Page 71 of Offside

“I’m a baby deer.”

“A very beautiful baby deer.”

“Do not patronize me while I’m about to die.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“From skating? No, probably not. But of embarrassment? Entirely possible.” Ryan was undeterred by my blatant sarcasm.

He laughed, a real one, the one that was still new enough it surprised me every time and started walking me slowly around the perimeter of the ice. I focused on not falling. He focused on keeping me upright, adjusting his weight against mine when I lurched, talking me through where to put my weight, not making a thing of the half dozen times I grabbed the hoodie he’d put on.

The rink was ours. Our blades on the ice, his low voice giving me instructions, the hum of the refrigeration system somewhere underneath it all. It smelled like cold and rubber and the mineral sharpness of fresh ice. I understood, in a way I hadn’t before, why he loved it. There was something clean about it. It made the rest of the world feel far away.

By the second lap I was less vertical catastrophe and more controlled stumble.

By the third I was almost skating. Sort of.

“There,” he said. “See?”

“Don’t celebrate yet.”

“You’re doing it.”

“I’m shuffling. There’s a difference.” But I was smiling, I could feel it. The cold air was sharp on my cheeks and his arm was equally solid around my waist. “This is ridiculous.”

“You’re on skates.”

“Barely.”

“Barely counts.” He looked down at me with the open expression he kept for when it was just the two of us. “How does it feel?”

I thought about it. The ice was smooth under my blades. The rink was dim and ours. His arm hadn’t moved from my waist once.

“Umm. It feels…awkward. But not bad.”

“Maybe even good?” he asked hopefully.

“Good,” I said and let my shoulders relax for a moment. “It feels good, okay.”

He nodded, like that was what he’d expected, and kept skating.

We went around twice more before I got ambitious and let go of his arm to try a few strides on my own. Ryan skated backward in front of me, effortless, both hands out and open for mine. He made it look impossibly easy. I made it six feet before my left blade caught wrong and I went down. Not badly, sideways more than forward, but down. He was there before I’d fully registered falling, one hand on my elbow, the other at my back, hauling me up with the ease of his twenty-seven years of practice.

“Told you,” I said.

“You lasted six feet.”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“It’s a start.” He didn’t let go of my elbow. His face was close to mine from the crouch he’d dropped into to catch me. The rink was still around us and the ice was cold and with the way he was looking at me, the cold was forgotten.

He pulled me back completely upright with both hands on my waist and then held on a beat longer than strictly necessary, looking down at me with an expression I hadn’t seen before. Something entirely delighted he was trying to keep off his face.

“Don’t,” I said.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re making a face.”