Page 7

Chapter seven

Nate

I don’t do well with chaos and have no experience with kids. Which is probably why Parker thought it’d be hilarious to volunteer me for a LifeSpark Kids skate session at the local community rink.

“Come on,” he said. “Just an hour. Kids love hockey players.”

He left out the part where said kids would be wiping out every three seconds, screaming with joy, and somehow managing to turn a simple skate into a demolition derby.

I step onto the ice in full gear with skates laced tight, helmet tucked under one arm, and gloves in hand. Within seconds, I instantly dodge a kid barreling past in a helmet too big for his head.

“Mr. Jones!” a volunteer waves from the boards. “Thanks again for coming!”

“No problem,” I call, plastering on a smile. “Glad to be here.”

Kind of.

A girl, maybe eight or nine, skates up to me with cheeks red from effort and a wobble in her stride. Her helmet slips slightly over her eyes.

“You’re the defenseman,” she says breathlessly. “The one that blocked that shot with your body.”

I grin. “That’s me.”

She beams. “I was watching with my family. My dad stood up and fist-pumped when you did that. Said you’ve got ‘old-school grit.’”

I bark out a laugh. “High praise. Tell your dad, thank you.”

She eyes me seriously. “Do you ever get scared to fall in front of everyone?”

I blink. Didn’t expect that.

“Yeah,” I admit. “Sometimes. But falling’s not the problem. It’s the getting back up part that counts.”

She tilts her head. “That’s what Miss Tracy says. She's my gym teacher."

“She sounds smart.”

“She wears sparkly sneakers,” the girl adds like it’s proof.

“Then she’s definitely smart.”

I guide her back to the other kids and watch as she joins a group trying to form a shaky conga line on skates. It’s chaos. Pure, loud, unfiltered chaos. But kind of… good.

“Hey, Jones!” Parker calls from across the ice. “You racing or just admiring the view?”

Before I can answer, a kid with a buzz cut and a competitive glint in his eye skates up. “I can skate faster than you.”

“Big talk, little man.”

He grins. “Bet I can beat Parker too.”

“Oh, now you’ve done it,” I say, and nudge him toward the center line. “Let’s go. On three.”

We race. I let him win. He knows I let him win. That makes it better.

Afterward, I kneel beside him while he catches his breath.

“You fast because of those skates?” he asks.

“Nope. I’m fast because of my stubbornness and I like to win.”

He laughs like that’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day.

"But I can do it because I practiced a lot, so I can skate fast and not get hurt," I add.

The boy's expression turns thoughtful, his gaze dropping to his skates. "I’m not really good at anything. Not like you guys."

I frown. “Who told you that?”

He shrugs, but the way he keeps his eyes down says enough.

“You know, I wasn’t always good at hockey,” I tell him. “First time I tried to skate backwards, I wiped out so hard, my coach thought I’d dislocated something. Turns out, it was just my pride.”

He chuckles.

“But I kept showing up. Every day. Even when I sucked. That’s the difference, man. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about showing up anyway and keeping at it.”

He glances up, brow furrowed. “My brother’s the good one. He plays all the sports. My mom always says I should be more like him.”

My chest tightens. “Yeah? What do you like?”

He shrugs again. “I dunno. Drawing, I guess. My grandma gave me this sketchpad, and I draw stuff from video games. Or like, cool buildings.”

I lean forward. “That’s awesome. You know how many hockey players wish they could draw something other than a stick figure? That’s a skill, not a backup plan.”

He blinks, surprised. “Really?”

“Hell yeah. And don’t let anyone make you feel like you’ve gotta fit their idea of what ‘good’ is. Being different isn’t bad. It’s just brave.”

His mouth tugs into a crooked smile.

“You think I could be brave?”

“You’re out here skating with a bunch of loud kids in the cold. That’s already pretty brave.”

He kicks at the ice with the toe of his skate, processing that.

“I don’t think my brother ever said that to me.”

I pause. “You ever say it to yourself?”

He shakes his head slowly.

“Well, say it now. Go on. Just once.”

He glances around like he’s afraid someone will hear. Then, under his breath, he mumbles, “I’m brave.”

“Didn’t hear you.”

“I’m brave,” he says again, louder.

“There it is.” I give him a light nudge. “Say that every morning, even if you don’t believe it yet. Eventually, you will.”

He nods, and something shifts in his eyes. I see it. That little flicker of belief starting to take root.

“You coming back next week?” he asks.

I smile. “If you are.”

He grins and skates off to rejoin the other kids.

Parker glides over beside me, brow raised. “You give him a Ted Talk while I wasn’t looking?”

“Just reminded him of something important.”

Parker claps me on the back. “You’ve got a thing with these kids, man. They listen to you.”

“Yeah, well. Someone’s gotta tell them they’re worth something. Might as well be me.”

A few minutes later, Parker and I wrangle a group of six kids to one end of the rink for an impromptu "turnaround clinic."

"Alright, troops," Parker announces dramatically. "Today’s mission: the art of not wiping out when the ice curves."

One kid raises his hand. "You mean like, turning without landing on our butts?"

"Exactly," I say, grinning. "We’re gonna show you how to cross one skate over the other and keep going around the curve without face-planting like a cartoon banana peel scene."

