey for someone who’s never been on the ice.”
“When did I say I’ve never been on the ice? I said I’ve never handled a stick.” Her expression doesn’t falter and her lips twitch. “Are you calling me out?”
Yes.
Obviously.
I straighten and lift my stick behind me, resting it across my shoulders. “What are ya gonna do about it?”
Her eyes narrow, her lips twitching again like she’s trying not to smile. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious,” I say, curling my elbows over the stick as I smile at her. “What’s the worst that could happen? You fall, I laugh, I help you get back up.”
“I don’t have skates.” Her chin has notched up.
“They have them up front,” I counter smoothly, gesturing toward the rental desk at the far end of the rink. “Pick your size, lace them up, let’s go.”
She presses her lips together, like she’s weighing her options. Then her gaze flicks to the ice and back to me, and I swear I see the faintest hint of nerves flash across her face.
“Fine.”
Chapter 27
Harper
I am going to regret this.
The thought crosses my mind for the millionth time as I tighten the laces of one of the skates, my fingers fumbling against the stiff leather. Easton stands several feet away, leaning casually against the boards, looking pleased as punch that I’m joining him.
“Need help?” he calls, raising an eyebrow. “Make sure they’re tight enough so you don’t break an ankle.”
“Nah,” I say quickly, tightening the other with a little more force than necessary, as if to prove a point. I finish with a neat bow and sit up straighter. “I’ve got it.”
I wobble slightly as I rise to my feet.
Easton holds out his hand, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Just so you know, falling is part of the experience. I won’t judge you.”
“Super. Can’t wait.”
The skates feel uncomfortable and unsteady beneath me, and I grip the edge of the bench for balance, hoping he doesn’t notice.
Spoiler alert: He notices.
“Looking good,” he teases. “Very good. Very graceful.”
“Shut up,” I snap, shooting him a glare that only makes him laugh. I take a cautious step forward, my fingers gripping the wall for support as I shuffle toward the rink. “I don’t see what’s so hard about this.”
“Wait until you actually get out here,” he says, skating backward effortlessly as he watches me take one step at a time. “Baby steps.”
I bet he’s been skating since he was old enough to walk. Meanwhile, I feel like a newborn deer, all knees and no balance, clinging like my life depends on it.
“I’m fine,” I tell him defensively, fingers tightening on the edge of the plexi as I inch closer, my skates sliding awkwardly beneath me. “I’m totally fine.”
“Sure you are,” he says, the teasing edge in his voice making me want to smack him with his own hockey stick. “You’ve got this, Harper. I believe in you.”
I shoot him another glare, but it loses some of its impact when my left skate quivers, throwing me off balance.
“Relax,” he says, skating a little closer. “Let the ice do the work.”
“The ice is trying to kill me,” I mutter under my breath, but he hears it and laughs, the billowing sound echoing through the nearly empty rink.
“Trust me,” he says, holding out a hand. “Once you get moving, it’ll feel natural. You just have to let go.”
Let go? That is not happening!
I glance at his outstretched hand, then at the ice—then at his face.
There’s no smugness in his expression, no mocking—just quiet confidence, like he knows I can do this even if I don’t believe it myself.
With a deep breath, I release my grip on the wall and take his hand. The moment our fingers touch, his grip tightens, warm and steady, securing me in a way that makes the ice feel less terrifying.
“There we go. Good job,” he cajoles softly. “One step at a time.”
I take another step, tentative. Easton’s grasp stays firm, keeping me upright. It feels like the rink has been plotting my downfall.
“See? Not so terrible,” he coaches, thumb brushing my palm. Back and forth.
Back.
Forth…
“I hate this.” I hold on tighter as I take another cautious step. Legs shaky, balance precarious—even with him guiding me.
“You’re doing great,” he says. “Maybe I won’t have to laugh at you after all.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I snap, no heat behind my words. If anything, his confidence in me is starting to rub off—just the babiest bit.
Easton grins, skating with ease, his hands still connected to mine, his steady encouragement just managing to keep me from freaking the frick out!
“Look at you go!” he declares. “You’re a natural!”