Jake laughs. “Whatever you have to tell yourself.”
I look at Oliver to laugh, but he’s panting and smiling at me, not paying attention to Scottie and Jake at all.
“If you were showing off to impress me, it worked,” I say, nudging his arm with mine. He reaches down and steadies my wheelchair, then wheels me forward a few steps so we’re side by side.
My hands grip the wheels nervously as I push myself slowly, the movement awkward but fun. I love the idea that wheelchair users can experience something so magical.
“If I’ve impressed you,” he says, “my work here is done.”
I try to move forward a little faster—but my skate catches the footrest. The chair jolts sharply, and I nearly tip forward. I let go of Oliver’s hand instinctively.
In one smooth motion, he drops his hands to my waist, stopping the tilt. Instead of setting me back in the chair, he pulls me up to a stand. I wobble on one skate, my balance precarious, but his palm pressed firmly against my lower back keeps me steady. My heart hammers—and with him so close, I wonder if he can feel the butterflies fluttering in my stomach through my coat.
“Graceful,” he teases.
“Oh, you thought that was real?” I tighten my grip on his forearm, my pulse hammering at his nearness. If he weren’t over a foot taller than me, we’d be even closer. “I’m just lulling you into a false sense of security before I unleash my Olympic routine.”
“I’m not sure falling is big in the Olympics.”
I try to glare, but even if I weren’t clinging to him like the lifeline he is, it would have no effect. As it is, he mumbles under his breath, “Man, you’re cute.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I say, heat rising from my chest to my cheeks.
He helps me back into the wheelchair, and my stomach swoops at how careful he is with me.
“How’s your ankle been feeling?” he asks, his hand still on my shoulder.
“The boot is like a cast,” I say. “It actually helps.”
He frowns, unconvinced. “If it gets worse, you tell me. No more hiding injuries.”
“You got it, Coach,” I tease, but I’m not sure I’m lying. I think I could actually tell Oliver I’m in pain, and he would care.
It’s pathetic how emotional that thought makes me.
How scared, too.
Especially because I still haven’t told him about my job … the one thing that could make him leave?—
I push the thought away. We’ve known each other for a few days. I have time to tell him.
Right, and that knot in your stomach is just hunger.
By the time we make our way off the ice, I let Oliver push me to the edge of the rink, then transfer to my crutches, which have made a world of difference all afternoon. My cheeks are flushed from both cold and … well, the heat of being next to him. We flop onto a bench to remove our skates, our knees bumping together as we wrestle with stiff laces and half-frozen fingers. Jake and Scottie are already done, and Jake’s signing autographs for fans while Scottie holds his hot cocoa.
“Can’t wait to watch you in the Olympics,” Oliver says, tugging off his skate and slipping into his sneakers.
“Right? I was magnificent.” I brace my crutches carefully under my arms and wiggle my sore ankle into my Mary Jane. “Do you think you’ll like being president of my fan club?”
“I think I’ll manage.” He stands and tugs me up next to him.
My legs are still wobbly as we hobble out of the rink on crutches. My limp isn’t as bad as it was yesterday, but even if my ankle were shrieking in pain, I wouldn’t care.
This is worth it.
“Hot cocoa?” he asks.
“Please,” I say. He nods and goes to get in line at the cart. A few feet away, I see a little kid lobbing a snowball at his dad, and inspiration strikes.
