Page 46 of The Roommate Game
About anything.
CHAPTER 15
RAFE
“Longer strides,wider strides. That’s your advice?” Gus’s deadpan stare was on point. He propped a hand on the boards and tsked.
“Yes. Gliding start drills help too.”
“You know I’m humoring you, right? Hockey players are faster than figure skaters, and that’s a fucking fact. Our blades are designed for acceleration and quick turns.”
My concentration drifted as a young girl in pristine white skates leaped forward and crouched into an elementary sit spin while her coach or mom cheered from the bleachers.
“Huh? Oh. I’m well aware of that, which is why I’m wearing my hockey skates.” I lifted my left foot, gliding ahead of Gus.
“I noticed. Since when do you have hockey skates?”
“Uh…what?” I replayed his question in my head and replied, “Since always.”
“Keep talking.” He circled his wrist meaningfully, a sardonic expression on his handsome face.
You know, Gus really was a good-looking man. Sharp angles and laughing eyes, and so much rugged, uber masculine hotness.
I cleared my throat and shrugged. “We were at a local rink when I was little—maybe four or five years old. Figure skatersand hockey players were sharing the ice and there was this girl in the center of everything, spinning like a top. I was fascinated. I wanted to do that. So I told my dad, and he bought me hockey skates and signed me up for lessons.”
“He didn’t want you to be a figure skater.” It was a statement.
“No, but in Dad’s defense, he was sort of preprogrammed to assume hockey was for boys and figure skating was for girls. I went along with it and played on a little tyke team for a season. I did okay, but it didn’t magically change my mind. I really, really wanted to learn how to spin and jump and…dance on the ice. The Olympics sold my case. We watched an American couple win the first US gold medal in ice dance and Yuzuru Hanyu set a new world record in the men’s short program, and we were all blown away. At least I was.”
“Let me guess. You promised to win a gold, and you got a pair of figure skates on your next birthday.”
I pointed my forefinger at his chest. “Bingo.”
“Still doesn’t explain the hockey skates,” he singsonged.
I picked up speed, my mind drifting into dangerous, nowhere zones of idle promises. It took a moment to realize Gus was waiting for a response.
“Um…yeah. I used to sub on Dad’s hockey team if one of their regulars was out. It became a father-son bonding thing for us while I was in high school. Good timing ’cause I was newly out, and it was a good connection for us. And Dad loved it because those old geezers liked to think a figure skater wasn’t a threat, and proving them wrong was entertaining.”
Gus snickered. “That’s cool. Sounds like you’re close to your dad.”
“I’m close to my mom too. Sadly, they don’t like each other. Not that there’s any active hostility, but since their divorce, my concept of family isn’t tidy and idyllic anymore.”
“No one’s family is idyllic. That’s justHallmarkBS. My folks are together and they like each other fine, but they aren’t exactly couple goals. Everything is a competition in my family. Success is what it’s all about—an elite education, a kickass job, a well-connected partner, two point three kids, and a big ol’ house in the suburbs. It’s easy to say it’s all my mom, but my dad is just as bad. He’s super ambitious. Wants to be noticed, admired, and it’s…exhausting.”
“Do you get along with your father?”
“Sure. In a ‘Hey, long time no see, kiddo. I’m heading to the golf course, but let’s catch up’ kind of way. Or he wants to talk about his glory days playing college hockey, and he loves to compare our stats. It’s like he can’t help himself. My dad’s default is competition and…”
Competition, competition, competition. Ugh.
Shit. Gus was looking at me funny.
“Did I miss something?”
Gus bolted in front of me and skated backward. “Yo, what’s with you tonight? You’re distracted, and your eyes are glazed over. We don’t have to be here, you know. We could be at the house, knockin’ boots and?—”
“No talking,” I intercepted with what I hoped came across as a fierce glare. I doubted it, though. “I’m fine.”