Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
She throws her hands in the air. “I don’t know anything else!”
“I’m right fucking here, Winter. I’m the something else.” I push to standing and hold out my hand. “Being here won’t make things better.”
She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’m scared.”
“Of course you are. Everything about this situation is fucking terrifying, but you don’t have to be terrified alone.” I flip my hand over.
She takes it, and I pull her to her feet. And then I wrap my arms around her and hug the shit out of her. It only takes a second for her to return it. She melts like a snowflake on skin.
“Everything was going great until this happened,” she murmurs.
“I know.”
“I don’t want to lose this good thing.”
I press my lips to her temple. “Then stop visiting the places that make you feel like you will.” I tuck a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. “You don’t need to torture yourself like this.”
“I needed to see it.”
“And now you have, so it’s time to go.” I cup her face in my hands and wait until her eyes meet mine. “This is not your fault. You did not cause this. Playing hockey is not a crime, and neither is getting stitches or hanging out with a sexy, tattooed figure skater who gets emotional boners over you. That sexy guy is me, in case you weren’t sure.”
She shoves at my chest, fighting a grin.
“Come on. Let’s get you out of Wallow World.”
She lets me guide her toward the gap in the trees. I grab her bike on the way, and she takes her bags. When we reach the Jeep, I clip her bike to the rack and unlock the doors. Winter tosses her bags in the trunk, then climbs into the passenger seat, and I take my place behind the wheel.
I turn the engine over and roll down our windows since it’s humid and steamy hot today. “Want me to see if I can get us some ice time?”
She tugs on the end of her braid. “I should go back to the hospital.”
“Honest question, is this so you can marinate in guilt that isn’t yours some more?”
She lets her head drop against the rest and rolls it toward me. “I want to be there when she’s done with the tests.”
“How long will those take?”
“The nurse said a few hours. And that was around nine thirty.”
“A few hours in hospital time is usually longer. If you’re planning to sit for the rest of the day, getting on the ice first would help burn off some of your anxious energy.” I tap the wheel. “How about this, I’ll see if we can book a rink. If we can, we’ll reset with a little ice time. Then we grab food, and I take you back to the hospital.” I pull out my phone and check the schedule. “Rink four is open.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “It feels selfish.”
“That’s because you’re used to putting everyone’s needs ahead of your own. Why don’t we drive to the arena and see how you feel once we’re there. If it’s a thumbs-down, I’ll take you to the hospital. If it’s a thumbs-up, we’ll stay as long as you’re comfortable.” This is probably the biggest hurdle for Winter. Putting herself first. Because she’s been taught she should be at the bottom of the list.
“Okay. We can stop at the arena.”
I shift into drive, and she stares out the window as I pass her driveway. I turn up the radio, not to discourage talking, but so she doesn’t feel compelled to fill the silence.
When we reach the arena, I pull into a parking spot, but don’t cut the engine. “How do you feel about being here?”
“Like it wouldn’t hurt to spend some time on the ice with you.”
“Good. I was hoping you’d say that. Come on, let’s do this.” I turn off the Jeep, and we grab our backpacks from the trunk.
Winter stops by the women’s locker room to get her skates, and then we head to rink four. We lace up, and I turn on the music, choosing something upbeat. I hold open the gate for Winter, and she takes my hand as we step onto the ice. We lap the rink a few times, finding our stride.
“Thank you. I needed this more than I realized,” she says.
“Sometimes it makes sense to do something normal when everything else isn’t.” I pull her closer, my feet bracketing hers as I move us to the center of the rink. “It’s okay to take a break from the trauma of it all.”
And that’s what we do. I spend the next half hour teaching her basic figure-skating moves, distracting her from the noise in her head.
I lace my right hand with her left and tap my shoulder. “Put your hand here.”