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ANDY

Y OU READY TO take your hockey knowledge to the next level? Jack announces when I arrive at the rink. He’s even more energetic and self-assured. It’s like a nature show: Here we see the college hockey player in his natural habitat, the arena.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, I say.

It’ll be great. You’ll get a sense for what it’s like out on the ice. Jack peers at me. Hey, no glasses tonight.

No, I usually wear contacts if I’m doing some kind of exercise. I assume I’ll get sweaty tonight, although not as sweaty as post-game Jack.

He keeps staring, until I nudge him. Are we going inside?

Jack blinks. Oh, sorry. This way. He leads the way to a back door, which has been propped ajar with a brick.

Nice security system, I mutter. It’s a chilly October night, and I’d rather be snuggled under my afghan, but Jack said this was the only time the ice was available. The arena looks much bigger when it’s empty. The emergency lights emit an eerie glow.

I shiver. This looks like the setting for a horror movie. A couple sneaks into the rink to skate and gets killed by a guy in a goalie mask.

You have a lot of imagination. Jack motions for me to sit beside him on the players’ bench, and we put on our skates. Besides, isn’t the couple usually making out when they get killed?

Is that an offer? the lower half of my body wonders, but I silence it. Yes, because Hollywood likes to teach that teen sex leads to death.

Not my experience, he replies, because of course. He’s undoubtedly had teen sex in multiple rinks and never been murdered.

I tighten up the laces of my ancient figure skates, but one breaks. Oh no.

Don’t worry, I’ve got this. Jack kneels in front of me to knot my lace together.

As I take in the sight of him between my thighs, I wonder if he likes to go downtown.

Bryce was not a fan, but I insisted on quid pro quo if he wanted blow jobs.

Still, Bryce seemed to have some kind of oral sex timer, which was set to: stop before Andy comes.

Jack finishes lacing up my skate and pats my ankle. Good as new. Or as close as we’ll get. When were these skates made? The seventies?

Ha ha. It may be true that I got these skates when I was thirteen, but they still fit. Jack’s skates look brand new and futuristic. Do you get sponsored equipment?

Nah, I’m not that good. Well, sometimes a rep might pass on some sticks for the team to try back in junior. But I’m not sure what happens here. College hockey has a lot more rules.

He opens the bench door and glides onto the ice. He completes a circuit of the ice in the time it takes me to lace up my other skate. As soon as I stand, he’s back.

Let me help you. He holds out his hand, switching from rambunctious puppy to guide dog.

I can do it, I retort. But as soon as I step onto the ice, my arms windmill and I start to fall. Jack catches me and stands me back up.

I glare. Thanks. You have amazing reflexes. Except for the boob grab part. Which felt alarmingly good.

Sorry. That really was an accident. He tries not to laugh. Well, at least one of us enjoyed it. Let’s go.

It’s been a while since I’ve been on skates, so it takes a few laps until I feel comfortable. Jack skates along beside me.

Where did you learn to skate? he asks.

On a lake back home. My dad used to take me when I was little. Then I did a year of figure skating. My parents hoped I might be the next Michelle Kwan or something.

Are your parents athletic? he asks.

No idea. I’m adopted, I explain.

Oh. Interesting.

When he doesn’t ask anything else, I plow on.

My parents are both white. I was adopted as a newborn.

I don’t know anything about my birth mother except that she was a Japanese student who was living in Minneapolis at the time.

My whole life I’ve imagined many different versions of my mother.

After meeting exchange students here I have a more realistic sense of how difficult it is to come to a foreign country with the heavy expectations of your family.

Jack skates backwards and watches me carefully.

I have no idea about my bio dad, except he was obviously Asian too.

Over the years, I’ve created many scenarios.

Maybe my mother turned to another exchange student for familiar comfort?

Or did she seek an Asian American man fully conversant in all the Western ways?

Why yes, I do have too much imagination.

Jack swivels gracefully and skates beside me. I feel the warm touch of his hand on my shoulder, and look up in surprise.

Don’t feel sad, he says.

What? Do I look sad?

Yeah. He motions to his face. You get this look. Like your thoughts are weighing you down.

Jack surprises me once again with his sensitivity. He keeps escaping the jock box I’ve put him in. Maybe that’s why I’m oversharing. Hey, nice guy who seems to be interested in me, here’s all my emotional baggage, so you can change your mind before it’s too late.

