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He runs a hand up and down my arm. Calming. Soothing.
Slowly, that dready sensation inside me unlocks, evaporating until eventually it’s gone.
I take a slow breath, knowing I’m going to have to get up but not quite ready to leave the comfort of his hold.
Ben lifts his chin from where it was resting atop my head. “Sooo… I’m like ninety percent sure your dad basically just told you to use me for sex.”
“Yeah. He did.”
I can feel that smile above me.
“You gotta come to the Friends and Family thing now.”
I laugh into his chest, so grateful to have him back in my life, all I can say is, “Okay. But do I have to skate?”
* * *
Lara
I wasn't sure about coming today, but now that I’m here watching all these big, tough hockey players showing off and goofing around on the ice with their loved ones, I am so glad Ben asked me. And while I don’t know the team as well as everyone else here, it’s a welcoming group.
Even to a non-skater.
Or maybe because of it.
Natalie Vassar helps me tie my skates while her bestie George O’Brien spouts advice meant to keep me off my ass. April Boerboom gives me a hug that literally squeezes the air out of me and then holds my hand for a heart-racing, knee-knocking, slow-motion loop around the rink, tsking about how her son should have taught me to skate back in high school.
He offered.
I declined. Strongly. A decision I mightily regret right now.
And Ben?
I almost wish he’d abandoned me. It might be easier than all his attentive check-ins.
His questioning thumbs-up from across the ice. His exit from a conversation with another group to give me a tip about balance. His eyes on me so often when I look up to find him, I might do it more than I should.
Even with everything going on today and all the people he’s friends with, he doesn’t forget about me. It’s nice. In a platonic sort of way. Which is all I want despite the ovarian incident taking place at the sight of him skating by with one of his teammate’s kids— a toddler —hanging from his pinkies.
That little cutie skates about ten times better than me. And over his itty-bitty Slayers Hockey hat, Ben’s flashing me his signature grin, mouthing, “I’m his favorite.”
It’s like this man is made of boyfriend material, and I have no idea how no one can see it but me.
Obviously, I can’t have him that way. I don’t want to. But…
He swoops the little guy off his tiny hockey skates and whispers to him.
Next thing, I’m getting a kiss blown from across the ice from, well, the second-cutest male out here.
Swoon.
“Lara, right?”
I nearly wipe out, turning toward a woman about my age with fiery red hair who introduces herself as Misty Nichols and the player whizzing past her with an X-rated wink as her husband Noel.
She’s got a huge smile and this look in her eyes I’m starting to recognize.
“So—” She nudges me with her elbow and then quickly catches me close when I start to slip. “You knew Boomer in high school?”
