Page 59 of The Play Maker

“You should be,” I say, unable to stop the smile from creeping onto my face.

His eyes narrow. “Alright. Round two.”

“Austin—”

Too late. He tries again, this time aiming for the jump. Or a version of it. There’s a moment where I think he might pull it off since he gets a surprising amount of lift, but then he over-rotates, loses control, and lands flat on his ass with a loud, echoing thud.

“Jesus—” he groans.

I skate over, still laughing, and crouch beside him, the ice biting into my knees.

“You’re terrible,” I say, poking his shoulder.

He groans, placing his hand on his chest. “You wound me, Maisie.” He sits up, brushing ice shavings off his hoodie. “I should’ve warmed up first,” he mutters, rubbing his back.

“Or not attempted a jump with zero figure skating experience,” I say.

He grins. “Fair. Wanna trade? Want me to teach you how to handle a puck.”

I raise a brow. “What makes you think I don’t know how?”

“Please.” He snorts. “You glide around like a ballerina. Bet you’ve never even body-checked someone.”

“Correct. I’ve also never tried to impress someone with a waltz and nearly broken my tailbone.”

He smirks and pushes to his feet, stick in hand. “C’mon. Let me make a hockey girl out of you.”

I pause for half a second before gliding over to the edge of the rink, where his gear bag sits unzipped. He pulls out a puck and drops it onto the ice.

I come to a stop a few feet from him, eyeing the stick in his hand. “You’re gonna have to show me what to do,” I say. “I’ve never even held a stick before.”

His mouth quirks, and a low laugh escapes him.

I narrow my eyes as the innuendo hits me. “Don’t say it.”

He holds the stick out to me, a grin still tugging at his lips. “Didn’t say anything.”

I snatch it from him with a sigh, trying to ignore the heat climbing up my neck.

It’s heavier than I expected. I shift my grip awkwardly. It feels like I’m holding it wrong—which, judging by the way he immediately laughs, I am.

“Alright,” he says, skating around behind me, wrapping his arms around mine. His chest brushes my back, and it takes everything in me not to lean into him. “Top hand here.” He adjusts my left hand. “Bottom hand here.” His fingers brush my right hand, lingering just a second too long. “That’s your power hand. Like this.”

I can’t breathe.

“You good?” he asks, his low rumbly voice making my skin break out in shivers.

I nod.Definitely not good. Probably never been worse.

He nudges a puck toward us with the blade of the stick, then skates around to face me. “Alright. Try moving it. Just little taps.”

I shift my weight forward and tap the puck. It skitters across the ice in a straight line.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Not terrible.”

I skate after the puck, clumsily steering it back toward him. It bumps off my skate and drifts off-course.

Austin chuckles. “You’re treating it like it’s fragile.”