Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 104498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Lennon’s surprisingly coordinated for someone who can’t even dance. He puts his arms wide and pulls himself into a spin.
Who knew that nerd could be so graceful?
As I think that, he loses his balance and almost falls.
I turn back to Damon and deadpan. “I’m scared.”
Distracted by the thrill of being back on the ice, I don’t notice Jet still off to the side. He’s in the stands, biting his bottom lip.
I skate over to him. “Never skated before?”
He shakes his head.
“Didn’t you used to work as a game DJ for Ollie’s team?”
“I know I sucked at that job, but I didn’t realize I was so shit that I was supposed to do it on the ice and not in the booth.”
“Smartass. I mean you had to be around the rink a lot. You never skated?”
“Didn’t know how to.”
I hold out my hand. “Come on. I’ll take you around.”
“If I break an arm, my label will be pissed.”
“If you break an arm, I’ll be pissed. I kinda like your arms.”
Jet grimaces. “That’s a weird thing to say.”
“You’re a weird thing to say.”
He’s holding back laughter, I can tell. “Who’s supposed to be the mature one here?”
“Age has nothing to do with maturity. Look at those two.” I point to Talon and Miller who are skating around competently, Miller behind Talon and holding his waist while Talon holds his arms out screaming, “I’m king of the world!”
“Point taken.” Jet takes a hesitant step toward the ice. “You won’t let me fall?”
My fingers intertwine with his. “Never.”
He doesn’t need to know I mean in general.
The first step onto the ice is shaky, and he tries to overcompensate by leaning forward, which makes him fall into me.
My free arm goes around his back. “See. I’ve got you.”
And what I’ve realized is this is a total loophole in the whole “no touching Jet in front of his brothers” rule.
As much as I’d love to have the ice to ourselves, this is the next best thing—holding his hand under the excuse of not letting him fall.
I pull back and trail my hand down Jet’s arm, joining our fingers on that hand too.
Skating backward, I pull Jet along with me.
His eyes are wide and terrified, and he keeps glancing between me and his feet.
“Look at me,” I say.
He does.
“Trust me.”
“How can I when you’re going backward and not even looking?”
“I do this for a living. Plus, we’re skating at a snail’s pace. If I hit anything, we’re not going to fall.”
Jet lets me pull him along for a lap or two, but whenever I suggest he push with his feet, he says, “I’m good with this.”
He’s got good balance, only wobbling on occasion. He could easily pick up the basics, but while he’s touching me and staring into my eyes, I’m good with just doing this too.
After a few more laps, Jet stops alternating looking between me and the ground and glances at the others who have all picked up a little more skill thanks to Ollie. Whether he’s showing them how to skate or taunting them so their egos and competitive natures come out to make them focus harder, I’m not sure.
“Okay, I want to skate now,” Jet says.
I grin. “You are skating.”
“I want to learn to skate on my own.”
“What you want to do is put weight on your right foot and push backward. Bring it back to center. Then do the same with the left.”
He takes instruction well, and as suspected, he picks it up easily, but he’s still overcompensating and almost falling at times.
If I was anything like my father while he was teaching me to skate, I’d tell Jet falling is a part of hockey, so he should do it and get it out of the way.
If it weren’t for my Canadian pride coursing through my veins, I’m sure I would’ve grown up terrified of the ice after the way my dad coached me.
He was the typical tough love kind of dad. Huge hockey fan. Would’ve gone pro himself if he had the talent, which he liked to complain about all the time. He had skills, and he was a great coach, but the NHL wasn’t his fate.
He coached my high school team, and after I made it to the NHL, he took the chance at private coaching, using my rep to gain clients.
He’s retired now, he and mom living the relaxed life of a retired couple, traveling the world.
“What are you smiling at?” Jet asks.
I’m smiling? “I’m thinking how lucky you are that I take after my mom. If I was like my dad, I’d leave you in the middle of the ice and tell you to get yourself back to the gate.”
Jet wobbles again. “But you won’t, right?”
I pull him closer to me so fast that he doesn’t have time to freak out or register that he might fall. My arm goes around his back, and I hold him to me. “I promised I wouldn’t, and I don’t make empty promises.”