Page 39 of Fake Skating

“ I’m picking out a book for you this time, Collins.”

“Okay,” I agreed, because I was curious to see what he’d choose.

“But don’t even look toward romance,” he said, pulling me further into the store. “We’re going to history.”

“You’re not going to make me read nonfiction, are you?” I asked, thinking for the hundredth time since I’d shown up at the Rainforest Cafe that he looked insanely handsome.

Those glasses, that shirt—he was almost too pretty to look at.

“You’re going to Harvard next year—you can handle it.”

I kind of wished he hadn’t brought that up. I was still working my ass off because I refused to give up, but the not knowing weighed on me. I’d wanted to go there for so long that it felt like if I didn’t get in, I wouldn’t even know who I was anymore.

Which was weird, especially when I didn’t even know specifically what I wanted to study, but I’d made it my entire identity, so failure wasn’t an option.

“I didn’t say I can’t handle it,” I said. “I just like escapism.”

“But books about history are interesting enough that they often feel like fiction,” he said. “Come on.”

“Says you.”

“That’s right says me ,” he said, tugging on my arm a little.

God.

When he used that teasing voice and literally pulled me around, it messed with my head.

Because most of the time, Alec was Zeus, the cocky smart-ass who spoke in sarcasm and kept me at a distance. He was the guy who’d ghosted me, the guy I tolerated for the sake of our mutually beneficial ruse.

But sometimes his hockey-god mask slipped a little, and I got a glimpse of someone who reminded me a lot of the boy I used to know.

And it gave me whiplash.

Who had I kissed? Was it Zeus the Untrustable, or Alec?

He led me over to the history section and proceeded to behave like a professor, familiar with nearly every topic on the shelves. He walked around, pulling out hardcovers and paperbacks like he spent every weekend shopping at Barnes & Noble, and it was a little too attractive.

A hockey player with glasses and a big fat brain?

A girl could faint from that shit.

“I’m impressed, Barczewski,” I said, because I so was.

“And you thought I was a stupid jock who can’t read,” he said.

“Yeah, now I just think you’re a stupid jock,” I teased.

“You do not, don’t lie, Collins,” he said with a wink.

A wink that did things to my stomach.

Knock it off!

“Do you know how badly I wanted to punch you in the face when you winked at me during my first speech class?”

“What?” He coughed out a surprised laugh. “Seriously?”

“Yes,” I said, still a little outraged as I remembered. “After pretending you didn’t know me the day before and then walking around school like an obnoxious jerk, you had the gall to look down at me and wink. You’re lucky you didn’t get your face scratched off.”

“I was being charming,” he said, grinning unrepentantly.

“You were being a douche,” I corrected.

“Come on, let’s not fight, baby,” he teased, his voice deep and quiet as he grinned down at me.

“Baby?” I said with a laugh, my stomach flittery as he looked at me like I was someone he was allowed to call baby .

“Do you prefer honey ?” he asked, lowering his voice even more. “What’s your favorite pet name, Goldilocks?”

What is happening? I thought as I scrambled to remember my actual name.

“How about we go with Collins,” I said, embarrassed by how out of breath I sounded.

His flirty grin slipped away and he cleared his throat.

Gave a nod.

“Yeah, that’s perfect,” he said, his jaw flexing before he gave another nod. “Let’s take a bookstore picture, Collins , so we can get on with it.”

“Good idea,” I said, working hard to pull off a smile as I took out my phone to grab a selfie. In an instant, things between us felt tense and awkward again, which was probably why I failed to notice the three steps behind us that led to the store’s coffee shop.

I missed the step and stumbled, but Alec had quick reflexes. His long arm shot out and he pulled me back, but when he did, he let out a loud noise like a groan, and then he stopped, holding his arm.

“What happened?”

He gave his head a little shake and said through clenched teeth, “Nothing. Hang on. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” I said slowly. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he bit off, obviously in a lot of pain. His left hand was clamped over his right shoulder like he was holding it in place.

“Is it your arm or your shoulder?” I asked, stepping closer as he stood there, clutching his arm with a grimace on his face.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath, then managed, “It’s my shoulder, and I’ll be fine in a second.”

His face was bright red, like the pain was killing him, and I noticed a couple of people in the coffee shop looking at him.

I touched his good arm and gently moved him toward the hallway that led to a back area.

“What happened?” I asked as soon as we were out of foot traffic.

