Page 73 of Gave Proof Through the Night

I file that one away too, right next to the blindfold permission thing. Because it’s true, actually. I’ve watched it happen more than once now. At the festival when a vendor comped his corn on the cob. During the parade when children were so thrilled to see him they cried. And now a facilities guy unlocking an entire professional hockey rink after hours because Jeremiah Precio asked nice. He’s basically a male Ivy except people don’t do him favors because he’s got leverage on them. They do it because they like him, immediately and completely.

He crosses to the boards where two pairs of skates wait in a neat row, laces looped over the blades, and picks up the smaller pair.

“These are yours.”

I look at the skates. I look at him. I look at the skates again.

“Wait.” I hold up a hand. “You expect me to skate?”

“That was the whole plan, yeah.”

“Nah, I’m good. I’ll just sit here and watch you.”

He gives me a flat look. “You can watch me tomorrow night when I win the game. Tonight is for you.”

“I will fall flat on my face.”

He drops down on one knee in front of me. “Give me your foot.”

I do as I’m told and he slips off my sneaker, then slides the skate on my foot and starts lacing.

“Every little girl needs a skating rink birthday party,” he says as he tightens the laces. “Next foot.”

“That’s really tight.”

He winks. “Ankle safety.”

“How do you know my shoe size?”

He wags his brows.

“Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

He ties off the lace, double-knots it, pats my ankle like the job’s done.

Then he sits beside me to start lacing his own, entirely too pleased with himself.

I stare at him.

“I must tell you I have never once in my life stood on a blade.”

“First time for everything.” He’s already got one skate laced, tugging the top hook tight, quick and sure, the same focus he probably brings to actual games. When he looks up and catches me staring at him with my arms crossed, something in his face shifts, softer, more sure of itself. “Come on, Dangerous. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

He knows exactly which button to push.

“Try standing.”

I try standing. I immediately understand why ice skating is a sport and not a hobby.

My ankles buckle inward, my arms windmill, and Jeremiah catches me under both elbows before I can introduce my face to the floor.

“Whoa. Hey. I’ve got you.”

He guides my hands on the ice, positions himself half a step ahead, skating backward while I hold onto him for dear life. “Bend your knees. Weight forward. Small pushes, don’t try to run on it.”

I take small pushes. I fall twice, catch myself on the boards once, and swear at the ice in three languages I don’t actually speak, just approximate badly. But by the fifth lap around the near half of the rink, something clicks, some ancient lizard-brain balance system finally boots up, and I stop death-gripping his forearms quite so hard.

“There,” he says, grinning. “Look at you.”