Parker demonstrates first, gliding smoothly through a tight circle and hamming it up by throwing in a twirl at the end.

"That twirl’s optional," I deadpan. "Unless you want to get roasted in the locker room."

The kids laugh as I take my turn, carving around the cones with a little more speed. "Key is to lean into it, not fight it. Bend your knees, cross that outside foot over, and trust the edge."

One girl falls immediately and throws her hands up. "I leaned into it, and it betrayed me!"

Parker skates over, mock solemn. "The curve is a fickle beast. But we shall conquer it."

They try again. And again. And by the third round, they’re starting to get it, and laughing the whole time.

We spend ten minutes doing nothing but loops and exaggerated turns, coaching through fits of giggles. It’s completely ridiculous, but it’s working.

When it’s time to wrap up, a few kids wave at me like we’re old friends. One even asks if they could give me a hug.

But inside, I’m hit with something heavier than I expected. The kind of ache that sits just below the surface.

When I was their age, I wasn’t skating for fun. I was skating to survive. Every city we moved to, every team I joined, it was always with one thing in mind...skate well to be accepted.

No one ever told me it was okay to fall.

As I sit on the bench and remove my skates, I glance back at the ice. The kids are still laughing. Still falling. Still getting up.

And for a second, I let myself think maybe this city’s doing something to me.

I like it here.

Too much, maybe.

My contract is one year. No guarantees.

But I’m starting to hope I get to stay.

That thought sticks with me as I head out of the rink, shove my hands into my pockets, and start the walk back toward home.

It's close to 9:00pm and cold and dark outside. As I round the corner near my building, I spot someone walking alone, head down, with her backpack slung low.

Mandy.

I cross the street without thinking. “Does the library kick you out when you start looking too stressed?” I call out.

Mandy startles, then grins when she sees me. “Only when I threaten to set fire to my flashcards. You know, normal Tuesday behavior.”

I fall into step beside her. She’s bundled up in a coat that still doesn’t look warm enough, her cheeks pink from the cold. “You walk back this late often?”

“Only when I lose track of time. The bar exam doesn’t care about personal safety.”

“You should text me next time. I’ll walk you,” I say without thinking.

She gives me a look. “So now you’re my bodyguard?”

I sneer. “Only if the job comes with a badge and the authority to arrest guys who look at you too long.”

Her laugh is low, a little tired, but real. “And Kira would absolutely turn it into a full-blown rom-com. She’d have popcorn, a fake Oscar ballot, and color commentary about your ‘sultry scowl.’”

We reach the block leading to our building. The air between us tightens with each step. It’s quiet, but not uncomfortable. She breaks the silence.

“I think my brain is going to liquefy. The reading. The practice tests. And every time I finally hit a groove, Kira starts blasting EDM or on the phone with her latest online match.”

“You know…” I glance sideways. “I have a spare room. It’s quiet. Has a desk. Decent lighting. You could study there if you need to.”

She blinks. “What?”

“I’m gone half the time. And even when I’m here, I’m not throwing house parties. You need a quiet place, and I’ve got one.”

She smiles, and it hits me right in the sternum.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s say I’m interested. What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Just rules.”

“Rules?”

“One: no inviting Kira. Two: no judgment if I heat up frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Three…” I pause, lowering my voice. “Don’t rearrange my furniture. I’ll notice.”

She grins. “Did you practice that?”

“Just making sure we’re aligned.”

We enter the elevator. I dig into my pocket, pull out my keychain and take off a key. “Spare key. It’s yours, if you want it.”

She raises an eyebrow, amused. “Are you sure? I mean, what if you have a date over or something? I wouldn’t want to crash your...extracurriculars.”

I grin. “Are you asking if I have a sock-on-the-door policy?”

She laughs. “I’m just saying maybe we need some kind of sign system. Like a post-it on your door when the study cave’s closed for… hockey player reasons.”

“Fine. I’ll leave a game puck outside the door. If it’s there, you’re good. If it’s gone… maybe come back later.”

She looks at the key for a long second. “This is… unexpectedly sweet.”

I shrug. “Just being neighborly.”

She reaches out and takes the key.

Our fingers brush, and the moment stretches longer than it should. Her eyes shift up to meet mine.

“Thanks, Nate.” The doors open and we walk down the hall.

I nod once. “See you around, Little Fields.”

She huffs. “You’re the worst.”

And as she disappears into her apartment, I’m left standing in the hall like some kind of idiot who just gave his neighbor, a very off-limits neighbor, a key to his place.

***

Back in my apartment, I toss my keys into the ceramic bowl by the door.

Except now, one’s missing.

I pull off my jacket, crack my neck, and sit on the edge of the couch.

The apartment’s quiet. It’s cleaner than usual and still smells like whatever protein-packed leftovers I nuked earlier.

But my head’s not here.

It’s back out in the hallway.

Back walking next to a girl with tired eyes and smart comebacks, and a habit of looking way too good in freezing weather.

She’s not a distraction.

She’s a complication.

But the weird thing is…

I don’t mind.

I tell myself it’s just a spare room. Just a key.

But deep down, I know…she’s the one thing I might not be able to keep off-limits.