He keeps his hand on me until I stumble and break our contact. I miss his touch immediately, which inspires more confessions.

Thanks for not bugging me with a million questions when I told you I was adopted.

Like what? he asks.

Oh, you know, asking if I’ve tried to find my birth mother. Or if I’ve gone to Japan. My verbal diarrhea is like the opposite of flirting. I could star in the remake of How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days .

I already know you haven’t gone there, he replies.

How?

You said you’ve never used your passport.

Oh, wow. I forgot I even mentioned that. Do you remember everything everyone says to you?

Not everyone. His admission warms me like a hug.

It doesn’t take a psychology degree to recognize that my reporter’s instinct for truth is tied to my own uncertain history. But I’m not going there now. Being on the ice is a good distraction, since I have to concentrate on not falling on my face.

It’s beyond irritating that you can skate backwards better than I can skate forwards, I say.

He chuckles. Ah, now there’s the crabby Andy that we all know and love. Now that you’re warmed up, it’s time for stage two. I’ll be right back. He skates off and disappears down the hallway to the locker rooms. I haven’t even completed one lap before he skates towards me with two hockey sticks.

Jack looks like he was born to skate. His hair floats away from his face as he dips and turns with the grace of a ballroom dancer. While I’m struggling not to fall, the ice seems to rise to meet his skates. I can see glimpses of the joy he felt after scoring a goal.

Then he breaks the spell by handing me a hockey stick.

Okay, here’s the smallest stick I could find, although it’s still way too long. Too bad there are no kids’ sticks around.

Oh, thanks, I huff.

What? Is it a surprise to find out you’re short? he teases.

I huff. I am 5’3”, which is almost the average height for women. You’re the one who’s freakishly tall. Everyone on the team is big. Jack is even taller on skates, and he looms over me.

Size matters in hockey. Then he winks at me. In other things too.

That would be the only part of you I haven’t seen. Again, the lower half of my body takes control of my mouth. I can’t flirt, but apparently I can ask for dick pics—while turning bright pink. It’s a miracle I’ve ever dated at all.

But Jack rolls with my awkwardness. He grins and replies, That can be arranged, Andy. Anytime.

Why is easy-going Jack acting so confident and in-charge at the rink? And why am I getting turned on by it? Not having any answers, I concentrate on trying to hold the stick properly. Or at all.

He motions towards the net. Okay, skate that way and back. As fast as you can.

The skating is easy, but the stick feels awkward in my hands. Jack, of course, moves even more smoothly with a hockey stick.

He skates towards the net with a puck, finishing up by shooting it into the net. He spins and passes another puck to me. Your turn.

This is even harder. The puck, which clung magnetically to Jack’s stick, seems to have a mind of its own.

My skating strides turn into more of a duck walk as I nudge the puck down the ice.

When I whack the puck into the net, the momentum causes me to pitch forward, falling on my knees. Could I be any worse at this?

At least Jack doesn’t laugh at me. I scramble up and brush snow off myself. Fine, I get your point. It’s a lot harder than it looks.

Oh, we are not done. Not by a long shot. He grins at me. Come back here. He’s waiting in the middle of the rink, and I skate back.

Look, I understand. You’re showing me step by step how hard hockey actually is. Can we just skip to the end? I don’t really mind the lesson, but being alone with Jack is starting to feel too intimate, especially now that he’s lost all his awkward goofiness.

Despite Dawn’s urging, I can’t change the way I talk to Jack. We banter and insult, and I can’t flip a switch to be more flirtatious and feminine. Unlike Jack, whose flirtatiousness meter is set to max.

He ignores my protests, gently taking me by the shoulder and pointing me at the net. Imagine this. The arena is full of people. They’re cheering, and they really want you to score a goal. Or you’re at an away game, and the crowd hates you and wants you to mess up.

Got it, I say.

No, close your eyes and really imagine it.

Ugh, you’re so bossy.

But I do it. I close my eyes and pull on the memories of all the games I’ve been to lately. The noise, the excitement, the tension. It would be easier without the warm touch of Jack’s hands on my shoulders.

He continues, Now, pretend you’re skating towards the goal with the puck. But someone’s chasing you, so you have to go your fastest. You’re going to try to score…

My eyes are still closed as I visualize. Then he’s so close I can feel his hot breath on my ear. And I’m going to stop you.