I don’t know how to get on the ice. Or, I do, but I don’t know which route is the best one to take except the main one that leads to doors near the exit to the main lobby. There’s no way I’m climbing over the Plexiglas. Wonder Woman might be able to tackle that, but not me. Emily grabs my hand and leads me to where the players come out. There is no glass there and Ozzie skates over, his arms outstretched, waiting to catch me as I climb over the wooden boards.

He takes off a glove, and I take his hand, surprised at how comfortable mine feels in his, and how less concerned I am with the crowd than with him now at my side. I look up at him. On skates, and with all his equipment on, he’s like Superman standing next to me.

“This is a bad idea,” I say loudly, over the cheers of the crowd.

He bends at the waist to whisper in my ear. “I’ll catch you if you fall.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me?”

He laughs, and we walk along the rubber matting toward the ice.

I hate ice.

As a child, my parents tried to involve me in every activity known to man. They did this for twelve long years before they realized I didn’t excel in any activity other than reading and writing. Baseball, soccer, figure skating, majorettes, gymnastics—I quit all these activities after trying them for a few months each. Sometimes, my instructors even encouraged me to quit. I remember in dance class, my teacher told my parents quite bluntly, “You can’t teach a child rhythm.” And they were right.

So, as I stand on ice in my tennis shoes, I try and remember the few lessons I was taught at age five—and I forget every single one of them. If Ozzie weren’t holding my hand, I would be on my ass and the rink would laugh at me. But I don’t fall. He keeps me steady. I’m not the rock right now. He is.

He leads me to the blue line between the one in the center and the net. The guy who talked on the microphone glides over and sets a puck down and hands me a stick. I take it, holding it firmly like it’s a lifeline, and I set the end down to use as a crutch.

“All you got to do is get it in the net,” the guy says, flashing me his pearly whites.” His green eyes sparkle, and I recognize him from one of my classes. Like Emily, he’s always arriving late.

I thank him and awkwardly hold the stick. Ozzie lets go of my hand. I’m okay on my feet for now. When I grip the stick with two hands, some of the guys laugh at me, and Ozzie takes it upon himself to show me how to hold it. When one of his hands touches my hip, I feel tingles in my belly. He instructs me to bend at the waist. I don’t mind his hands on me. In fact, I like it more than I should.

The cheering crowd breaks through my concentration. They all chant, “Goal, goal, goal!” The pressure is on. I can’t fail. I want to make this goal. It’s for charity, right?

“Eyes on the net. Just keep looking at where you want the puck to go,” Ozzie says, a loud whisper in my ear.

I nod, feeling encouraged. Deep down, I know, though. I’m not making a single goal. As if he can sense my thoughts, he adds, “I know you can do it. Don’t listen to anyone but the crowd.” He means me. Don’t listen to me.

I focus on the net and bring the stick back, but apparently not far enough. Ozzie is there again, gently guiding me, pulling the stick back just enough for me to make the shot—or so I assume.

He nods. “Let ’er go.”

And I do.

But after my stick makes contact with the puck, I close my eyes. I don’t want to disappoint anyone, least of all the crowd. So, when the crowd goes haywire, shouting and cheering, “goal, goal, goal!” I slowly open one eye and see the puck slowly chug across the line in front of the net. The other hockey player’s arms and sticks are in the air, and I feel like a hero. I feel so giddy and light, like I could fly. My cheeks are hot, and I’m sweating through the cold, but I made the shot. Ozzie helped me make that shot.

The guy in blue drops another puck in front of me, and I try to do it all over again, but this time Ozzie lets me do it myself. I fail. The crowd doesn’t boo, though. Instead, to my great surprise, they continue cheering, louder. I look to Ozzie again.

He smiles. “You got this.”

I really don’t.

But I bend a little, bring the stick back a little bit more and let it fly. I bite my lip as I watch it coast across the ice, but it hits the metal part of the net and sails in another direction before hitting the edge of the ice.

