by Sara Hubbard
Brad liked to laugh, but usually it was at me because he said I did silly things. Or unexpected things. He never laughed at my jokes. He even went so far as to tell me not to tell jokes—always with a smile, though, so it didn’t feel mean. Still, I wished he’d enjoyed me as much as I enjoy myself.
Michael unlatches the door to the ice and opens it wide. He doesn’t wait for me to go first. But chivalry is dead. Or maybe not. He turns quickly, and with his legs spread shoulder width apart, he offers his hands. I just stare at them. Taking them means nothing. Just a teacher offering help, but I can’t take them. I let go of a breath and run my hands over the end of my ponytail.
“It’ll be fine. If you fall, you get back up again.”
It’ll be fine? He thinks I’m afraid of the ice? No. It’s him. The intimacy of holding a man’s hand. And the reminder of the guy’s hand I used to hold and how spectacularly he hurt me.
“I got this.”
“All right. Show me what you got.”
I take one step out onto the ice and hold the half wall by the player’s bench. Then I take another step. Like Mark, my ankles are weak and they wobble. I steel myself and stand up tall, but then my feet start to slide in opposite directions until I’m halfway to the splits.
“Whoa!” He holds onto my upper arms and helps pull me back up until my legs are perpendicular to the ice. “Let’s try this again.” Again, he holds out his hands.
Shit. Fine. I hold them lightly, but he grips mine tight. They’re so warm, a wonderful contrast to the chill in my body and in this rink. Slowly, he skates backward, kind of weaving along, pulling me behind him. His eyes lock onto mine, and they don’t let go. It makes me nervous and my stomach starts to flutter.
I close my eyes, wanting to break free from his gaze. But also because I’m afraid I’m going down. He’ll probably catch me again, but it’ll hurt. I don’t have a lot of cushion on my ass, regardless of what some people may think.
“It’s easier if you open your eyes.”
“Said the hockey player to the novice.”
He chuckles. “Come on. It’s not so scary. How are you supposed to do your service if you can’t skate with your eyes open?”
He has a point.
“This doesn’t have to be painful,” he says with a smile. “Gliding on the ice…it can feel like flying.”
It’s hard for me to believe that skating can feel that way. For me, it feels like a chore, an obstacle I have to climb over to complete my community service.
“Come on now,” he says. “Open them.”
Easy for him to say. He likely was skating before he learned to walk. I peek through my lashes and then open wide.
“Ready?” Michael says. He releases my hands and pulls his own away slowly.
I take a breath and slide forward with one wobbly foot and then the other. I thought this might come back to me, but I was never great to begin with. Another step and then another, but I soon start to lose my balance. My arms wave like a helicopter, circling through the air as I fall backward. Michael isn’t quite quick enough to catch me this time, and I end up on my ass before falling onto my back. I lie on the ice with my arms and legs spread out like a snow angel. “This might be harder than I thought,” I say with a sigh.
Grinning, he looks down at me. The rink’s lights above surround his head like a halo. He really is pretty. Maybe I hit my head. “I think I’m hopeless.”
“No one’s hopeless,” he says sincerely. “Not unless they give up.”
“You should write motivational books.”
“How do you know I haven’t already?”
“Yeah? What’s your pseudonym?”
“Magic Michael.”
I fight to stop my lips from curling, but I can’t. I let out a chuckle that leaves me vibrating on the cool ice. With a sincere smile, he holds out his hands. I stare at them again, at the safety they offer. Depending on someone is damn hard, especially when I know how hard the fall can be.
“You won’t let go this time?” I say.
He shakes his head, and his expression is sincere. “Not until you’re ready.”
“Promise?”
He crouches down so we’re eye level. There’s an air of authority about him, some sort of quality that makes you want to follow his lead. “This won’t work if you don’t trust me.”
Trust? Such a seemingly innocuous five-letter word.
