Breakaway (Beyond the Play, #2)(14)

“We do.” I skate to the middle of the rink. “You’re going to fall, and that’s okay. She’s right, I fall a lot still.”

Usually because of a hit, but I don’t add that. I demonstrate how to fall, letting my shoulder take the impact instead of my head or wrists. After that, Red makes me show the kids how to do the little cone exercise. I do that twice, weaving from one side to the next, then watch as the kids line up and give it a shot themselves.

I thought this would drag on, but I get into the groove quickly. I save one boy from crashing into the boards and give extra feedback to a girl who keeps buckling her knees. They’re like newborn colts trying to figure out how to stand on their own, but to their credit, most of them get right back up after they fall.

When it’s time for practice, I skate over to the boy wearing the Alex Ovechkin jersey. His chubby cheeks are red from the cold. He’s fallen three times in a row now, unable to make it from the edge all the way to the cones.

I crouch down so we’re at about eye level. He’s holding on so tightly that the blood has drained from his fingertips. I pry them off one by one, holding him steady myself.

“I’ve met him, you know.”

He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “Who?”

“Ovechkin. He’s nice as f—he’s a nice guy. Really cool.”

The kid brightens. “He’s my favorite player.”

“Just him, or do you root for the Caps?”

“Caps,” he says.

“Good stuff.” I point at the cones. “You know, Ovechkin had to learn how to skate when he was a kid. I had to, too.”

“I want to play hockey.” He bites his lip, looking over to where Red is showing a couple of kids how to spin. I follow his gaze, momentarily distracted by the look of concentration on her face. We lock eyes for half a second as she brushes her hair away from her face.

I swallow and turn back to the kid. “What’s your name?”

“Ryan.”

“Ryan what? What’s the back of your sweater going to say?”

“McNamara.”

I clap him on the shoulder. “That’s a good name. It’s going to look nice on you one day. But you need to learn to skate first, buddy.”

He nods, rubbing his nose again. “I know.”

“I’m going to skate over here,” I say, gesturing to the nearest cone. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

I stay crouched down, arms open, looking at Ryan with what I hope is an encouraging expression. I’m sure in a few weeks he’ll be learning to skate backwards; he just needs to take the leap and gain some confidence. After a few seconds, he pushes off the railing and skates over to me slowly.

When I steady him, I give him a high-five. “Nice job. Let’s do it again.”

When the lesson ends, Ryan hugs me, which definitely doesn’t suck. He asks if I’m coming to the next lesson, and because I doubt Coach will buy that I’m cured of what my dad apparently thinks are violent tendencies after one session—and fine, because I enjoyed myself—I nod and tell him I’ll see him next week.

When we’re alone on the ice, Red skates over to me, her cheeks flushed from the cool air and exertion. Her hair is messy, swept up around her like a ginger halo. She scrunches up her cute little nose. Something about her feels familiar, but I don’t know where I’d have seen her. Maybe she’s on McKee’s figure skating team? We have one, but I don’t know much about it. Our paths could have crossed on campus half a dozen times, although if that’s the case, I have no idea why I wouldn’t have introduced myself. I scrub my hand over my face, letting a scowl replace the smile I wore throughout the lesson.

“That bad, huh?”

I work my jaw, my frustration at the whole situation rushing back now that I don’t have something else to focus on. “No, it’s just… it’s not like I asked for this.”

“You were good at it.” She nudges her shoulder against my arm. “I thought you’d be terrible.”

“You know I know how to skate.”

“Not at the skating, at interacting with the kids.” She grins, and fuck, it’s cute. I work to hold back a groan. During the lesson, I managed to ignore the zing that would race from my scalp to my toes whenever I felt her near me, but now my body is doing its hardest to remind me I haven’t gotten laid in way, way too long for a guy my age. “It was really sweet.”

I scrape at the ice with my toe pick. “Yeah, well, tell that to my coach. He thinks this is going to help my game, but honestly…”

I trail off, because it’s one thing to complain about my dry spell with my brother, and another entirely to announce it to a stranger.

“Honestly what?” she asks.

I look at her. Maybe it’s her eyes that look familiar? Did we have a class together freshman year or something? Fuck it, I don’t know her anyway, and it’s not like I can get any more pathetic. “Honestly, I just need to get laid. It’s been months and I’m wound too tight.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you hockey players have an entourage of puck bunnies following you around?”

I shrug. “I don’t hook up with the same girl twice.”

“Why not?”