by Casey Winter
I turn and look at Hannah’s house.
The downstairs light is on, the blinds drawn. Hannah’s silhouette is carrying a blanket across the room, taking care as she straightens it out on the couch. I’m guessing she’s putting it on her mom. As I watch, captivated, she lifts it—I imagine she’s frowning—and then fusses with the blanket, making sure her mom is comfortable.
Forcing myself to turn away, I go inside.
Chapter Six
Hannah
I spend the rest of the week practicing my slalom, sitting with Mom as she paints, bouncing novel ideas around with Penny and, one night, having a ladies’ night with Mom and Alejandra and Penny, the four of us giggling like crazy when Alejandra drunkenly declared she was going home to put on her sexiest outfit (her words) … Only to return dressed in her wedding dress, veil and all.
“What?” she said, strutting around the living room. “I’ve never felt as sexy as on my wedding day, ladies.”
It was a lot of effort to go through for a joke, sure, but it was worth it.
Oh, and I’ve also been doing two other pretty important things: unofficially helping at the rink and trying not to think about, or really even look at, Luke Nelson. No prizes for guessing which one I’ve failed, big time.
Today, Sunday afternoon, I practice like a woman possessed. I focus all of my attention on the slalom routine, only letting it wander when I stop for a drink of water or a snack.
Tired, I drop down at the edge of the rink, so sweaty my hoodie sticks to me. As I drink greedily from a bottle of water, I think about Penny and the crazed, manic look in her eyes when she talks about her novels. It’s cute, and slightly scary, how passionate she is.
“It’s like an effing puzzle, Hannah,” she said the other night, throwing her hands up as she paced up and down her apartment. “I’m positing three suspects for the kidnapping, but they all have to be realistic without being, like, OTT. And, when I reveal that it’s actually a forth character, that nobody would expect, it has to seem reasonable. I have to lay the groundwork, you know what I mean?”
“Sort of,” I told her. “But I know you can do it, Lennie. I know that one-hundred percent.”
“Banana,” she teased, dropping down on the couch next to me. “I’m so happy you’re officially a Little Faller again. This is so much better than Skype.”
“It is,” I agreed.
And she’s right, I reflect now, climbing to my feet. Well, skates.
That was one thing I did not expect when I came home: how at home I would feel, how comfortable. There’s this fuzzy, warm feeling of belonging that Little Fall hasn’t held for me since, well, since before that whole mess with Noah when I was a teenager. As usual, my mind tries to steer toward that. I shut it down, double-time.
Thinking about a really traumatic and horrible thing that happened to my when I was sixteen years old?
Yeah, no thanks.
But, despite my history here, I like it. I love it, in fact. It’s so refreshing after the years of being a wanderer, a nowhere person, never belonging.
I get back into my skating, losing myself in the flow. I only stop when I see Alexis standing at the edge of the cones, her arms folded across her belly. Her dyed pink hair partially shielding her eyes, she looks every inch the unsure teenager.
“Don’t worry,” I smile. “I don’t bite.”
“I didn’t want to bother you,” she mutters.
I skate over to her. “Well, you better leave, then,” I tease. “Because I am well and truly bothered.”
She giggles. “It’s just … I have a favor to ask you.”
“Okay?”
“My friend, she’s a rapper. Well, a wannabe rapper. She posts stuff online and—one of her songs has gotten quite popular, sort of like semi-viral, and now she wants to shoot a music video. I had a really cool idea that we could shoot it here, at the rink. And maybe you could do some of your slalom, with those light-up wheels you mentioned? It’d be really cool, I think, to like have you in the background, and then she’s there rapping, and we could get some neon paint and everything.”
She cuts off, breathless, smoothing her hair to cover more of her face. It’s like she’s embarrassed for letting out so many words at once.
“That sounds like it’d make a great addition to your portfolio,” I tell her, remembering she said she wanted to be a filmmaker. “I’d love to do it, Alexis.”
“So you’re in?” she beams.