Three more times I try and fail before Ozzie comes back to my rescue. I sink six with his help, miss three times, and the last one he tells me, “You’re on your own. It’s all you.” He flashes me a wink. He’s like an Adonis on blades. Herculean. Why am I staring at him? I turn my attention back to the net.

One more shot. One more chance to have hundreds of people say my name. That’s what they chant now, “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.” The sound is both frightening and addicting. In this moment, nothing else matters more than earning their praise.

I pull the stick back, and then a little more. I stare down the net like it’s the enemy, feel the scowl on my face as I decide I will conquer this goal. I slap hard and let that puck fly, only it flies more than I intended it to. It clears the ice and sails through the air to slam hard into the top metal part of the net, and then it sails back, heading straight for my face.

I can’t move. Everyone else on the ice is ducking, their hands over their heads, but not me. I’m a deer stuck in bright headlights, unable to move, and it’s about to make contact with my face, until I’m pushed out of the way and onto the ice floor. My arm throbs from the impact, my cheek connects hard, and I feel the wet heat of blood. It drips to the ice in a pool that quickly seems to blend with the hard surface. I’m dizzy and confused. I hear the crowd quiet, then nothing. Not even as two men grab my arms and pull me to my feet. My legs are Jell-O, but with the extra help, I’m able to hobble along to the exit.

Like the crowd was set to mute and someone releases the quiet button, they snap to attention and start screaming. It’s deafening. They’re cheering for me? They’re singing my name. I try and smile, but pain rocks me. I raise my hand to my cheek, and my hand is quickly covered in blood. My eyes are hazy, and it takes me a moment to focus.

“Did I make the goal?” I ask foolishly. I know I didn’t.

Ozzie and the guy in the blue jersey laugh. “Not even close.”

The guys lead me to the locker room, and I take a welcome seat on a hard, wooden bench.

“I’ll get the first-aid kit,” the guy in blue announces, and he hobbles off on his skates, leaving Ozzie and me alone. I look up at him. His expression is a mix of sympathy and amusement.

“You getting hurt seems to be a regular occurrence. Maybe we should stop seeing each other.”

“This is why I avoid anything sports-related,” I say with a sigh.

He chuckles before he raises a hand to touch my cheek, just below the tender cut flesh. His rough fingers are surprisingly soft against my skin. I find myself leaning into his hand, though I don’t mean to. Why is he so easy to be with? So nice. Charming. He’s making this both harder and easier than this needs to be.

I have to focus on my story. When Jack put me on this path, I knew this would be hard, but not for the reasons I thought. I expected getting the information might take some finesse. What I didn’t expect is to fall hook, line, and sinker for his charm. Emily warned me but I didn’t believe it. I’ve never really fallen for anyone, so why should this guy be any different? But he is...different. From anyone I’ve ever met. But more than that, it’s not just who he is but how comfortable he makes me feel.

I’m in so much trouble.

His friend returns carrying a red bag with a cross on it in one hand and an ice pack in the other. Blue Jersey guy stands tall in front of us, watching Ozzie pull out some supplies before cleaning my face with gauze.

When Ozzie’s done, he stares into my eyes. “There. All better. It’s a good one, but you don’t need stitches. I...uh...I’m sorry about the push.”

“Are you kidding? I would have been knocked out if I got hit with the puck. I’d have a broken bone instead of a scratch. I should be thanking you.”

“It’s no big deal. I meant to pull you away, but you slipped out of my hands and fell to the ice.”

“That’s what Ozzie does,” Blue Jersey says. “Leaps in front of flying pucks like Superman.”

“Did you get hit?” I say quickly, worrying I hurt him, too.

Only then do I notice the crack on the left side of his helmet. He removes it, running a finger along the broken line. “That’s what helmets are for.”

I’m choked up. This guy…oh, this guy. No one has ever done anything like that for me. The only guy I thought might have cared for me, never truly did. Not enough to take a puck to the head for me. Not enough to be a hero.

