Cinderella in Skates

chapter FOUR





"So how are your ice skills? I mean, do you even have any?"

Shane taps his hockey stick against the cold, hard ice in the arena where we watched the scrimmage together the other night. Coach Van, of course, had no problem letting Shane use the rink while it wasn't needed for anything else, which surprises me a little since he's no longer a student at West High.

Then again, when you refer to someone as your 'Golden Stallion,' as Coach Van did twice when we saw him today before leaving us alone, it probably doesn't even cross your mind to say no when they ask for a favor.

Whatever. The coach's obsession with Shane is just one piece of the puzzle that will get me back to Arizona as soon as possible, so I shouldn't complain.

"Ice skills? Is non-existent an acceptable answer?"

"Oh, come on, Natalie, your dad's Phil Melter, for Pete's sake," Shane says. "I find it really hard to believe this is your first time on a pair of skates."

I'm sitting on a long wooden bench lacing up an old pair of his mom's ice skates that he'd grabbed for me before we met this afternoon. I'll be getting my own pair, but for now, these'll have to do.

"It's not," I say, leaning over to tie the left one. "But that doesn't mean I have any skills."

He shrugs. "Well, at least we're working you for goalie. Your skating doesn't have to be phenomenal. Just serviceable."

"And thank God for that."

"Are you being sarcastic with your coach?" He raises an eyebrow at me.

"Me? Never. Wouldn't dream of it."

"That's what I thought. Careful, or you'll find yourself skating suicides."

"I'm not sure you have the power to make me do that." I stand, wobble slightly on the blades and take two clomping steps toward the entrance to the rink.

"Without me, you're not moving back to the desert anytime soon. Isn't that right?"

"I'm sure I could get by without you." I pause. "Okay, that's a lie. I'm pretty sure I need you."

He nods and smiles. "That's more like it. Let's see what you've got."

I just look at him.

"Oh," he says. "Right. Um, skate from net to net."

"You never coach before or what?" I ask, but I'm pretty sure I'm teasing. I skate with unsteady legs toward the left goalie net and almost fall down only once. Not bad.

"Okay," he says, pulling out what looks like a stopwatch from the pocket of his red hockey fleece. "Go."

"Go?"

He smiles. "Go."

I take a deep breath and start skating, hoping it'll come back to me. My first few movements are awkward and forced, but soon I remember what it felt like to skate all those years ago with my parents. It's not hard, really.

It could be worse at least.

And when I remind myself to picture cacti and palm trees and the Arizona mountains waiting for me at the other end of the rink, I feel a burst of speed propel me toward the net.

I slide into it, using the crossbar to help me stop before I wind up tangled in the netting, and turn around to look at Shane.

He's staring at me.

"Uh," he says. "When was the last time you were on skates again?"

"It's gotta be years."

"Okay. Well, wow. Not bad. You look comfortable out there. Maybe this isn't going to be as awful as I thought."

I narrow my eyes. "You thought teaching me to play hockey would be awful?"

"No! No, that isn't what I meant," he says, cheeks reddening. "I thought it might be really hard, but I want to do it. Sorry."

"I'm kidding," I say. "Relax."

"Not nice."

I smile and skate back toward the other goal, warming up my legs, trying to get used to doing physical activity again. I'd kinda let that go more than I should've over the last few months of brooding about the move.

My body starts to feel looser as I shuffle back and forth across the smooth, clean ice.

Finally, Shane makes his way out to the middle of the rink and I stop before I crash into him.

"Jeez," he says, reaching out to catch my arm before I tumble over. "I've been calling your name for what feels like the last five minutes. I'm going to need to get a whistle or something."

"Sorry. I think I got into a groove or something."

"I'll say," he replies, but his eyes are friendly and warm. "First sign of a good hockey player."

"Let's not get carried away. Anyone can skate well in a straight line after some practice. Let's see what happens when you make me do this carrying a stick. And in all that goalie padding."

"Not today. We've got a month to whip you into shape, but I forgot to ask Coach Van about borrowing goalie gear. I'll do that before we leave. How about you go get changed and I'll drop you off at home before I head back to my apartment?"

I nod and head for the women's locker room while the Golden Stallion disappears to make more of his hockey magic happen.





***



"So how'd your first day on the ice go?" Dad asks between bites of chicken and broccoli later that evening.

