Page 42 of Fake Skating

“It’s all about anticipation, kid.”

“Okay,” I said, nodding, even though I truly had no idea what that meant.

“You don’t know what that means, do you?” Grandpa Mick asked, squinting because the sun was setting behind me.

Not that it was doing its job.

So freaking cold.

“No idea,” I admitted, clouds of frozen breath puffing in front of my face as I pulled Alec’s hat down a little lower on my forehead.

I’d been foolish enough to casually mention boot hockey to my mom and grandpa via text, and before I knew what was happening, Grandpa Mick was picking me up from school and I was on my way to some random guy’s backyard pond to train.

Apparently, according to them, I needed to “not embarrass the family.”

Which made me roll my eyes but also have some kind of feelings about the sentiment, because I’d never felt like I had “family” to embarrass before.

So now I’d been freezing my ass off in Bilch’s backyard for an hour, but I was having a surprisingly good time running around in the near-dark with my grandpa.

“All right, think about it like this,” he said, leaning on his stick. “In hockey you have speed, but in boot hockey you don’t. It’s small and slow and kind of clumsy.”

“So the sexiest sport,” I said, grinning.

“Sure,” he said, rolling his eyes at me . “So you don’t want to go too fast and overcommit. If you don’t time your slide, you can actually hustle too much.”

“I would never overhustle, Grandpa, I swear on my life.”

“Yeah, I can see that about you,” he said, giving me one of his begrudging half smiles. “You could take a lesson on hustling from the Barczewski kid. He’s only got one speed.”

The Barczewski kid.

Ugh.

I’d been working so hard at not thinking about him, at trying to constantly remind myself it was all pretend.

Because I’d fallen, God help me .

I felt a million real feelings for him and I needed to get them in check.

The kiss, the hand-holding, the tension-filled patch application—it was all part of the game, but it all swam around in my brain like the very best memories of my very real boyfriend.

Which they weren’t, and he wasn’t.

It might feel like we were both feeling things, but that wasn’t factual.

So now I’d shifted to being mentally proactive. When we were together, I reminded myself over and over again—in my head—that it was fake. And when he held my hand, I reminded myself that he was just acting.

Because even if he wasn’t always pretending— which he was —I was going away to college in a few months and he was going to be hockeying somewhere.

Only a fool would start something that wasn’t going to last.

“Quit daydreaming,” Grandpa Mick said, sending the ball in my direction.

“For the record, I’m very disappointed that we play with a ball. I was really looking forward to hitting a puck.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing you hit anything ,” he quipped.

I swung my stick, hitting the ball as hard as I could.

Grandpa Mick didn’t even move.

He just stuck out his stick and stopped it.

“You suck,” I said, laughing.

“No, you suck,” he said, laughing too.

He ran me through more exercises, trying to improve my stick handling, but I really did suck, and then his buddies—Kris and Mel—showed up to watch.

“Why don’t you guys make yourselves useful,” my grandpa said, “and get your asses out here.”

“Two-on-two?” the one with the long white beard asked, smiling like he’d never wanted to do anything more.

It only took a minute, and suddenly we were in a game, my grandpa and me playing against the two old dudes.

“Control the puck,” my grandpa yelled from the other end of the ice.

“I’m trying,” I yelled back as Mel and Kris ran around on the ice as if they weren’t senior citizens.

“If you manage to get it, just haul ass toward the goal and keep your head up,” Grandpa Mick instructed as I swung my stick and tried getting at the ball.

“But I can’t see the ball if my head is up,” I said.

“Don’t say that shit out loud, for fuck’s sake,” he yelled, laughing.

“And don’t call it a ball,” Mel said in outrage.

I ran around chasing those guys, but I had nothing on them.

Which meant I was going to have nothing on Alec and his friends.

“You didn’t do too bad, kid,” my grandpa said when we came off the ice.

“That’s a lie and you know it,” I said, shaking my head. “I just got my ass kicked by some old guys.”

“And your grandpa,” he added, his mouth actually turning up into a legitimate smile.

God, I’ve missed that so much.

“Hey, you guys,” I said to his buddies, “will you take a picture of us?”

“What for?” Grandpa Mick asked, looking surprised.

“I just want to send Alec a picture. He’s going to lose his mind when he sees who’s teaching me boot hockey.”

That made him laugh, and something in my heart felt warm and full when I put my arm around Grandpa Mick’s shoulders and we grinned, together, for the photo.

I texted it to Alec with the caption: Check out who’s teaching me boot hockey.

His response was almost immediate.

Alec: Damn, Collins. BADASS.

Me: Right??

Alec: Also I like the braids.

I was positive he was saying that in character— he’s just pretending, he’s just pretending— but even so, the comment made me feel a little gooey.

Me: Prepare to see them whip past you tomorrow when I break free with a clapper.

I wasn’t sure if I got the slang right, because he just responded:

Alec: That is the most adorable thing you’ve ever said to me.