Ozzie runs a hand through his damp hair, his dark hair curling around his ears. Emily says I’m stiff, and I often am, but he inspires warmth inside of me that makes me want to wrap my arms around his neck.

He’s a nice guy.

A good guy.

And I’m lying to him.

“Hey, why the sad face? Does it hurt?”

“I’ve got some Ibuprofen,” Blue Jersey says.

“No, I’m fine. Honestly. Maybe just a little embarrassed.” I stifle a nervous chuckle.

A dull roar builds and a collection of voices and shouts morph into laughter and conversation. A dozen people file into the room, all of them staring at me. I look to my shoes. “I should leave.” When I stand, Ozzie gently pushes me back down. “Just give it a minute.”

The guys smirk at me as they begin to undress. I try to look away, but they don’t seem to care. Within a minute, they’re down to their jockstraps, while a few more modest ones, I guess, sit down. A couple drink from their water bottles. One looks at his phone. Another one stands in front of me in his underwear.

Ozzie rolls his eyes while Blue Jersey laughs.

“So…you’re yoga pants girl, huh?” He puts his hands on his hips and rocks on his sock feet with his hips at my eye level. His penis is a little too close for comfort.

“Um…” I can’t look away from the bulge in his pants, and he knows it.

“Stop messing with her,” Ozzie says, trying not to laugh.

“Yoga pants girl?” I say, immediately questioning the guy that minutes before I thought of as my hero. Did he tell his friends about me? About how everyone in the gym could see my vagina? It’s impossible to hide my irritation when I glare at him.

“No, hold on,” he says, holding up his hands. “This is Ryan. He was there…and he…well, he…”

“That’s right. The guy waggles his eyebrows. I saw it all. It was a thing of beauty. Truly. Not all meat curtains are equal.”

Meat curtains? Did he really just say that?

Ozzie gives him a slap to the nuts, and the guy jerks back, bent over.

“Oh, God. I need to go,” I say quickly.

“Fuck off, Ryan. Let her be.”

The guy goes back to the bench where he sits and laughs. I want to leave, and I feel like they’re making fun of me until all of the guys start throwing their dirty socks and underwear in his general direction.

“Don’t be a dick,” Blue Jersey guys says. He takes a seat beside me. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks, but you weren’t the one who was exposed this morning.”

Ryan pushes all the dirty clothes to the floor. “Would you feel better if I showed you mine?”

“I’d love to see your vagina,” another guy says to Ryan, earning him some laughter from the rest of the team. This seems to shut him up, at least for a little while.

“I think I’m okay now. I should go.”

Ozzie frowns before saying, “Ah…sure…maybe you want to hang back and wait for me. I’ll be five minutes.”

I nod, fighting a smile. I can’t help myself. “Sure. If you want.”

Most of the crowd is gone when I return to the exit doors by the ice. This includes my friends. I pull out my phone from my back pocket and see Emily’s left me a text message. My phone didn’t even ring, and when I turn my phone to the side and examine it, I find I somehow managed to put it on vibrate, though I can’t remember doing it.

Going to Brad’s. Thought you’d have someone big & strong to walk you home. Call if you need me. E

I want to be mad at her for leaving me, but I can’t. She means well. This is a setup. She knows I won’t walk home alone at night on campus after there were a couple of reports of girls getting grabbed over the last year. She’s forcing me to ask Ozzie to walk with me. Because she knows I won’t ask, and if he offered, I would probably refuse. This is relationship starter stuff, not reporter/subject stuff. It feels too intimate. Too far from what I’m supposed to be doing.

“Hey,” someone says, and I spin around to find Blue Jersey Guy.

“Hey. Thanks for all your help,” I say. “I can’t believe I didn’t get your name.”

He holds out a hand. Like Ozzie’s, it envelops mine. He might be a half-foot taller than Ozzie.

