Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
“Of course I did. Loved the moves and the song,” I say.
“Me too.” She beams. “I want to be able to do something like that. It’s so fun.”
She chatters on, her excitement contagious.
As we pull into the Sunnyside Rink parking lot where Sabrina hosts her lessons, I’m resolved. Time to face whatever awkwardness might come my way. Then to move on.
When Luna nails her axel with fierce determination, I jump to my feet and cheer. “That’s how we do it!”
She glides over to me, her cheeks rosy, her smile so big it could light up the rink. “Did you see that?”
“Dude, I literally just shouted loud enough for the whole rink to hear,” I say, though there aren’t too many people here—just a few others involved in private lessons happening at the same time.
“I know!” She grins, leaning against the boards. “I just wanted to make double, double sure.”
“You crushed it,” I tell her. “Now get back out there and finish strong with Sabrina, okay?”
“I will!” She beams, flying back to the center of the ice to tackle some footwork. I watch her for a moment, pride swelling in my chest. She’s so confident, so focused. But something’s nagging at me—Sabrina hasn’t skated over to say hi, and that’s not like her.
Shit. Maybe she feels bad. Maybe she thinks I’ll fire her.
The thought twists in my gut. When the lesson ends, I pull Luna aside before Sabrina can bolt. “Why don’t you play that arcade game you like for a few minutes?”
“I love Ms. Pac-Man,” she says. She’s been thrilled since we started coming here that the rink has a collection of vintage games.
I hand her some dollars that she’ll turn into tokens, and once she takes off her skates, she dashes off, already excited.
I draw a deep breath, steeling myself for this conversation with Sabrina. I have no clue how it’s going to go, but I need to clear the air.
But before I can so much as move, Sabrina skates over with a smile that stops me in my tracks. “Do you have a minute?” she asks, her voice light, but something in her eyes makes my chest tighten.
That smile, those sparkling blue eyes, the memory of her soft, warm skin when I kissed her forehead in the hotel room—they all flood back in an instant.
Maybe it’s not such a bad idea to date my daughter’s skating coach. With the way she looks at me, it feels like a damn good idea. I don’t want to move on. I want to take her up on her offer—and take her out.
“Yeah,” I manage to say, my voice low and gravelly, my skin hot.
Screw the timing. I’m not looking for love, but I can damn well handle dating, parenting, and playing hockey. I’m a grown-ass adult. I’ll hunt for an opening as we talk, just like I hunt for opportunities on the ice in every damn game.
Sabrina swings open the gate and steps off the ice, grabbing a canvas bag with an illustration of a fox twirling in skates on it, and the caption: Skate Like No One’s Watching, For Fox Sake. She reaches into it and pulls out her pink skate guards. Of course, they’re pink. This detail delights me more than it should. With practiced ease, she slips them on and then motions toward the metal bleachers at the far side of the rink.
This is going to be good. My pulse kicks up. If she wants to sit down, that’s a sign, right? As I gesture for her to go first, I quickly cycle through the best ways to ask her out. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this. Too long.
Since Elle, I’ve barely dated. My few attempts were app-assisted and didn’t go anywhere. This in-person stuff? I’m at least a decade out of practice. But winging it has always been my style. I’ll make it work.
There is the tried-and-true direct approach: Sabrina, I’d love to take you out this weekend.
I could go with something more specifically tailored to her energy: How would you feel about mini golf and the best cheese fries in the city tomorrow night?
Then there’s always the option of just leaning into her wishes and wants: Want to see a baseball game and debate the umpires, then I can take you home and we can start working through your fantasies one by one? Because I’d really like to show you precisely how I’d like to devour you all night long.
Yeah, all those sound good, and I’m going to have to roll the dice in the moment. I’ve got this.
We reach the end of the metal bleacher, and she sits first, setting the bag down on her lap. The soft buzz of the rink’s air-conditioning hums around us, mixing with the occasional scrape of skates on the ice below. I lean back against the cold metal railing, trying to act casual, though my chest is tight with anticipation.