Jake
It’s past midnight, and the ice is covered in a coating of wet slush. The nets are up at either end of the rink, and Em is facing me wearing my leg pads and gloves, glowering at me and gripping her stick like she’s defending the Ark of the Covenant. I forgot what she used to be like when she played goaltender. She never used to get put in that position often because she was too fast to waste on tending goal, but now that I’m trying to slide one past her, I remember how fierce she could be when given the opportunity to play defense.
Unfortunately for her, she’s now playing a pro, and though she took to the ice again like a duck to water, she’s still a little off her game when it comes to hockey. I play gently against her at first, letting her have a few scores and saves, but now I’ve upped my play and she’s frustrated, huffing at me.
I could back down, but something about her expression makes me not want to. I like seeing her this way: angry, obstinate, putting up a fight. It’s the old Em. And though I’m not unappreciative of the ways she’s mellowed and grown up (she’s no longer threatening to throw a stick at my head when I get a goal past her, for one thing), I still think a little more fire in her belly would do her good.
“One more!” she yells.
I contemplate her and then shrug, shaking my head. “If you insist,” I say, scooping up the puck with my stick and sliding it over the ice toward her. I pick up speed, racing toward her, seeing the faint flicker of alarm in her eyes as I get within ten feet of her with no sign of slowing. But instead of sliding the puck between her legs and into the net, I skid to a stop in front of her, pull her into my arms, and kiss her. Her cheeks and nose are cold, but her lips are warm enough to melt ice.
“What was that?” she demands, pulling out of my arms after a few seconds, looking unimpressed. “You were meant to take a shot.”
“I thought you were asking for one more kiss,” I say, laughing.
She whacks me across the shins with her stick—just lightly, which is good, as I’m not wearing shin pads. “Ouch,” I say, skating out of her reach.
“Sorry,” she says.
“Did you just apologize?” I ask her, skidding to a stop, just outside of hitting distance.
She makes a face at me. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Oh, I’m not,” I say, laughing still, as I grab hold of the net and start dragging it off the ice.
“We have to go already?” Em asks, her shoulders slumping.
“Yeah, it’s almost one,” I tell her.
“Oh my God,” she says, her eyes flying to the clock above the rink. She skates after me, her arm looping around my waist. “Thank you,” she says as we step off the ice. “That was . . .” Her face glows from the exercise and the cold. “The best.”
I smile.
“You are the best,” she says.
“I’ll take that,” I murmur, my gaze falling like it always does to her lips. I pull her close for another kiss, this one longer and deeper. By the time I’m done, her face isn’t cold anymore. Her skin is fire to the touch, and I think my own core temperature has risen so high the rink beneath us is in danger of turning completely to slush.
“Come on,” I say, throwing my arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get going. I’ve got more planned.” I need to get her home. And I don’t mean to her house. I mean to mine. She must be able to tell what I mean by “more planned,” because she smiles up at me knowingly and sits down, in a hurry to take off her skates.
“Do you ever think it’s weird?” she says as she undoes her laces.
“What?” I ask, sitting down beside her.
“Us,” she says as she kicks off the skates. “I mean, us being together.” When she says “being together,” she keeps her head down, but I see the flush creep up her neck. “I keep getting flashes of you at thirteen. I keep being reminded of how we were friends, that we’ve known each other since we were babies. Sometimes I have to blink just to make sure it’s really you. It feels like you’re a stranger”—she squints at me—“but at the same time like I’ve known you forever. Do you know what I mean?”
I nod. “I think it’s because we’re getting to know each other all over again. There’s a lot that’s the same but a lot that’s changed, too.”
“How am I different?” she asks, pulling on her shoes.
“You’re mellower and more guarded,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “I can’t read you like I used to. Not all the time, anyway.” I drop the skates in the bag. “But I figure I’m getting better at it.”
She smiles a little to herself.
“You’re not as argumentative,” I add. “Or at least, not quite as much.”
She elbows me in the side. “Still violent, though,” I say, grabbing for her fingers.
“I think you’re the same,” she says, pulling back to study me. “Maybe a little bigger.”
“Bigger?”
“Taller.”
“Just a little?”
“Yeah”—she smiles slyly—“just a little.”
“The same, huh?” I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment. I was a scrawny kid back then who didn’t have a clue how to kiss.
Em strokes my hair back from my face, her eyes searching mine. “You still have so much good in you. You haven’t lost that. Everyone always loved you. I used to envy you for that.”
“Everyone loved you, too.”
She whacks me with the back of her hand. “No, they didn’t.”
I snatch her wrists. “Well, they were kind of awed by you. You were fierce. You still are. It’s what I loved about you. It’s what I still love about you.”
We both fall silent, and I quickly bend down and start zipping up the bag, aware of Em looking at me out of the corner of her eye.
“How long did you like me for?” she asks.
“What?”
“Back then, when you kissed me. The first time, I mean. How long had you liked me for?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. A while.” Oh God, I knew one day she’d ask me this, but I still don’t have an answer prepared. I stand up, throwing the bag over my shoulder.
“Tell me! I’d been thinking about you for months. It was driving me crazy. I couldn’t get you out of my head.”
I blink at her in amazement. “Months? Seriously?”
She nods. “What about you? Come on.”
“If I told you, you’d laugh.”
“I won’t.”
I inhale deeply. “I liked you for years.” Her eyes widen in both surprise and disbelief. What the hell, I may as well tell her the whole truth. . . . “Forever. I don’t even remember a time I wasn’t in love with you. There’s never been anyone else.”
Em offers me her skeptical face. “What about Lauren?” she asks.
“Yeah, okay,” I admit. “There have been girls, but nothing serious.”
“Eight months is pretty serious.”
“What about Rob? You dated him for years.”
She pulls a face, her nose wrinkling. “Don’t remind me.”
We start walking toward the exit. “Was it serious?” I ask, not wanting to know, but at the same time wondering if she ever told him that she loved him. She must have.
We’ve reached the door—the spot where we kissed all those years ago. This time it’s Em who reaches for my hand and stops me. “No,” she whispers. “It wasn’t serious.”
I drop the bag and run my fingers through her hair, pulling her toward me. Taking a deep breath, I press my forehead against hers. She takes a deep breath in too, and I feel her shiver against me.
“Not like this,” I murmur.
She shakes her head. “No, not like this.”