Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(12)
There are a few people sitting sporadically in the bleachers around the rink, mostly wives and family members I think. I first notice the coach who was working with the kids on the ice yesterday. He has a thick beard, which makes him hard to miss. He’s waiting on one of the benches; sweat is running down his face, and when one of the other players offers to trade out with him, he waves a hand signaling he’s not quite ready to go back in.
I follow the various players gliding around the ice, watching their feet stop and skid. A few of them trip up a little when they have to change direction, but not Andrew. I recognize his feet quickly—smooth, fast. He doesn’t control the game, but he changes it, darting in and out of plays before the others can catch up. Andrew isn’t the youngest out there—most of the guys are his age. But the older ones really can’t handle him. He’s disruptive.
When he slides from the ice onto the bench, he pulls a helmet off and looks around the glass until he spots me. He smiles on one side of his mouth—he smiles for me. I raise a hand and scratch at the glass, trying to be cute with my hello. He scrunches his hand back at me.
His hair is floppy and lying in all directions; I’m hoping he’s almost done with his game, because I don’t want him to put his helmet back on. I want to watch him like this. I like looking on while he laughs and talks to his friends, while he yells things and points to other guys—while he’s happy. Andrew might be the most beautiful portrait of happiness I’ve ever seen, and he comes from so much sadness.
He thunders out a “Booooooom!” as one of his teammates scores, and when he comes out on the ice to congratulate him, he hugs him around the neck, mussing the younger guy’s hair. Andrew would have been an amazing older brother, and I have a feeling his brothers, at least Owen, were like this with him. It makes me smile, and I wear it bright and wide while he skates around the edge of the ice until he’s facing me on the other side of the glass.
He starts moving his lips, saying something, but I can’t hear him, so I shrug. He nods, then pulls his glove from his right hand and presses his finger against the glass, writing the word HUNGRY in the frost, followed by a question mark.
I nod yes, and he holds his hand by his ear, joking that he can’t hear me. I laugh and nod bigger. He races around the other edge of the glass, walking carefully on his skates along the carpet toward me.
“Why are you nodding like that? You look ridiculous,” he teases.
“Shut up,” I say through nervous laughter.
Andrew is probably the only real friend I’ve made here, and I only see him at our school for an hour a day, sometimes only entering and exiting the locker room. I don’t even know him that well, but I know I would rather get to know him than waste time getting to know anyone else. There are girls I’ve met here, like Melody. She’s in most of my classes, and we like the same TV shows and music. I guess we’re friends, too. We call each other, which is more than I do with Andrew. But I would…call Andrew. If I could.
“So, are you ready for lesson number two? Or do you want to eat something first?” he asks, pulling off various pads, but leaving his skates on his feet. I breathe slowly, blinking at them, not sure if I should break that promise to my mom or not. Of course, skating wasn’t her real concern anyhow.
“My feet are kind of sore…” I begin my excuse.
“That’s okay. Let’s just eat, and maybe I’ll show you a few more things around town,” Andrew says, slipping his feet into his shoes. He almost looks relieved we’re not skating. I smile and let myself relax into the bench while he packs his things into a large bag, then carries it over to the rental counter.
“You keep your stuff here?” I ask, noticing him startle when I speak behind him. I put my hand on his shoulder to reassure him, almost out of habit—a habit that doesn’t exist, but feels like it should. When I touch him, his shoulders rise with his long breath, almost as if I’ve healed something.
“Oh, I borrow pads. They’re expensive, and these fit fine.” He pauses, almost like he wants to say more, but stops with his feet square to mine, his hands looped in his pockets, his eyes staring just above my own. He takes another deep breath, like the one he took when I touched his shoulder, then raises his right hand and sweeps a lock of hair from my forehead over my shoulder. When his eyes meet mine, he looks surprised that I’m watching, and he falters a step backward and rushes his hand back to his pocket before looking down and shuffling a few more steps away.
“So, lunch then? Yeah?” he asks.
“Sounds good. Do you…what…just eat here?” I look over at the menu on the wall of peanuts, fries, and soft pretzels.
Andrew lets out a short breath of a laugh. “No, I was thinking somewhere a little nicer than this. Come with me; I wanna show you something,” he nods toward the door. We stop back by the bench where his stick and skates are and he carries them through the door, holding it open for me as I pass closely by him. I watch his chest as I do to see if he breathes deeply again, but he seems to be used to me. I’m the one who releases a sharp breath this round.
I follow Andrew into the parking lot, and he stops at the back of an older sports car, the black paint faded in many places, and the glass missing and replaced with cardboard in one of the side windows. He pops the trunk, tossing his skates and stick in the back, then turns to face me as he shuts it.