I blow some of the strands that have fallen over my eyes out of my face and sit up, the wet ice melting under my butt. He has no idea what he’s asking. Or how impossible it is for me to say yes and mean it. A handsome jock with a cheeky smile and a rocking body? I’ve been here before. And that didn’t work out so well. But what choice do I have if I want to keep my ass out of jail?
Chapter 3
“Thanks for tonight,” I say as we approach the double exit doors.
“No problem. You’re much better than you were an hour ago.”
“I’m not completely untrainable. And I guess you’re a pretty good teacher.”
He lets out an exaggerated gasp. “Did that hurt coming out of your mouth?”
When I push on his arm, he meanders to the side before wheeling back over beside me.
“Night, kids,” the guy who was on the Zamboni says as he opens the door for us.
“Later, Gus.” Michael waves at him.
After we go through the doors, Michael pushes on them to check to see if they’re locked. When he’s satisfied, we keep walking until we reach a massive black SUV. I hadn’t noticed it earlier with all the other cars around.
He glances around the parking lot, and I can’t be sure what he’s looking for. “Did you drive here?”
“I got a cab. I crashed my car in twelfth grade, and my parents said they’d never buy me another one.”
“Huh. So it’s not just blades you can’t operate.”
“Shush. I wasn’t completely at fault.”
“Enlighten me.”
I scratch at my head and let out a breath. No one who knows the story agrees with me, but I know my truth. Still, I feel the need to argue my point every single time. “So…there was a bee.”
He lets out a full belly laugh, but then wipes off his smile and gives me a very serious face with bright eyes.
Jerk.
“And you’re allergic?” he adds. “Did you go into shock?”
“Have you heard this story before?”
“Absolutely not, but I’m dying to.”
“No, I’m not allergic, but I was bit by almost an entire hive when I was sixteen, and it sucked, so I freaked out and starting swatting at it…and when it stung me, I swerved the car and rolled it.”
He sucks his lips in.
“It’s not funny. I could have died.”
“No, it isn’t. Well…it wouldn’t have been, but now I know you’re okay, it’s funny.” He holds up his hand and puts his index finger and thumb together barely a half-inch apart. “Just a little bit.”
“The bee was the size of my foot, and I had emotional trauma for years.”
He lets out a long laugh, and if I wasn’t exaggerating, I might tell him off and storm away, but sometimes I have a flair for drama. I’m not a liar. It’s just my way of being funny sometimes. I never had any real emotional trauma from that accident. I drove my mom’s car a week later without hesitation. I lived in a small town with no busses, so it was either drive or spend lots of quality time in my room.
“I don’t doubt it.” He hitches a thumb over his shoulder to point to his car. “You want a ride?”
I shuffle on my feet and grip one of the skates hanging from my shoulder. The other one teeters behind me since their laces are tied at the ends to form a mock shoulder strap. Thick moisture hangs in the air like an invisible cloud. It might rain, or snow, any second. It’s late, and there are so many clouds out I can’t even see the moon. Without the lights from the rink, I likely wouldn’t be able to see Michael at all. I hate the dark. I’d rather get a c
ab, but how long would I have to wait? It’s only a ride, right? “Yeah, if you don’t mind.”
“Hop in.”
I’m not short, but I’m not exactly tall either. Regardless, climbing into this monster of an SUV takes some effort. This thing even has a little step to help me along. Inside, the car is more spacious than my dorm room. I lean back and tap my fingers on the armrests as I stretch my toes. I still have leg room left over.
“This is quite the car,” I say leaning forward and glancing into the back seat and hatch area.
“I didn’t pick it, but I don’t hate it.”
“Did your parents buy this for you?”
“Not a chance,” he says with a chuckle. “I don’t take their money. I won it playing that home lottery for the Halifax Hospital last year.”
“No shit?” I say after picking up my jaw. I thought lottery winnings were a myth. I’ve never known anyone who won one unless you count ten dollars on a scratch ticket.
