Page 25

Drake

W hen my friend Elliot Adler texted me to tell me he was in town, an idea formed that I couldn’t let go of.

So now here I am, strapping ice skates onto my feet like a big idiot.

Pretty sure I’m violating about fifteen clauses in my NFL contract right now.

‘No skiing, no bungee jumping, no being flattened on ice like a clumsy giraffe.’ But when I look over at LJ—who’s smiling for the first time since I met him—I have to believe this is worth it.

Adler brought a few of his buddies from the Tampa Bay Lightning with him and invited a couple Panthers’ guys as well. So I’m the odd man out here—barely staying upright as I skate around on shaking legs.

These feet were not meant to be held upright by little pieces of metal. They were meant to dodge three-hundred-pound linebackers and step into a throw—not pirouette on frozen water.

Adler’s out there skating backwards like he’s starring in a Gatorade commercial while I’m out here looking like Bambi on blades. LJ, meanwhile, is soaking it all in, his face lit up like this is the best day of his life.

Adler gives LJ several tips on his moves and then we’re having a full-on scrimmage.

I’d feel a lot safer if I’d brought my NFL helmet.

These hockey helmets are a little too flimsy for my taste.

After blundering around for the first few minutes, I give up on finesse (it ain’t happening) and embrace my true calling: being an obstacle.

Which means I end up on my butt more often than not, but at least I’m doing something.

LJ, however, is shining. The kid’s got talent, that’s for dang sure.

He weaves between Adler and another player like he’s got rockets in his skates. I, meanwhile, attempt something I believe is called ‘stopping,’ which results in a full-body wipeout and a chorus of concerned Canadian laughter.

While I’m getting intimately acquainted with the ice, LJ scores a goal and our team cheers, slapping him on the helmet. Two minutes later, I’ve already lost sight of the puck again—that thing is too small to track. I’m beginning to have a reluctant appreciation for hockey.

After one of the defenders, Volkov, steamrolls me for the third time—the man is built like a vending machine—I stay down and start cheering for LJ from my icy throne of shame.

The kid handles the puck like it’s an extension of him—like he’s not just playing hockey, he’s becoming it.

There’s joy in every stride. A confidence I haven’t seen from him.

He’s got that look—the one I see in players when they forget to care what people think and just fall in love with the game.

I’m starting to think there’s a lot more to LJ than he lets on. Kind of like . . . me. It makes me think that whoever paired me with LJ knew exactly what they were doing—or got extremely lucky.

By the end of our time, I’m sweating for no good reason. I’m literally sitting on ice. The laws of thermodynamics can’t save me now. And just when I think my pride can’t take any more bruises, I spot her.

Lyla.

In the stands, her legs crossed, sipping something warm like she’s watching a nature documentary instead of my personal humiliation.

Her smile is intoxicating and I find that I want to make her smile every second of every day—a sharp realization that slices through me as if Adler just skated right over my very soul.

Her eyes find me, and for the first time since I met Lyla, I don’t get an immediate sneer or eye roll. She’s genuinely smiling. At me .

I’m cold, bruised, and pretty sure my pride is somewhere embedded in the ice—but I’d do this a hundred times over to see that smile again.

Thankfully, it’s at this point that everyone decides to take a water break.

“I think you’re supposed to stand up when you play hockey, Blythe,” Lyla calls to me.

“Oh, is that what I’m doing wrong?” I stand up on wobbly feet and make my way over to the side of the rink.

“You enjoy your massage?” I ask through the plexiglass.

“It was heavenly.” Now that I’m closer, I see the lines in her face from the massage table and it makes me smile. “Thank you,” she says softly. Sweetly.

“You’re very welcome.” This soft and sweet Lyla is doing things to my insides that I was not prepared for, but I’m eating it up. “Does that mean you’re ready to tackle your press release?”

Her smile immediately drops. “Ugh, Drake, I had just forgotten about it. Now I’ll need another massage just to undo the stress.”

“We can work that out,” I say with a grin.

She rolls her eyes, but it’s missing the usual edge—more flirt than fury.

“How about this, what if I help you?”

“I’m not letting you massage me,” she says, though I note (with glee) that she’s somewhat lacking in conviction.

“I meant with the press release.” I rest my chin on my stick, which somehow pushes me backwards. This ice thing really isn’t for me.

“You’re all of a sudden an expert in press releases?”

“No, but I give interviews all the time—and don’t you need a quote or two in your press release anyway?”

“Huh,” she says, like she might be starting to believe that I can help. “That’s a good point.”

“Besides, I’m involved in the organization, I’m a great person to quote.”

“You’re making a lot of sense right now,” Lyla says. “I must have gotten up from my massage in an alternate universe.”

I chuckle, shaking my head, as Lyla smiles— again! —at me. Adler’s voice comes from behind me, “Come on, lover boy! We’ve got a game to play!”

The blush that creeps across Lyla’s cheeks is too perfect. I take a mental picture of her before I turn away on my skates—and immediately fall down on my face.