Page 11 of Date With Skates

I grew up in Wisconsin, and one of the things they have during the winter are frozen lakes to ice skate on. My skates were given to me on my sixth birthday by one of the social workers I had. She said it would be good for me to let off some energy. She wasn’t wrong. I stuffed my feet into those skates until I was nine, when one of the nicer foster families got me another pair. Those fit me until I was ten, when I was placed with my parents. They bought me new skates every year for my birthday without fail. Even after I went pro and didn’t need them to buy me anything. I always appreciated it, and I try not to think about the fact that I won’t get a pair when my birthday comes around this year. It’s not the lack of a gift that bothers me; it’s losing the tradition.

We skate on our side of the ice to warm up. As I go by the boards, I spot the guy I was talking to last night. I slow down to say hey, when I see who he’s with and almost smash right into Cottrell. He swerves out of the way, and I come to a stop.

I look at the guy I was talking to, then at Nico Laurent. At this point, he realizes I’m standing here and smiles at my confusion. He winks, hooking his arm into Nico’s and ushers him up the steps to their seats.

What the hell is going on?

I skate off, snatching a puck from one of the guys, and skating away to warm up. We take turns shooting into the net to warm up our goalie. Before I know it, the game is starting. Problem is that I keep looking up into the crowd.

Chapter Six

Étienne

Nico may be skilled on the ice, but I am skilled with people.

In the way that even though my heart is throbbing in my chest over the way Connor McVoy stared at me, I’m cool as a cucumber on the outside. Though even if I weren’t, I doubt Nico would realize. He’s completely infatuated with Roman Callahan, Connor’s defenseman partner. And when Roman isn’t around, he’s infatuated with himself.

But right now, wherever Roman is, Nico’s eyes follow.

It’s kind of cute. But also kind of sick.

I am fully engrossed in the game, and though I notice Connor a little more than the other players, I’m excited by the whole game, not just him. I see every hit taken, I know where the puck is at all times, and I jump to my feet every time Team USA scores.

Out of nowhere, Nico laughs.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

He’s gone from bored to heart-eyes, but nothing about this situation should be funny. It’s a serious game. It’s the freaking Olympics.

“Imagine me playing hockey?”

I narrow my eyes, wondering what the hell has gotten into his head. “One body check, and you’d be in a full body cast,” I say, dismissing any ideas of him changing sports.

He can’t be serious, right? He’d never make it out there with all those men. They’re twice his size, easily. Nico says nothing else about it, so I go back to watching the game.

USA wins 5-0. I watch them celebrate together and congratulate their goalie, one of my favorite things to watch. To me, it seems like they treat their goalies like a beloved pet. A Saint Bernard or other large breed dog. The personalities always seem to fit, and at the end of the game, they get head pats and “good boys.”

Okay, maybe the last part is just in my head, but it could happen.

“That’s impressive,” Nico comments as we get up from our seats. I scan the ice, looking for number 37. It’s like he knows I’m looking for him because we find each other at exactly the same time, our eyes locking like magnets.

“They’re a good team. I told you. Are we going to get food?” My words sound almost robotic, but Nico doesn’t notice. He’s always in his own world, never noticing much going on around him. He’d never survive on his own. Like the goalies, he’s also a beloved pet of sorts, but more along the lines of a Yorkshire Terrier.

“Do you do anything other than eat?” he mutters.

“You should enjoy food more,” I comment.

“I enjoy it as much as I need. But sure, we can go get food, but don’t get mad if I don’t eat anything.”

I walk down the steps slowly, following Nico and the rest of the crowd, my gaze on Connor until I can no longer see him. We’re all ushered out of the arena.

We take the bus back to the Village and go right to the dining hall. I don’t know how Nico is so strict with food. I feel like I can never get enough of it. Eating is one of my favorite things to do. I get a pasta dish that looks good, while he gets only a bottle of water. We find a table to sit at, and we chat while I enjoy my delicious food.

Two women hockey players interrupt us and ask to sit at our table, and of course we agree. We’re here to mingle and meet other athletes. The girls speak French, which I am fluent in, so we carry on a conversation in French. Nico gives me a confused look now and then because even though it’s the only language our grandparents speak, and our parents speak it better than English, he doesn’t have the brain capacity to remember it.

I talk with the girls for a while, asking them all kinds of questions about women’s hockey and how it is to be here. They’re thrilled, of course. Their team is doing really well.

I interpret for Nico sometimes, but not often. He isn’t interested, and I learned long ago it’s best to leave him be. If he wants to know something, he’ll ask.