I smile, her sudden enthusiasm infectious. “I’m in.”
“Yay,” she laughs, seeming way younger than her age now. She throws her arms around me. “Thank you, Hannah. This is gonna be awesome.”
I give her a squeeze. “It sure is.”
“I don’t know when it’s going to be, though,” she says, as we separate. “I think she might be coming to Little Fall in August. To stay with me. We were thinking about recording it then? So about a month. Um, will you still be around then?”
I’m shocked by how quickly I respond. “Yes,” I tell her, with certainty. “I’m not going anywhere.”
—
Later, I’m happy to see that Family Roller has filled up a little. Alexis’ shift has finished and it turns out a few of her friends are meeting her here. I spend some time with them, giving them some basic tips. Soon, they’re all skating around the rink, recording videos on their phones and snapping selfies. I take a selfie with Alexis, our arms around each other. I remember the time Evelyn and I took a similar photo. Sure, the phones were a little more primitive, the camera quality worse, but it wasn’t so different: Evelyn’s arm around me, me grinning like the happiest girl in the world.
Now, she’s gone. Slipped on the ice … a freak accident. Life, seriously, is not fair.
But nobody likes a Debbie Downer, so I don’t spend too long thinking about that. Instead, we skate. My limbs are aching with a vengeance. Since I know Mom and Alejandra are spending the whole day together, I’m free to skate for as long as I want.
I stop when I see that the teenagers have clustered around the corner of the rink, whispering. They’re all looking over to the edge. I follow their gaze and see Luke leaning on the railing. My breath catches. Then I snap at myself, What the hell is wrong with you? You don’t even like the jerk-off.
Still, I can’t help but study his tight biceps in the T-shirt. His black hair is messy. His eyes seem super-bright in the neon madness of the rink. He turns, spots me. His expression tightens. He grimaces.
Not thinking, I flip him the bird. I think about yelling over some insult, too, but the pop music pumps too loudly.
Is it just my imagination, or does he smirk when I stick my middle finger up at him? I’m smiling, too. We’re grinning at each other. I skate over to Alexis, turning away from him, telling myself not to look at him again. It’s too annoying, too confusing.
It’s like: I hate him and I want nothing to do with him. But then it’s also like: Holy hell, I bet those biceps are rock-solid, and I bet his skin is really hot, and I bet he’s as much of a jerk in the bedroom as he is outside of it.
Not okay, not okay.
Washing those thoughts from my mind, I tap Alexis on the shoulder. “What are you gossiping about?” I ask, mostly just to distract myself.
She giggles. “We’re trying to work up the courage to ask Mr. Nelson to try on some skates.”
I let out a laugh that’s pretty embarrassing, almost like a snort. But it’s just so funny, for some reason, the thought of ripped-as-hell, Lucifer-muscled Luke Nelson in rollerskates. “Oh, God,” I laugh. “Please, ask him. And let me watch.”
“See, guys?” Alexis yells. “We have a skating legend’s endorsement. Now we have to do it.”
Decided, we all skate over. I’m smiling sadistically, I have to admit. I just can’t wait to see his face. This’ll teach him for being such an asshole after he helped me with the woodcutting.
“Mr. Nelson,” Alexis calls, coming to an admirable stop on her skates.
Luke stands up from the railing. “Yes?”
“Um, we were just wondering, why don’t you come down and have a skate with us?”
Luke flinches. His eyes flit from Alexis to me, and he frowns as though suspecting this was my idea. He looks at a loss. It’s priceless. I can’t stop myself from giggling.
“Maybe another time,” he says slowly.
“But, Mr. Nelson,” Alexis persists. “I’ve worked here since opening night, and I’ve never seen you skate. Not once.”
“Sorry, kids,” he says. He looks at me when he says ‘kids’, leaving no confusion about his opinion on how immature I’m behaving. Well, screw him. Who said being mature all the time was fun, anyway? “But I’m busy right now.”
