“You won’t tell me where we’re going, and I’m nervous. I want to look?—”
“Perfect?” He tilts his head. “Iz, you could wear a literal trash bag and scuba gear, and I’d think you’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re biased.”
“Extremely.” Jack grins. “But I’m also right. But if you move in with him this summer, I promise you can have the bigger closet. And I have the perfect spot for a home library with a ladder.”
“You have such a filthy mouth,” I tease. “Don’t stop. Tell me more”
He kisses me again, which is how we got into this mess in the first place. When he finally pulls back, his face falls in concern. “We’re going to be late if we don’t leave. Like,reallylate.”
“Oh my god.” I playfully try to push him away. “Then stop distracting me, and we can go.”
“Want to change again? I’ll help you.”
“Jack!” I giggle, wrestling away from his grip. “You’re such a flirt.”
“Sometimes,” he says with a wink, “I even play hockey.”
“You’re a better flirt though.”
“That mouth of yours…” He leans back inside the bathroom, twirling me around for another kiss, before he says, “First, I like when you’re mean to me. Just makes you cuter. Second, I’m good at a lot of things.”
“If you say so.” I pat his stomach, then dive under his arms to run back to my bedroom. I make it as far as the living room before he bends, scoops me up with one arm, and carries me back to bed.
“Maybe we have time for one more distraction,” he whispers against my stomach, dropping to his knees.
By the time we actually make it to the car, it’s starting to snow. Twenty minutes later, we pull up to the old hockey rink, maybe soon to behishockey rink. His future now that he’s announced his retirement at the end of this season.
The reaction to his announcement was mixed at best. And by mixed, I mean some fans blamed me for “ruining” his career. I’ve spent the last two weeks ignoring the hateful comments while Jack uses them as fuel to win the Cup and end on a high note. His parents and Bridget broke down when he finally told them the real reason: the symptoms he’s been struggling to hide after his concussions. It was the teariest dinner I’ve ever sat through, but I was right there, his hand in mine the whole time.
Jack tosses me a granola bar from the glove box before we hop out and leave crumbles as a peace offering to Bart.
Christmas lights line the rink, and there’s hot cocoa set up on a folding table near the bleachers.
“Mr. Kelly was thrilled to help with the surprise. Ethan, Sloane, and Annie are coming by”—he checks his watch—“in half an hour. But first, I wanted to take you out on the ice. Just you and me.”
Jack laces my skates. His fingers are steady and sure, the same way they are when he touches me, and I have to resist the urge to pull him up and kiss him.
“There,” he says, giving my ankle a gentle squeeze. “Ready?”
My first steps are wobbly.Verywobbly.
“You said you could skate,” he teases.
“I lied. Obviously. I was trying to impress you.”
“It worked.”
“Yeah, well, joke’s on you because now you’re stuck with me and I can’t even stand up.”
I slip. He catches me. Or tries to, anyway. We collapse, tangled on the ice, laughing so hard we can’t breathe. He rolls us so I’m on top of him, and I’m pretty sure there’s going to be a bruise on his shoulder tomorrow, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“This was your romantic plan?” I wheeze.
“Is it working?”
“Ask me when I can feel my tailbone again.”
