Cinderella in Skates

chapter SIX





I'm not nervous to meet Shane for practice today. I probably should be because it'll be the first time I've seen him since we went to the terrace together Friday night, but I already know it's going to be great this afternoon. Not awkward at all.

I smile, thinking back to what we did just a few days ago as we sat there by the lake, talking and listening to music until just after midnight. My eyelids eventually started getting heavy and I couldn't keep my yawns hidden anymore, and Shane insisted we both needed to get some sleep even though I didn't want to leave.

But he promised me we'd go back again.

So when I walk out of the locker room and out onto the ice later that day, I'm not worried about what he's going to say or how he's going to act.

Even if he didn't kiss me good night on Friday.

I drop down onto the wooden bench to lace up my skates and when he still isn't here after I'm all suited up, I reach into my bag and pull out my copy of Wuthering Heights.

I'm just at the part where Heathcliff returns when the echo of the door squeaking opening ricochets through the otherwise empty rink. My head snaps up and I can't keep a smile from spreading across my face when I catch sight of Shane walking toward me.

"Hey lady," he says once he gets closer to me. "Still working on that book, huh?"

I hold up the closed copy in my hand before tucking it into my bag. "I've been busy lately."

He smiles. "Hope the distractions are worth it, at least. I don't want to cut into your reading time."

"I'll somehow suffer through it," I tell him. "How's your day?"

He lets out a small sigh and shakes his head. "It's fine," he says, but I'm not totally sure I believe him. He looks a little frazzled. "Let's just get skating, okay?"

I frown. "Are you sure?"

He nods. "Yep. C'mon, Melter, out on the ice."

His lips are trying to form a smile but it isn't the easy, relaxed look I remember seeing so many times just a couple nights ago.

I clomp toward the rink and glide onto the ice. I can feel my legs loosening up as I go around the arena once, then twice.

When I look up, I realize Shane isn't out on the ice with me like he usually is. He's sitting on the wooden bench staring down at a white envelope in his hands. When he catches me watching him, he quickly stuffs it into the side pocket of his hockey bag and stands up, clapping his hands as if he's trying to jolt himself back into the moment.

"I thought maybe today we'd just focus on conditioning," Shane says, but I notice he doesn't get on the ice with me. "Laps and drills and stuff."

I nod, hands on my hips. "Sure. Let me grab my stick."

"You won't need it. Suicides first."

I groan and stare at him. He knows how much I hate suicides.

"Don't even think about talking back to your coach," he says, raising his eyebrows and wiggling them slightly. "Now get to it."

I sigh and skate over to the far red line and start the drill. He hasn't said how many he wants me to do and I'm not about to skate at full speed if he's thinking about this as an endurance challenge instead of sprints.

As I'm skating, I glance over at him and frown. He's back to sitting on the bench. He isn't holding the envelope anymore but he's staring down at the floor with his elbows resting on his knees. Something isn't right with him, and even though I'm pretty sure it has nothing to do with me, I can't help but feel unsettled about it all.

I finish two rounds of the suicides and when he still hasn't blown his whistle -- or even looked up to check out my progress -- I skate over to the boards.

"Hey," I say, and he jumps. "What's up with you today?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing, I told you. How many suicides did you do?"

"Two rounds."

"Weak." But there's a smile -- a real smile this time -- on his face. "Okay, let's try something else." He tugs on the laces of his skates and gets to his feet.

I head out onto the ice and Shane follows me.

"Goal line," he says.

When I turn around, I realize he's holding out two hockey sticks to me. I take them from him with a frown.

"Pull me to the other net," is all he says.

"What?"

"Hold the sticks like this," he says, positioning them so that I have one in each hand. He grabs onto the shooting end of the sticks behind me. "I'm not going to do any work but you're going to tug me to the other goal line by pulling on the sticks."

"What the heck? Why?"

He laughs. "Because it'll get you in good shape, that's why."

I roll my eyes and sigh, but set up to do as he tells me. He knows better than I do.

It takes me a few extra seconds to pick up momentum but soon I'm huffing and puffing across the ice to the other goal line with Shane chuckling softly behind me. I stop just outside the neutral zone and spin around.

"You think this is funny?" I ask.

He immediately stops laughing and tries to look serious, which just makes me want to laugh. "No. Not at all," he says. "This is very serious."

"I know what this is," I say, letting go of the sticks. "You just want a free ride around the rink at my expense."

"I would never! I'm shocked you think so little of me," he replies, feigning horror.

"You've shown you simply can't be trusted," I tease, and the dark cloud that passes across his face disappears as quickly as it comes, but I still notice and it sends my stomach plummeting to the ice. I don't like it.

"Okay, come on," he says. "This really is a good drill. I'll even give you a couple of tows later just to make it fair."

I look at him for an extra second but nod and pick up the sticks I'd let tumble to the ground.

After four trips up and down the ice, he makes good on his word and tows me around once just for fun. It's a lot easier for him than it had been for me.

"Do you mind if we cut practice a little short today?" he asks. "I've got a huge econ test tomorrow and I'd really like to make the review session on campus tonight."

I shake my head. "No, that's totally fine. I'm tired, anyway."

I head off the ice and sit down next to Shane's bag on the bench so I can get out of my skates. He stays on the ice, skating in zigzag lines from goal to goal.

I pull off my left skate first and reach over to place it on the bench next to me without looking but I forget his bag is there and I knock it to the floor.

It tumbles over and lands upside down. Mouth guards, dirty socks and T-shirts spill and scatter across the ground.

"Whoops!" I say as I reach down to clean it up. I scoop all of his hockey equipment back into the bag. I pick up the last stray T-shirt and the white envelope that he'd been so captivated by earlier is sitting underneath it.

A check peeks out of the top of the envelope. At first, the words printed across the top don't register in my mind as I push the check back into the envelope and I don't really care to look at it, but as I turn to put it back inside his bag, I stop for a second, a crease forming in my forehead.

I know this check. The light purple coloring, the swirling script of the names printed at the top, the faded Arizona cacti in the background; I've seen them my whole life.

Without even really thinking about what I'm doing -- it's almost like I'm on autopilot; I'm not feeling or hearing or thinking a thing -- I reach down and pull the check all the way out of the envelope and stare down at it.

The numbness I felt in the pit of my stomach just a second ago disappears, replaced by a strong, swift punch to the gut.

The check is addressed to Shane for the amount of five hundred dollars.

It's from my parents.

My mom signed it.

And the memo line makes it all extremely clear, leaving no room for doubt or explanation.

Shane is getting paid to teach me to play hockey.

He's getting paid to spend time with me.