I shrug. "Well, I haven't completely forgotten how to skate, so that's nice."

Dad's face lights up. "I just knew you'd be wonderful at it. Of course you are. You're my baby, after all."

"Don't get excited, Dad. I still haven't actually tried to play hockey."

He grins and waves me off. "Po-tay-toes, po-tah-toes. You'll be fine."

"And Shane?" Mom asks, resting her napkin on the table next to her plate. "How is he as a coach?"

I wrinkle my forehead as I glance over at her. It's not that there's a twinkle in her eye or anything, but the way she says it gives me pause, like she isn't really wondering about his coaching abilities at all.

"Good," I say, reaching for my glass of iced tea. "Fine. We didn't do much. He has to get me the right equipment."

A worried look stretches across Dad's face. "Oh, I didn't even think of that. Do we need to buy you goalie gear? I don't mind."

I shake my head. "No, Shane sent me a text before dinner and said he had no problem getting some extra stuff from his old coach at the school. I'm all set for now."

Dad leans back in his chair, clearly convinced that he's well on his way to watching his master plan to turn me into the next great hockey player in our family come to fruition.

"Shane doesn't live down the street all the time, does he?" Mom asks once again bringing the conversation back to my coach.

"Nope. He has an apartment downtown with some guys on the team."

Mom nods. "I thought so."

"Why?"

"Oh, no, no reason," she replies dismissively. "I just thought it might be nice if you had a friend here already. I mean, a friend who lives around here, of course. But being that he's in college and an athlete, I'm sure he's very busy all the time."

I narrow my eyes ever so slightly. "Not too busy to find time to help coach me."

My parents exchange a quick glance, one that I'm pretty sure I'm not meant to see, but I catch it anyway.

"He seems like a lovely young man," Mom finally says.

Dad's staring down at his plate in front of him as if the topic of conversation has suddenly become the most boring thing on earth and he can't get enough of the vegetables he usually grumbles about eating.

"What's going on with you guys?"

Mom shakes her head. "Nothing, dear. We're just happy to hear you're enjoying yourself."

I stare at her for a second or two before glancing over at Dad.

"Yeah," I say at last. "I guess I am."





      ***



I'm sitting out in our backyard later the next night, trying to enjoy the fifty-degree evening before it's gone for good in Wisconsin. It's one of the few weather days that feels even remotely close to home and I want to take advantage of it.

I've turned on the electric outdoor fireplace to keep me warm on the patio and snuggle up under a blanket, taking in the stars in the night sky.

I crack open my book, ready to read by the light of the fire and lose myself in the magic of Heathcliff and Catherine.

"Am I interrupting?"

I scream and jump, sending the book falling to the deck.

Shane chuckles and steps into the light. "Sorry," he says. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"Right," I say, hand over my thumping heart. "You just thought popping out of the darkness wouldn't startle me at all."

"Guess I didn't think that through." He bends down to pick up the book and glances at the cover. "Wuthering Heights, eh? Not terrible."

I narrow my eyes. "What do you mean, not terrible? It's one of the best books ever written."

He drops onto the patio couch opposite mine uninvited, but for some reason I don't mind. "I'm not so sure about that. I can think of a dozen other books I liked better than that one."

"Name them."

"All of them?"

"Some."

"The Catcher in the Rye, The Great Gatsby, Crime and Punishment, Wayne Gretzky's autobiography."

I roll my eyes but laugh. Even I know Gretzky is a hockey god, one of the best to ever play the game.

"I didn't like The Catcher in the Rye."

He turns his head to the side and raises an eyebrow. "I think you're the first person I've met who doesn't love Holden Caufield."

I shrug. "He just doesn't do it for me."

"So who does?"

"My book boyfriend is totally Sherlock Holmes." I clap my hand over my mouth the second the words leave my lips; I can't believe I've just admitted that to him. I haven't admitted that to anybody, ever.

Shane's eyes are wide and sparkling with the revelation. "Did you just say what I think you just said?"

"No." I shake my head adamantly.

"Oh, yes, you did," he says. "You definitely did. Sherlock Holmes, huh? What about him gets you going?"

I put my head in my hands but can only laugh. "It must be the British accent."

"All right, all right, I'll let it go," Shane says. "But I didn't expect that from you."

"Now it's only fair you tell me your book girlfriend."