“It’s nothing,” he said, but his jaw was clenched and it seemed like he was struggling to even form words. “I hurt my shoulder a few games ago, and sometimes if I raise my arm too high or in a bad direction, it messes with me.”

“What can I do?” I asked, because he was still growling out words instead of speaking. “Do you need some Motrin, or do you want me to go get some ice?”

“It’ll be better in a sec,” he said. “But thanks.”

“Is it, like, a muscle pull or a strain or something?” I remembered Grandpa Mick telling him to ice his shoulder—was this the same injury? “What’d the doctor say?”

“It just needs to heal—fuck me ,” he ground out. “It’s going to be a little touchy for a few days.”

He could barely speak, so it seemed like more than “a little touchy” to me, which was saying something, because he’d always had a high tolerance for pain.

He’d giggled about his black eye, for God’s sake.

But right now he looked like he was suffering, and I hated it.

“Is there something maybe we can get to help?” I asked, wanting to do something—anything—to make him look less… terrible. My stomach hurt as I watched him swallow hard. “My grandma used to use, like, Aspercreme on her arthritic knee.”

“Sometimes I use Icy Hot,” he said, and I could tell that it was starting to feel marginally better. He was speaking more and grunting less. “I don’t know if it actually helps or if it just convinces my brain it’s helping.”

“Okay, well, you stay here and I’m going to run down to the Walgreens by the food court.”

“The pain is in my shoulder,” he said, and he almost looked like he might smile. “I can manage walking.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he said, and then he did smile. “This isn’t new, so you don’t need to look so freaked out. I deal with this every day.”

“Oh my God, you do?” How awful. “How long has this been bugging you?”

“A few weeks,” he said. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” I said, carefully grabbing his good arm, gently pulling him alongside me.

I didn’t know what kind of an injury this was, but he shouldn’t be in this much pain.

Something wasn’t right, and I was going to lose it if his face didn’t go back to looking…

not like this . “Let’s go get you some Icy Hot, but a few weeks isn’t okay, Alec. ”

What if it was serious? Could something be broken?

We didn’t say anything as we walked to the Walgreens, which thank God was close. We went right to the Icy Hot—he obviously knew where it was located within the store—and I pointed to another product. “Have you tried these?”

I read the back of the lidocaine patch and said, “Not only does it mess with the temperature to trick your brain like Icy Hot does, but it works on the nerve, so it might be better, actually.”

“Yeah, no,” he said, not even considering it.

“What do you mean, ‘no’? Why wouldn’t you try it? Do you like being in pain?”

“For fuck’s sake, Dani, just trust me on this.”

“But it doesn’t make sense,” I said, not wanting to be a nag but wanting him to feel better. “Why not do both? Put the patch on the worst part, then use Icy Hot around—”

“I can’t put on the patch, okay?” he snapped.

“Wait, what?”

“When it gets like this,” he explained quietly, “it’s all about the motion of my shoulder.

I could go play hockey right now and it’d be tolerable, but lifting my arm to take off my shirt is going to destroy me.

I can go at it from the other side when I put on Icy Hot, but I can’t put on a patch without taking off my shirt. ”

Ohhhhh. I cleared my throat and said, “I’ll help you.”

He just raised an eyebrow, which made me roll my eyes and say, “I’ve already seen you in the locker room and managed to control myself, so I’ll be fine—let’s buy the patch.”

I was impressed by how casually I said it, because I was freaking out.

Seriously spiraling.

On the one hand, my stomach was in knots, because seeing him like this was just, like, too much. The way his jaw was hard and his Adam’s apple kept bobbing and his forehead was creased: He was in so much pain, and I needed to find a way to fix it. To help him.

But at the same time, at the very same freaking time, I was out here saying things like I’ll help you and offering to apply first aid to his naked, muscular (and injured) shoulder when I was still losing my shit over the way he’d kissed me at the PNA.

Because he hadn’t given me a normal kiss.

I’d had normal kisses before, and whatever that’d been was the opposite of normal.

It’d been competitive and athletic and sexy and bossy and domineering, and it kind of pissed me off, in a way, because I’d loved every terrible, magical, holy shit thing about it.

What the hell is wrong with me?

My eyes were on the floor as we went over to the checkout, but when I raised them, I could see that he was still in a lot of pain. His jaw was like stone and there was a red flush on his cheekbones.

Although compared to his reaction when he’d stopped me from falling on my ass, it was a big improvement.

As soon as we walked out of Walgreens, my heart started beating a little too fast.

It’s just first aid—chill out.