She lifted a brow and tried not to laugh. “You’re a bad liar.”
Sam chuckled, as the two slowly skated across the ice. He left Conner halfway between the center line and goal, then he lined up pucks in front of him. Even in his pads and helmet, Conner looked so smal next to his dad.
“Could you bring me those sticks?” Sam asked, and pointed to the bench behind her. She shucked out of her bulky peacoat and set it on the bench. She pul ed down the sleeves of her navy blue cardigan and adjusted the wide red belt around her waist before she picked up the two Reebok hockey sticks. One long and the other short. Both had cloth tape wrapped tightly down the handles and around the curve of the blades. Sam’s number sixteen had been written in black Sharpie on the knobs of both handles.
As careful y as possible, she stepped from the matting and onto the ice. She stood stil for a few short seconds, testing the surface to make sure she didn’t fal on her behind. The bottoms of her red bal et flats didn’t shoot out from beneath her, and she careful y moved toward Conner. Chil ed air crept up her bare legs, and flakes of snowy ice slid inside her shoes. The rink looked bigger on this side of the Plexiglas. Longer from end to end. She handed Sam and Conner their sticks, felt her shoes slide, and stuck her arms out to her sides for balance. “Whoa.”
Sam dropped his stick and grabbed her arm with his good hand. “Now I know where Conner gets his balance.”
“I can balance.” She looked up. Way up into Sam’s blue eyes. The skates gave him an extra three inches, which made him about six-foot-five or more. “Just not on ice.” She turned to take a few steps, but his grasped tightened.
“Put your arm through mine.”
“I don’t want to pul you down if I fal .”
He let go of her with his hand and stuck his right arm out from his side. “You’re not big enough to pul me down.”
Careful to touch him as little as possible, she threaded her hand under his arm and grabbed onto his hard biceps. Heat rol ed off him and warmed up the tips of her fingers and palm. Hot, sweaty testosterone seeped into her skin, and an unbidden memory of his hot, sweaty skin pressed against hers doubled her pulse. The memory was purely physical and spread warmth up her arm and across her chest. “Jeez, you’re real y hot,” she blurted. He chuckled. “Thank you. You look hot in that dress, and I have no idea why. It’s kind of frumpy.”
She looked down at herself. “It’s vintage.”
“Vintage just means old.”
“Some things get better with age. Like wine and cheese.”
“And whiskey and sex.”
She was not going to take that bait. “When I said you were hot, I was talking about temperature.”
“Yeah. I know.”
She glanced up past the hard edge of his perfect jaw and into his blue eyes. “It’s freezing out here.”
“It’s not that cold,” said the contrary man who threw off heat like a bed of hot coals.
They stepped onto the rubber mats, and she dropped her arm, curling her hand against the warmth in her palm.
“Do you want to go into the lounge, where it’s warmer?”
She looked past him to where Conner stood pushing pucks around. Then for no apparent reason at al , he fel on his behind. “I’l watch you and Conner.” She sat on the bench and wrapped her coat around her bare legs.
“Sit tight.” He headed down the tunnel, and she watched Conner rise to his knees. “Are you okay?” she cal ed out. He nodded, his helmet shifting about on his head as he got his skate beneath him and stood. In hindsight, she should have changed before she’d brought Conner to the rink. Changed into some ski pants and fuzzy boots, but her head was fil ed with al the last-minute things she had to do before the Kramer’s fiftieth wedding anniversary the next day.
Fifty years. She folded her arms across her chest and hunched her shoulders against the cold. Her parents hadn’t lasted fifteen years, let alone fifty. Her grandmother had died before their fifty-year wedding mark, and Autumn’s own wedding… Wel , that one didn’t even count as a real wedding, and if she hadn’t gotten pregnant, she never would have seen Sam again. The fact that there were people out there celebrating fifty years made her think that it was possible, despite her more cynical side.
“Stand up.” Sam’s black sweats and fish logo blocked her vision of Conner. Beneath his good arm, he held a deep blue and green blanket. She stood, and he wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. Her coat fel and covered her feet as he pul ed the blanket under her chin. “Are you sure you’re going to be warm enough?”
She nodded, and the backs of his knuckles bumped her chin. “You’re moving your arm.”
“I can move my arm,” he said as he looked into her eye. “Just not my shoulder.”
“I’m ready, Dad,” Conner cal ed out to him.
“I’l be right there, buddy.” His thumb brushed across her jaw. “Do you remember the other day when we were in my bathroom talking about your muffin?”
“You mean my cupcakes?”
He grinned. “I thought we talked about your muffin.”