“No shit,” he confirms. “I can barely afford the gas and insurance, but I can’t give her up. Maybe I will eventually, but I’d like to enjoy her for a good year first. At least.”
“No wonder you have to work. Maybe I should pay you for the lessons, too.”
“I couldn’t take your money. Helping the less fortunate is what I do,” he says with a smirk.
I roll my eyes at him. He’s not talking financially. Does he mean because I suck so bad on the ice? Or in life?
He puts the car in drive and rolls away. Smoothest ride of my life. Even as we pass over a speed bump, I barely feel it. He puts on the heat and angles the heaters in my direction. I didn’t even realize how cold I was until I feel the heat on my face and my ass cheeks start thawing. Brad was a gentleman, but when it came to the heater, he liked it on low. Always. He said the air would get thick, and he felt claustrophobic. I didn’t fight him much about it because I didn’t want him to be uncomfortable. It was a little thing. It didn’t mean much at the time, but thinking back...there were a lot of little things.
“You all right?”
I force a smile as I glance at him in the near darkness. The blue and red lights from the dash glow softly and make his blue eyes morph into a shade similar to denim.
“Yeah. Fine.”
He eyes me skeptically, but he doesn’t push me. Why would he? We barely know each other, and spilling my innermost feelings to him isn’t really what he’s looking for. Most people, when they ask if you’re okay, they want you to say yes, even if you don’t mean it. They’re praying you give them the answer they want. Sometimes I say no to be an asshole and give them a laundry list of problems. Serves them right. But this guy? He’s nice to me, so I guess I’ll be nice back.
“Where do you live?” he asks.
“Chaisson Hall.”
He turns off the main road into the entrance to the school. A big wooden rectangular sign announces Saint Martha’s University: Home of the Muskrats.
The school is built on a gentle sloping hill with the dorms in the middle, except for Sully, the co-ed dorm, mine, and McKenna House, which are way up the hill near the top. Sully is located around the back near the valley, so their noise and constant parties don’t disturb the rest of campus or the people in the old Victorian homes along the front and sides of the hill.
He slowly rolls up to the front of my residence and then comes to a halt. He puts the car in park as if he intends on staying a while. I feel his eyes on me while I glance at the front doors. A few girls I used to play intramural soccer with exit and narrow their eyes at the truck, trying to see who’s inside. This beast looks like it’s carrying dignitaries. It almost makes me laugh.
“Well, thanks again.”
“Sure.”
I open the door, but he calls out to me, and I stop with one foot on the step.
“Maybe we should exchange numbers. You know, so we can organize when we meet next?”
“Oh, right.” I pull my phone out of my back pocket and fire it up. It dings about ten times from text messages and emails.
Michael raises an eyebrow.
“My mother. She worries.” She doesn’t. She barely calls.
He nods, but I’m not an idiot. I know he doesn’t believe me.
Ding, ding, ding. “Holy shit.” I try and turn them off but they keep coming. Only a few of the dings are legit. Just Charlie checking in. The rest are emails and text messages from retailers, selling me stuff. I should probably be more careful about giving my email and number out, but I get sucked in all the time with free stuff over the internet. “I sure hope she doesn’t have the police out looking for you,” Michael says, pulling my attention back to him.
“Mm-hmm. That would be bad.”
“What’s your number?” I ask as I hold it up and stare at him expectantly.
“Here.” He holds out his hand and waves his fingers, asking me to give him my phone.
I hesitate but open my contact list so he can’t see anything else.
He taps the screen then says, “Oops. Didn’t mean to do that. Um…” He glances at me, smiling. “I’ll just get out of this screen.” He turns the phone to face me, and the Bulk Barn email slaps me in the face.
“They have good sales,” I say to justify.
“Hey, nuts are good. But you know sales are their thing, right? You buy in bulk to get better prices.”
“Are you going to put your number in my phone or chat with me about my newsletter subscriptions?”
