I squeeze his hand tighter. “Not while you’re with me.”
The wooden planks creak under our feet. I grab a pair of skates in his size and shove them into his hands. We make our way to one of the benches, and I drop to my knees to lace him in. He watches the people on the ice, wincing when a kid nearly falls before catching the dasher board.
When his skates are tight, I lace up my own and push myself to my feet.
“Alright,” I say, offering him a hand. “It’s easier than it looks. Besides, you’re the balanced one, should be easy peasy for you.”
At the boards, I step onto the ice first. He follows, instantly grabbing my arm and hanging on for dear life. Cute as hell. But I know him. It’s not the possibility of bruises that bothers him, it’s the loss of control. That’s when he gets dramatic and cranky, and I absolutely live for it.
“Easy,” I say, skating backward while keeping his hands in mine.
His eyes widen. “Wait…what are you doing?”
“Relax. Look at me. Lean forward, push, glide.”
His right foot slides out, shaky as hell, the left one reluctantly catching up. It’s clumsy, but it’s movement.
“You’re doing fine, love. Now try the other. Think of it like dancing.”
“I don’t dance. We’ve covered this.”
He keeps trying. Another slide, one more.
“Keep your balance. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Trust me.”
“I trust you, not so sure about the ice, though.”
I laugh. “The ice isn’t your enemy. Think of it as a new friend.”
“This friend feels like it’s going to give me an open fracture any second.”
He tries again, and his runs come a little smoother, though he still clings to me. Then his grip loosens and I take that as my chance to let go.
“Wait, where are you going? Don’t you dare, McKenna! I hate you. I hate you!”
“See? You’re still standing. Not bad for a rookie.”
“I swear, if I wake up covered in bruises—”
“I’ll kiss them all better. Now try to get over here.”
He tries, and with every pass I see him more relaxed. That’s the trick. Confidence keeps your feet on the ice. His movements come smoother each time.
“Look at you, you’re doing it!”
He comes at me, balancing the way he does when he’s pretending to be a flamingo in his yoga class. Then he grips my arm and I brace against the dasher board.
Absolutely necessary because he’s no damsel I can just scoop off the ice. He’s more of a Great Dane that thinks he’s a lapdog. If he goes down, I do too.
I nod at the wooden drawbridge over the rink. “Come, let’s skate underneath.”
“Okay, wait. Turning isn’t easy.”
“I know. No need to rush. Take your time.”
His skates wobble, and I want to tell him it’s easier with a wide turn, but he’s already halfway, so I let him figure it out. Then he skates back to me, our hands finding each other.
Together we go for the bridge, skating smooth and easy. Yosh isn’t even focused on his feet anymore. His eyes wander to the glowing trees, the people skating past, everything around us. Then down to our hands, held out in the open. He gives me a smile that spikes my dopamine levels.
