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When the credits roll, he says, “I have an idea for our next date. Something you owe me.”
I arch a brow. “I owe you now?”
“You offered me a raincheck.”
Oh. Right. When he asked me to skate. I actually haven’t been on skates in a year. No particular reason. I’ve just been busy. “You were serious about that?”
He holds my gaze, his blue eyes intense. “I’m serious about everything when it comes to you.”
Talk about subtext.
My heart catches then speeds up, beating too fast for my chest. How is this man my former nemesis and nowhe’s romancing me like no man has romanced a woman before?
“Yes,” I say, then I tug down his gray sweats and show him how much I appreciate him sneaking down to my room.
We return with a win and some good media coverage, including a feature on Wesley Bryant. Feeling accomplished, I get ready for my next secret date with Max. It’s Wednesday evening, and I slip into the new lingerie I bought for him the other night, looking at myself in the mirror in the white lace before I put on a sweater. It’s my morning ritual but I’m doing it before our evening date.
I don’t do it because I need to, but because I want to. Maybe, too, because I believe in my mantra now. Completely. “I am pretty and powerful,” I say, and I believe it.I am pretty and powerful.
But it’s not because of how I look in lace.
It’s because of what I can do with my body.
I have a body that’s strong. That can climb a pole. That hangs onto it while letting go at the same time. I have a body that takes me to work, up stairs, around the city, and out with friends.
I have a body with a wild, beating heart.
And tonight, I can use this body on the ice.
I walk into the rundown rink on the outskirts of Oakland with Max. It’s empty. The quiet is serene. “No one’s here,” I say, stating the obvious.
“I rented it out for the night,” he says. “I get to have you all to myself.”
And my heart somehow impossibly beats faster. If he keeps doing this, I’m going to…
Actually, I don’t know what I will do. I truly don’t, and it’s a little terrifying. But then again, so is ice skating so I focus on that.
“This is ridiculous,” I shout, feeling like a baby foal as I try to glide down the ice alongside the man who could truly do this in his sleep.
“You’ve got this,” he says, encouraging me as he spins around, so he’s now skating backward. In slow-mo. And doing it perfectly. Of course he does it perfectly. It’s literally his job.
“Why isn’t this like riding a bike?” I ask, my ankles wobbling.
“Hockey is the best sport there is because it’s hard. But if you can pole dance, you can skate.”
I laugh. “I’m pretty sure pole dancing and hockey have nothing in common.”
He shrugs. “They have us in common.”
This man.
Another minute or so later, I bend my knees and lean forward like I was taught to do.
“There you go,” he says with pride in his voice. “Now push off with one foot, glide on the other.”
It’s a basic move and I do it. Soon, I’m getting the hang of skating again. I’m pushing off with both feet and gliding with both skates on the ice.
“Beautiful,” he says.