"I've never thought about that."

"So do it now."

"I liked the actress in the Price and Prejudice movie. Does that count?"

"Did you read the book?"

"Actually, yeah. Elizabeth was pretty cool. I'd be okay with a lady like that. She's beautiful and smart and witty and not afraid to say what's on her mind. Yeah. Definitely Elizabeth."

"Interesting."

"Who'd you get for English that assigned that book?" Shane asks, nodding at my copy of Wuthering Heights laying closed on my lap.

"Oh, no one. I'm just reading it again for fun."

"You do that a lot?"

"Reading kind of became my thing when I spent so much time by the pool. I've always had my nose buried in a book."

"That's cool. I've never had much time for it. Hockey always kind of ruled my day."

"You don't do anything else?"

"Well, I didn't say that," he replies with a smile. "I like video games."

"Of course you do."

"And I like foreign movies," he goes on like I haven't spoken. "Especially French films."

I almost have to do a double take I'm so surprised by what he's telling me. "You speak French?"

"Je suis décent à elle," he says in what sounds to my untrained ear like a perfect Parisian accent.

"Say something else!"

He laughs. "Tu n'es pas si mauvais, Natalie."

"What does that mean?" I ask eagerly.

"Oh no," he says, shaking his head. "That's my secret."

"Cheater."

He shrugs. "Those are my rules."

"How long have you been speaking French?"

"Since I was a kid. My mom grew up in the south of France so she raised me on both languages."

"I'm impressed."

"See?" he teases. "I'm not just some dumb jock who sits around playing video games all day."

I blush. "I didn't say that!"

"No, but you thought it."

"Maybe I did."

"I'll try not to be offended," he says. "What are you doing this weekend?"

My breath catches in my throat and I knock the book onto the ground for the second time tonight.

He grins and bends down and hands it back to me. "Careful there," he says.

"Oops," I finally manage to squeak out. "Thanks. I'll try to stop doing that."

"So about what I was saying," he says. "Plans this weekend?"

I look over at him and lean back so I can better see his face. Where's he going with this?

Is he...well...is he asking me out? Or is he just being curious and friendly?

I hope he isn't taking pity on me and my plans to read all weekend.

Is there anything worse than that?

"Um," I say. "I don't know. I mean, Ivy mentioned something about this party, but I don't know if I'll go and -- "

"Hang out with me," he says, cutting me off before I can ramble on with this lie about Ivy for a full ten minutes. I'm grateful.

"What?"

He hitches up the sides of his mouth. "You heard me. Hang out with me. Let's do something Friday night."

"Shane, you don't have to do that. I can find something to do. I'm sure you'd rather hang out with your team or something, and I've got Ivy. I'll be fine."

He stares at me. "Nope," he says. "I want to take you downtown. Stop arguing with me."

"Why?"

"Why?" he repeats, looking surprised by the question. "Nat, come on. Just say yes. You haven't even seen campus yet and I said I'd show you."

"Okay," I say after a second. "Sure. Let's do it."

"Great. We won't practice Friday because I've got stuff to do at school, but I'll drive over and pick you up around seven, okay?"

"Is this --?" I'm about to ask if this is a date when my brain finally kicks in and catches up to my stupid mouth and stops me. But, still, I can't help but wonder why he's asking or what this means.

And the thing is, I kind of really want to know.

"Yeah?" he says, raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing. What are we gonna do?"

He shrugs. "I think I'll keep that a secret for now."

"What if I don't like surprises?"

"You do," he says with confidence. "You don't seem like the kind of girl who doesn't like surprises."

He's right and I don't really want to tell him that, but it's hard to keep the smile off my face.

"That's what I thought," he says. "It'll be great. Trust me."

"Just know my expectations are high for you."

"I'll come through." He pushes himself to his feet. "Anyway, it's late. I should be getting home."

"Yeah, aren't you supposed to be on campus? It's a Tuesday night."

"My dad needed help with some stuff around the house. I'm driving back to my apartment tonight."

I nod. "Got it. See you on the ice tomorrow."

"Bonne nuit, Natalie," he says with a grin and a wink before disappearing into the dark shadows he came from.

I glance down at Wuthering Heights on my lap but I'm suddenly less interested in fiction.

At least for tonight, real life might be better than what's between the covers of any book.