Page 51 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

“Where are we going?” I ask after a few minutes.

He grins without looking away from the road. “You’ll see.”

Fifteen minutes later, he pulls into a small, city-owned rink on the edge of town tucked behind a public park with faded signage.

I blink. “Jackson, what are we doing here?”

He tosses me a lopsided smile. “You told me you haven’t skated since you were in middle school.”

My heart flutters annoyingly at that. “You remember that?”

He shrugs, but his voice is quiet. “I remember a lot.”

He shuts off the engine and climbs out. I follow, the wind brushing cool across my cheeks. Inside, the building smells faintly of old rubber and ice, and the fluorescent lights buzz as we step inside.

Before I realize it, he’s handing me a pair of skates. “Come on. Humor me.”

Ten minutes later, I’m wobbling toward the ice like a baby deer. Jackson steps onto the rink with practiced ease. The contrast makes me want to back out entirely.

“It’s empty,” I murmur, glancing around.

Jackson shrugs. “Perk of showing up on a weekday morning. No school groups, no open skate crowd.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “At least no one else will see me fall.”

He holds out a gloved hand. “You trust me?”

I hesitate for half a second, then take it.

As I slide forward one cautious inch at a time, Jackson doesn’t let go. His grip is steady.

“You’re doing great,” he murmurs, guiding me along the edge.

I laugh. “You’re such a liar.”

“Maybe. But a supportive one.”

We circle slowly, my balance improving as I let myself lean into him, just a little. The rhythm is shaky, but I feel safe with himthere. There’s a moment where we glide almost in sync, and I forget to be embarrassed. He spins me gently by the waist, guiding me in a wide turn, when suddenly I lose my footing and lurch forward.

My heart rate spikes, but before I fall, his arm loops firmly around my back.

“Told you I’d catch you,” he murmurs.

My breath catches and I feel shivers run down my spine. His face is close, eyes warm, lips inches from mine.

I could kiss him.

But I don’t.

Instead, I straighten slowly, heart pounding.

“Thanks,” I murmur, not quite meeting his eyes.

He doesn’t push, just squeezes my hand once more before letting go.

We skate a few more laps. And every time he steadies me, every time he laughs or meets my gaze, the butterflies come alive in my stomach.

By the time we head out, I’m disappointed it’s over.