O Goalie Night (The Ottawa Otters #1)

Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

BETH

I do not want to do this.

Foster walks us through what appears to be a staff entrance at the back of the complex. I follow him through a series of concrete hallways that he seems to know well. With a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he looks even bigger than usual.

He pushes through a set of swinging doors, holding one open for me so I can walk through. The temperature drops several degrees as I enter the rink which is foreign and familiar all at once.

I spent a lot of time in rinks growing up. Not only was Ben a superstar on ice from the time I was in Kindergarten, but both my older sisters played hockey as well. The unmistakable scent of burnt coffee fills my nostrils and I drag my feet along the thick rubber-coated flooring towards the stands where several pairs of skates are lined up.

“I didn’t know what size your feet were,” Foster admits as he sets his bag down on the bench. “I asked the manager to leave a few pairs for you to try. If none of these work, I’ll find a pair that does.”

I run my fingers over the sleek black skates. They’re all worn but in excellent condition. And they look freshly sharpened. “I think these ones should be fine.”

He sits down and pulls his own skates out of his bag and I join him on the bench, sitting a few feet away. I watch him take off his boots and slip his feet into the skates. His long fingers tighten and pull at the laces like he’s plucking a guitar. It’s mesmerising how quickly he’s laced up and ready to go, while I’m still pulling the skates on my feet.

I start to awkwardly pull at the laces with my gloved hands.

Foster settles in front of me, on his knees. “I’ve got you.”

He slides my right foot between his legs to keep it steady and proceeds to tighten the skate with impressive dexterity. His hold feels intimate, which is utterly ridiculous given the layers of fabric and fibres keeping us from actually touching.

He ties them in a loopy bow before moving his hands to my ankle and giving it a gentle squeeze. “How does that feel?” His voice is husky.

Absolutely incredible.

“Good,” I breathe. “Super good.”

He smiles up at me. “Good.”

Releasing my right foot, he repeats the same process with my left.

I know this should not be so stimulating, but Foster James on his knees in front of me is not a sight I’m going to get over any time soon. He’s all business, focused on the task at hand. Unlike me, who can’t help but notice how long his eyelashes are from this vantage point.

When he finishes, he leans back and looks up at me, a tenderness in his eyes. “Can I ask you something?”

I beat him to the punch by answering, “You want to know why I never learned to skate.”

He nods, but adds, “Only if you want to tell me.”

I pat the spot next to me and he joins me on the bench once again.

“The rule in my house was that everyone learned when ‘the skates’ fit.” I make the finger quotes to emphasise “the skates.” “We didn’t have a lot of money growing up, so everyone in my family learned on the same pair of skates. ‘The skates’ fit me when I was five. I was so excited to learn so I could skate with my sisters. Up until then, I was only able to annoy them on non-frozen surfaces, which put me at a disadvantage every winter.”

He chuckles and I continue.

“There was a pond just down the street that all the neighbourhood kids skated on every year. The dads would take turns clearing the snow from the ice so we could use it. One Saturday over Christmas vacation, the entire family walked down together. We carried our skates in buckets that doubled as seats to sit on as we got laced up. It was the first day the pond was deemed ready to be skated on and every kid from the area was there. I was waiting for my turn to have my skates tied when I heard one of the older boys yell something. To this day, I’m not sure what it was that he said, but after he said it, everything got really quiet. And then chaos.”

I give myself a moment to take another breath before resuming the story. “All of a sudden every parent was screaming. Marcus, a boy a few years older than me, had skated out too far and fallen through the ice. He went under before anyone could get to him and his dad went in after him. I don’t remember much, just being more frightened than ever before. I’d never seen my parents look scared. They got Marcus and his dad out pretty quickly and an ambulance arrived to take them to the hospital. Both of them were fine, by the way.” I shift uncomfortably on the bench, remembering how it felt to walk home from the pond that day. Everyone was so quiet, which was a real novelty for my family.

“Everything went back to normal. The temperatures dropped and people were skating on the pond again within a couple of weeks. But the next time my dad asked me if I wanted to go, I told him I wasn’t feeling well. The time after that, I feigned disinterest. I kept coming up with excuses and before we knew it spring had arrived. It wasn’t obvious to my parents until the following winter that I’d developed a phobia, but by the time they did, I was adamant that I would not skate. Every time I thought about going out on the ice, I’d start to panic. I had several nightmares about being on thin ice and falling in.”

“Did they try to get you to talk to anyone?”