Before we can say anything else, he walks away, heading for his office. I don’t wanna seem like a crazy lady or anything, but I get, like, really angry when I see that. Because that was a good opportunity for him to bring some fun to Family Roller. Even if he isn’t a good skater, he could’ve gotten involved. Then Alexis and her friends would’ve told other people and, just maybe, they would give Family Roller a try.
Now, all he’s done is come off like a fun sponge.
Yeah, so let’s just say that’s why I follow him toward his office—the carpet is easy to walk on in my skates, since they’re like second shoes to me—and not, you know, the fact that he pissed me off big time on Thursday. When I offered to help with Family Roller, he threw it back in my face.
Does he even care about this rink?
I walk up his stairs, being careful to not let my wheels slide backwards, and then knock on his door. “Hmm-mmm?” he grunts.
“It’s me,” I say.
The door swings open. His eyes shamelessly roam over my body, my hoodie hugging close with sweat, my yoga pants sticky. He clenches his teeth, maybe in hunger. I’m pretty sure I can feel the tingling desire radiating from him just as overpoweringly as from me. Every inch of him is painted in tempting sin, and it’s worrying how badly I want it.
I step into the office, forcing him back. But not back far enough. I almost walk right into his broad chest, even though, with the skates on, I’m not that much shorter than him. Although, it still feels like he towers over me. It’s his presence.
“What is it?” he growls.
“Why didn’t you just skate with them, frogman?” I snap. “You came off like a complete jerk. You could’ve given such a great impression, and, instead …”
He smirks. “That’s why you’re here, twinkle toes?” he snaps. “To lecture me? Fine, consider me well and truly lectured. Is there anything else?”
He walks over to his desk, dropping down behind it. I notice how bare the room is: no photos, either from military or civilian life, no medals, nothing. Is he just as bare on the inside, or is there a raging storm that’s waiting to be tamed?
I pace over to him. “Why do you have to be such an asshole?” I hiss. “Why even bother reopening this place if you’re not going to try?”
“Is that why you’re always hanging around, eh?” he teases. “You want to do the job for me?”
“Firstly, I’m not hanging around. I’m practicing. And, secondly, it says a lot that I’m doing more to keep Evelyn’s memory alive here than you are. I’m helping kids learn how to skate, just like she did, just like she taught me. So don’t throw that in my face.”
I need to calm down. I take a deep breath, turning away. That got really out of hand. I’m at the door when Luke mutters, “I’m here because Noah asked me to be, Hannah. I’m trying—I really am trying.”
Noah.
My belly drops.
My mouth is suddenly dry.
The past feels potently, violently real.
“What do you mean?” I whisper.
I hear a drawer open, and then Luke is walking across the room. I turn to find him standing close to me, a troubled look in his eyes. He holds out a folded-up piece of paper.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Read it,” he growls. “Before I change my mind.”
I want to sass him in response—change your mind then, asshole—but there’s something vulnerable in his expression. I take the letter, and read. The more I read, the crazier it seems. Noah’s dying wish was for Luke to reopen the rink. Noah sent Luke here. Luke wouldn’t be here if not for Noah: the man—no, boy—who shattered my heart all those years ago. What a complicated fricking mess this is.
“Oh,” I whisper. “Well, that’s crazy. Why did you show me that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I wanted you to know …” He sighs. “I don’t know, Hannah. I just—I don’t know. Is a man supposed to know why he feels every damn one of his emotions? I wanted you to see it, and you saw it. That’s it.”
“You’re angry,” I say, my voice sounding breathy, hollow.
It hasn’t escaped my attention that the door closed behind me when I walked in here, one of those safety spring-loaded doors that closes automatically unless wedged with a doorstop. We’re alone, almost touching. The sweltering tension between us is undeniable, hellish in the best way, in the worst way
I want him and he’s the last thing I should want.