“Michael. Michael Cross.”

“Charlie. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Same.”

He starts to leave, his massive hockey bag slung over his shoulder and his stick in his left hand, but then he turns. He looks like he wants to say something, but he opens his mouth and then snaps it shut before waving and leaving through the doors to the parking lot.

A string of other players comes through before Ozzie. Most of them carry the stench of sweat and dirty clothes, but not Ozzie. Ozzie smells fresh, like he’s just showered, and I try not to make my smelling him obvious, but his scent stirs a burning desire deep in my gut that makes me want to pull him closer.

“Thanks for waiting,” he says sweetly.

“Well, I kind of owe you my life,” I say, teasing—something I didn’t realize I knew how to do.

He smiles. “You do. And you can pay me back by letting me walk you home.”

“With all your stuff?”

He shrugs. “It’s not that heavy.”

I hold out a hand to test his bag, and he chuckles. He doesn’t give it up right away, but I shake my hand to encourage him and he holds it out.

The second I take it and he lets go, it drops to the floor. “How do you lug this stuff around all the time? What the hell do you have in it? Weights?”

He takes it back, slinging it over his shoulder like it’s made of feathers. “You get used to it. I’ve been playing hockey since I was four.”

“Four! That’s crazy.” Mental note: Started at age four. I’ll put that in my day-timer later.

He shrugs and turns to the door, waiting for me to follow. “I loved it from the first time I got on the ice. Fell a handful of times and then never again. My mom told me I was born to skate, and she wasn’t wrong. It always came natural to me.”

“Did she skate?”

He scratches his chin and considers this before pushing open the door and holding it for me to walk through. A gentleman. His list of positive traits continues to build, and it saddens me a little, because this will end soon, and I find myself not wanting that. I can’t keep my secret from him much longer. The longer I wait, the worse it will be. He’s never going to talk to me again as it is.

“She did, but not well. My dad was the skater. And he was fast. I could never catch him.”

Was. He refers to both of his parents in past tense. “What happened to them?”

We walk through the field toward my dorm on the hill, the big stone one that was once a convent and, up until recently, only housed females and was still run by nuns. It’s only been in the last ten years that males are allowed on the floors.

“I don’t really like to talk about it,” he says.

“Sure. I understand.” And I do. But I’m also conflicted because I need him to talk. I’m not sure I can push him without feeling like a jerk.

He slows to a stop and reaches out to touch my shoulder, encouraging me to stop, too. With his hand still on me, he frowns. His eyes are sad, but they’re big and bright and they sparkle in the moonlight. “Don’t be offended, okay? I don’t talk about them with anyone.”

“Because it hurts?” Immediately, I want to take my words back because he flinches.

He turns away from me. With slow, steady steps he trudges forward, and I follow alongside of him. I don’t know what possesses me, but I dare to take his hand, and though I worry it’s not welcome, he squeezes it, and I’m certain he has no intention of letting it go anytime soon. My nerves fade like they did earlier. I need to tell him. Before this goes too far. Before I develop feelings for him that I can’t take back.

“I need to tell you something,” I say, quietly.

He sighs and looks up at the sky. “I like you, Charlie. And I’m pretty sure I noticed you long before you noticed me.”

Didn’t he hear me?

“You noticed me? You…like me?”

He laughs. “You’re in my English Lit class.”

“But you’re in fourth year, right?”

“Yeah, but I had a free elective. It didn’t matter the course level.”

“English?”

He chuckles. “This is what you’re focusing on?”

“No, of course not.”

“You didn’t know I was in your class, did you?” he asks.

I try to remember seeing him in my class, but I’m at a loss. How is it possible that I missed him? But the reason is obvious. “I sit up front and I pay attention. Like, intently. I’m kind of a nerd.” I laugh, my cheeks burning. Like my confession is a big old secret. If he’s in my class and he noticed me, of course, he knows I’m a nerd. And yet he still likes me...