I shrug. “I didn’t want to and they didn’t try to force me. Between raising four kids, their full-time jobs, and Ben’s hockey schedule, it really wasn’t high on their priority list.”

“Are you still frightened?” he asks, glancing at the ice only metres away. “Because they drive a zamboni over this thing. There’s no way we’re going in.”

“No,” I laugh. “I got over the fear of falling through the ice when I was a teenager, but by that time the damage was done. All my friends knew how to skate. My brother was an NHL prospect, for God’s sake. It was easier to lie and say I wasn’t interested than risk looking like an idiot.”

“You could never look like an idiot,” he says solemnly, placing a hand on my knee. I feel the warmth of his fingers through my leggings.

“What about when you saw me dancing?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

“You didn’t look like an idiot,” he insists. “You looked like an uncoordinated person defending herself from a swarm of angry bees, but not an idiot.”

I laugh hard and long, swatting at him as he grins down at me. Even though I’m about to do something I’ve dreaded for years, even though I’m sure I’m going to make an absolute fool of myself and potentially break something, I can’t get over how good I feel when I’m around Foster. He makes me feel safe even when I’m about to do something scary.

He stands, offering me both hands and I tentatively put mine in them. I stand up, steadying myself after a small wobble.

“Ready?” His gaze penetrates all my defences. Forget the ice; I should be worried about drowning in his seafoam eyes.

“Ready,” I say with a confidence I do not feel.

“We’ll start slowly.” He leads me to the ice entrance going slowly for my benefit. “Anytime you want to take a break, just let me know.”

I nod and he lets go of my hands. I watch him step onto the ice like he’s done it thousands of times before because, well, I’m sure he has .

"First things first," With a confident stance and a smile playing on his lips he offers his hand again and says, "Let's get you on the ice."

I nod, suddenly feeling very aware of my awkwardness. Foster towers over me, his dark hair peeking out from under his toque.

Placing my hand in his, I take a tentative step onto the ice, my legs shaking beneath me. He stays close, his presence reassuring as I concentrate on keeping my balance.

“How does that feel?” He assesses me to make sure I’m not panicking.

Well, my heart is fluttering a bit faster than I’m comfortable with, but otherwise I’m fine.

“Okay,” I answer, attempting to stay as still as humanly possible.

"You're doing great," he encourages. "Try to keep your knees slightly bent and your weight centred. It will help with your balance."

I nod, trying to follow his instructions. He starts skating backwards, effortlessly graceful, while I cling to his hands, like a newborn deer on ice. My only job is to remain upright and it’s a position I’m taking very seriously.

"Beautiful,” he praises and I stand a bit taller. “Okay, now we’re going to try to glide. You’re going to push off with one foot, then the other."

I take a deep breath and push off with my right foot, then my left. For one brief, glorious moment, I’m skating.

Holy shit! I’m doing it!

But the moment I think it, my balance falters and I feel myself tipping forward. Foster’s grip tightens, steadying me before I can fall .

"Whoa there," he says, eyes sparkling with amusement and patience. "You're doing amazing. It takes time."

His laughter forces me to relax, and I find myself giggling despite my nerves. We continue at a glacial pace with Foster guiding me and offering tips, his voice always calm and encouraging. As we move around the rink, I almost start to enjoy the sensation of gliding over the ice.

After about ten minutes of our pair's ice dancing routine, he slows to a stop. "You're ready to try it on your own," he says, releasing my hands and moving to stand beside me instead.

“Are you sure?”

"I'll be right here if you need me."

For a minute, I don’t do anything but stand still and take up space. Foster remains at my side, as promised, not rushing me.

You can do this, Beth.

I take a tentative step, then another. The steps are so tiny, I’m not even sure if you can call them steps at all, but at least I’m moving forward.

My movements become smoother and to my surprise, I manage to stay upright, gliding slowly but steadily across the ice. I don’t look at Foster out of fear of losing my balance, but I feel him beside me like a reassuring shadow.

I make my way from one side of the rink to the other completely unassisted. When I reach the boards, I place a hand on the glass to steady myself and finally look up to find his smile even bigger than my own.

Before I can say anything, he scoops me up like I weigh nothing and spins us around on the ice while I cling to him, giggling uncontrollably .

"I knew you could do it," he murmurs against my hair and I think this might be one of the best moments of my life. Setting me down, he beams at me with pride. “You didn’t fall once.”

Looking up at him, I’m not so sure.

Against all reason and self-preservation, I think I might be falling very hard.