“Angry,” he repeats. He takes a step forward. Our fingers brush. Electricity sparks. Neither of us acknowledges it. “Yeah, maybe I’m pissed. I’m angry that Dad has let his business turn to trash. I’m angry that Mom slipped and died and now she’s gone. Most of all, I’m angry that my little bro is dead and yet I still want to—I still can’t stop thinking about …”
He grits his teeth. Our eyes smolder into each other. I’m panting, and so is he. He feels it, too. Both of us are nearly breathless. It’s like a part of me is calling out to a part of him.
We can’t ignore it. Passion has taken hold of us, separate from our supposed hatred of each other.
No, not supposed.
We do hate each other.
Don’t we?
He moves closer. Now, his fingers are clutching mine. There’s no pretending we’re not touching. He lifts his other hand and brushes my damp hair from my forehead. His eyes are wide, almost as though he’s surprised at what he’s about to do. “Goddamn, Hannah,” he whispers, leaning down. “I just can’t stop myself. You’re so beautiful in every goddamn way.”
“Uh,” I croak, as he crushes his lips into mine.
Then I can’t say anything anymore.
My arms loop around his shoulders, squeezing tightly onto him, gripping onto his back. I grasp as though I’m drowning, dying in the kiss. His lips are rough, his tongue sure as it connects with mine. He pushes me up against the door. I let out a trembling moan, his hands sliding down my back, over my bra strap, toward my ass.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” I whisper.
“I know,” he growls.
But then he kisses me again, harder. The tautness in him is unbelievable, every inch of him feeling like he’s ready to explode into a thousand scorched pieces, each one fueled by uncontainable need.
Then, for some evil reason, an image comes to me. I’m standing in the bathroom and Noah’s in the doorway, his face twisted ferociously, his fists clenched. “You have to do it,” he growled. “You know you have to. There’s no other choice, Hannah. It’s for the best. It’s the only way. You have to do it.”
I snap to my senses, placing my hands on Luke’s rippling chest and shoving him back. Luke breaks off the kiss, his lips red, his eyes wide. His chest heaves. We just stare at each other for a long moment.
This is Noah’s big brother.
What the hell did we just do?
“I have to go,” I say, quickly turning for the door.
“Y-yeah,” he says, voice trembling. “That’s probably for the best.”
For the best. Of course he would have to use that phrase: the same one Noah did. I pause, something occurring to me. I know I should just leave. But it seems important, somehow. “Luke, you can’t skate, can you?”
He laughs quietly. “
No, twinkle toes, I can’t. How did you guess?”
“Maybe—”
I trail off. Maybe I can give you a lesson, I was going to say. But that would be sending the wrong message. This was a onetime mistake, a massive lapse in judgement.
Never again.
But then Luke grunts, “Skating can’t be much harder than hitting a bullseye at five-hundred yards. Maybe you could show me the basics.”
“Um …” I realize I’m smiling like a teenager, overly excited. “Yeah, maybe.”
Then, before I can commit to anything else, I rush from the office, taking the stairs two at a time. My heartbeat is pounding so loudly it’s like an earthquake, tearing right through my heart, a jagged zigzag of pain connecting the past and the present in a way I haven’t felt for years. In a way I never wanted to feel again.
Things were complicated before, but at least they were manageable. Now, they’re fricking nuclear.
Chapter Seven
Luke
I sit in my office staring at the calendar, so tired I could just collapse face down on the desk and pass out. Or maybe another man could. But I know that if I did that, I’d be chased awake seconds later by malformed dreams.
I had a hell of a bizarre one last night. I remember it well, which is damn annoying. I was back in the teams, riding out in a Humvee toward a residential complex set within the middle of a desert where, apparently, a high-ranking Taliban was hiding. This was a mission I was actually involved in overseas, except, in real life, Hannah didn’t suddenly appear.
“What the …” The driver came to a stop. “What the hell is she doing?”
In real life, we couldn’t open the windows of our Humvees, since the IED threat was too severe. But this was a dream, and rules didn’t matter. So I cracked the window and I peered out. There she was, standing in the middle of the damn desert in her skates, looking breathy and sexy and beautiful and talented. Her lips were red from our kiss. She was panting, her chest rising and falling tantalizingly.