“You are so passionate about everything you talk about in that class. Everyone else is falling asleep, but you sit straight up. Your hand is always in the air, and you fight with the professor about pretty much everything. He interprets a passage from a book and he’s so confident he’s right, and then you tell him, with complete confidence, that he’s wrong. It’s very entertaining. I’m getting an A in that class because I pay attention to you, not Professor Brinks. And I don’t even like English Lit. I thought it would be an easy A because I’d read the course material in high school.”

I try and process what he’s saying. Not only did he notice me, but he’s noticed me all year? And instead of being one of the many people that roll their eyes at me and humor me, he finds me entertaining?

“This is surprising…and nice…and wow. I don’t know what to say, except…did you hear what I said? That I have something to tell you?”

He nods, but he won’t meet my eyes. “Is it bad?”

I tuck the fallen strand of hair behind my ears before nodding. “Yeah.”

“And you want to tell me?”

I hitch a shoulder. “I think I should.”

“Hmm. Will I want to stay away from you?”

“I think so.”

“Hmm.” He lets go of a sigh. “Then don’t tell me. Not yet. I’m not ready to stay away from you yet.”

I open my mouth and snap it shut. This guy...oh, my heart. Everything he says has me questioning myself and what I’m doing. This has gotten complicated very quickly. I wanted to tell him the truth, but I know that if I had, I would never have gotten to see this side of him or know what I’d be missing. In this case, ignorance would have been bliss. Because I’m letting myself care for him only to risk him never speaking to me again when he finds out I lied to him.

“When can I tell you?” I ask, serious.

He chuckles before letting out a groan. “The fact that you want to tell me is enough. Look, I just want to get to know you. Stuff from your past doesn’t concern me, and I hope you feel the same.”

“But what if it isn’t in my past?”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

I laugh. “No. Definitely not.”

“Do you torture small animals?”

“No, just big ones,” I say, my voice even.

It takes him a moment before he laughs, like he wasn’t expecting me to toss out a comeback.

“Then I don’t want to know,” he says with a shrug.

“You say that now, but you’ll feel different when you know…”

He stops and drops his bag. I keep walking but am tugged back by our joined hands. He forces me to face him, his hands sliding up my arms, giving me chills. They stop to lightly massage my shoulders. “I’ve waited a long time to get to know you. Don’t ruin this for me.”

I bite my lip to keep from smiling. He touches the cut on my cheek. “Don’t think so much.”

Usually, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from overthinking things, but under the stars with his big, blue eyes staring down and into mine, I can’t even remember what I want to say. He leans in, stopping inches before his lips touch mine. I hold my breath, excited by the delicious tension in all the muscles of my body. Then I close my eyes and pray he goes the extra few inches. I feel his breath on my face. My hair ruffles around my ears, and his hand cups the back of my neck. I lick my lips, but he stops me with a soft kiss. I melt into him, my hands pressing against his chest as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me in, the warmth of his body reminding me of the chill in the air where his body isn’t touching mine. He moves his mouth, exploring my lips before breaking away.

“You taste like strawberries,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Strawberry shortcake lip gloss,” I say.

“Strawberry shortcake lip gloss,” he repeats.

I open my eyes to see him smirking.

As he leans back, his eyes open and he smiles wide. A beautiful smile that makes me feel giddy, like I’ve just had the first and best kiss of my life. I heave a sigh of relief as I take in the mint scent of his breath and the earthy scent of his cologne.

I would have told him the truth. I would have told him everything. But now...after that...toe curling, butterfly-inducing kiss, I have no idea how I’ll ever be able to tell him. This, right now, feels so good. I don’t remember ever feeling this satisfied. But I have to ask myself if the promise of what’s to come between us is enough to give up a path I’ve been walking since I was fourteen years old. My head says, “Not a chance.” But as I touch my freshly kissed lips, my heart is singing a completely different story.