“You subscribe to their email?”
I try to snatch his phone, but he bats my hand away. “I’m just teasing. Give me a minute.”
I back off and fold my arms over my chest. I want to be irritated by him, not because he did anything wrong but because I’m a touch embarrassed.
He taps in his number and gives it back to me. Then he hands me his. I stop at his screensaver, meeting his eyes for a moment. He shrugs. There’s an image of a bloodhound with floppy ears and droopy eyes. I raise an eyebrow in question.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “I guess I’ll talk to you soon.”
He mock salutes me before I close the door. After taking a couple of steps back, he drives away, and I train my gaze on his car until he disappears behind McKenna House, the adjacent male dorm.
I exhale loudly, and my breath turns to a soft cloud in front of me. With hunched shoulders, I turn and make my way inside my residence, hurrying through the door as someone holds it open for me. My roommate isn’t around, and though we’re not great friends, I wish we were. I loved rooming with Charlie. Being alone has never worked for me. It gives me too much time to think, and lately that means I focus on a lot of things I’d rather not. I attach my earbuds to my phone and slide into bed, pulling my covers up and over my head. With my favorite song from Thin Thieves playing loudly, I close my eyes and force myself to go to sleep.
* * *
When I wake, it’s early. Too early for me. I have my first appointment with Officer Erikson today, but I have two hours to kill before that happens. I can’t stay in bed any longer so I get up and shower and putter about for the next hour while watching some videos on the Internet. When I finally decide to get ready, I choose my most respectable outfit because I want to look like an upstanding citizen. Trousers and a blouse. Charlie would love this outfit. It’s a little boring for me. I like tight and I like sparkles. In tenth grade, my parents gave me a Bedazzler for Christmas. I rocked that bad boy like AC/DC did with Thunderstruck. Nothing I made was tacky, but pure genius. Like fastening gold glitter pieces shaped into letters on my clothes to spell out amazing sayings like It Ain’t Me, It’s You. I’m such a wordsmith.
After I get down the hill from my residence, it’s only a five-minute walk to get to the building. Officer Erikson sent me the address in an email with his contact information after I spoke to him on the phone. I probably could have found it on my own, though. That’s the beauty of living in a small university town. Everything is close.
The building looks like a renovated home-turned-business. I walk up the stairs and pull open the door, wiping my shoes on the mat when I get inside. The water heater hisses angrily behind a row of wooden chairs with thick padded seats. The small wait space is toasty warm, and I unwrap my scarf and jacket as I approach the receptionist. She wears a headset and talks while tapping on her keyboard. When I smile in greeting, she holds up a hand to tell me to wait.
It reminds me of another saying I once bedazzled, Oh, No She Didn’t. I hate hands in my face. It’s rude, but I keep the smile and pretend it’s all good. Calling her on it won’t change her, and I want to make a good impression here. These people are the gateway to my freedom.
She stops tapping and talking and looks up at me. “Can I help you?”
“Thank you for asking. I’m here to see Officer Matt Erikson.”
“Name?”
“Emily Hanes.”
She stretches over as far as her body will go and grabs a file. “Fill these out while you wait.”
“Thanks.”
All of the seats are free, save for one by the door. In that chair sits a man wearing ripped jeans and a T-shirt. He gives off a strong musky scent of body odor, and I sit a few seats down to avoid it. From the dirt and grime under his nails and on his arms, I wonder if he’s already worked a few hours this morning.
“You new?” he asks.
“Hmm?” I say, looking up from my papers.
He repeats his question.
“I guess. I mean, I’ve never had to do this kind of thing before.”
“Who’d they assign you?”
“Erikson,” I say.
“Oh, he’s all right. Cranky but fair. Had him my first time. Then I got stuck with Pratt.”
“And he’s not good?”
The guy’s face twist in disgust. “He’s a bastard. I think he wants me to break my conditions so he doesn’t have to deal with so many clients.”
