Page 49 of Faking the Goal

"You say that with a lot of confidence for someone who just had to catch me."

"I won't let you fall."

There's no teasing in his voice, just that usual calm certainty of his, and for some stupid reason, that makes me loosen my death grip on his hands a little.

I try another step.

Then another.

Kentaro keeps moving backward in front of me, his hands wrapped securely around mine while I concentrate on keeping both feet underneath me.

Being this close also gives me a much better look at him than I usually get. There's a faint scar above his right eyebrow I've never noticed before, and his eyes aren't nearly as dark as I always thought. They're hazel, more green around the edges and brown closer to the center.

And he smells good.

Of course he fucking does.

Clean, a little woodsy, mixed with the cold scent of the rink. Apparently being irritating in almost every other conceivable way wasn't enough. He also had to smell good while doing it.

"You've seriously never skated before?" he asks after a while. "Not even rollerblades when you were a kid?"

"Nope. Never had the chance."

"Why not?"

I look down at our feet, concentrating on sliding one skate forward without taking us both down.

"That's the beauty of growing up in the system. One foster home to another."

His hands tighten slightly around mine.

I shrug. "Some kids get lucky. They end up with good families and get to stay long enough to do normal kid stuff. I moved around too much for any of that."

I say it casually because that's how I learned to talk about foster care a long time ago. Keep it simple. Don't make it sad. Don't give people enough details to start looking at me like I'm something they need to feel sorry for.

I wasn't miserable every second of my childhood. Some homes were decent. Some foster parents were kind. They just never lasted.

And neither did I.

Maybe luck was making its rounds back then and kept forgetting my address.

Wouldn't be the first time.

"I never learned to ride a bike either," I add with another shrug. "Or rollerblade. Or a bunch of other stuff most kids learn before they hit puberty."

Kentaro goes quiet.

"It's fine," I tell him. "I never really cared about skating anyway."

That's a lie.

I used to watch kids ice-skating on TV whenever Christmas movies came on, holding their parents' hands while they wobbled around the rink. I always wanted to try it.

But I think what I wanted had less to do with the skating and more to do with having someone there to teach me.

Someone who'd hold my hand when I was scared.

Someone who'd catch me when I fell.