18. Denny

18

DENNY

" Y ou're going to have to peel away from the board, babe."

Hank nodded, removing one hand, pausing to test his balance before removing his other hand and…promptly falling on his ass. Again.

I crouched low and tugged at his elbow.

"No. Leave me here," Hank grumbled.

"Hey, don't give up now. You're doing great."

Total lie. He was terrible. Hank was overthinking the whole blades on ice thing 'cause balance definitely wasn't the issue for a guy who'd spent years in the saddle. It was a mind fuck, and I wasn't sure how to get him to relax enough to move instead of letting gravity take over.

"Until skating on your ass becomes an Olympic event, I think we can both agree this isn't going well," he snarked.

"C'mon. Let's get you up and try again."

He sighed but allowed me to help him to his feet. "Now what?"

"Let go of my arm. Okay, now bend your knees and keep your weight over your skates, head up." I skated backward, nodding in approval. "That's good. Now pretend there's an invisible string tied to the rafters that won't let you fall, but you only activate it if you move your feet. Remember, lean forward."

Hank glided toward me on his right skate, and left, and right, and—wobbled, swinging his arms like a helicopter about to take off before eating it. "I can't do it. It's not in my genes."

"If you can ski, you can skate."

"Not me."

"You can do it," I insisted.

"Just leave me here. I'll be all right."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not giving up."

I'd specifically waited till the coast was clear to give Hank his first lesson. Not that this was a secret. It wasn't. I didn't care who saw me attempt to teach a newbie how to skate. There were probably a few people in the lobby and I was pretty sure Vinnie and Riley were in their offices, but I figured Hank was probably happy not to have an audience.

"You should." He got to his feet, bracing one hand on the boards as he glanced around the deserted rink. "Is a pillow strapped to my ass still an option?"

I laughed. "No, but I promise to kiss it better later. I'll even blindfold you if you want."

"Using sex as a weapon," he tsked. "You play dirty, sweetheart."

Geez, I think I blushed. I skated into his space and brushed against him. "I like that…sweetheart."

Hank flashed a sultry smile, incongruous to the white-knuckled grip he had on the boards. It shouldn't have been sexy at all. But it was. "Want to get outta here?"

"Skate lesson first. C'mon, big guy, you got this," I cajoled, praising his itty-bitty strides and offering pointers along the way. Push and glide, head up, knees soft, shift your blades.

You know, it wasn't pretty, but twenty minutes later, Hank was kind of, sort of skating. It was shaky, like a baby giraffe learning to walk, but at least he'd stopped falling every other minute.

"Hey, not bad," he said, arms wide, a silly grin on his handsome face. "I'm doing it. I'm skating!"

I clapped. "You'll be ready for the Elmwood adult rec league next year."

Except…Hank wouldn't be in Elmwood next season. And technically, I'd only be here for another couple of weeks. I had a contract to finalize and details to deal with, and if I was moving to New York, I needed to do that before preseason training started. Our window was closing, little by little every day.

He smiled wanly. "You never know."

I lifted Hank's fingers to my lips, unthinking, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, then opened his reddened palm and kissed it too. Seriously, what was I doing? Anyone could pop their head in, and I wasn't sure there was a logical explanation for holding his hand.

"Your hands are cold."

"So is my butt."

I snickered. "You're a good sport. Can I buy you ice cream to make it up to you?"

"What happened to blindfolding me and fucking me senseless?" he groused.

"Fine print, baby. That was only if you could skate the length of the rink. We'll try again tomorrow." I held his hand and guided him to the exit. "Chocolate chip sound good?"

Half the town was in line at Ye Ol' Elmwood Ice Cream Shoppe. I'd been at the rink all day, but even at eight thirty p.m., the temperatures were still in the seventies. Camp kids and locals looking for a cool treat at the end of the day were either here or guzzling milkshakes at the diner. I liked both options, but the ice cream store was quick and inexpensive. The Wellers hadn't raised their prices in the past ten years.

In fact, nothing much had changed in the shop. They had the same black-and-white tiled floor, the same frosted case featuring twenty flavors, and they played the old-time music, which meant it was probably the music my dad heard when he'd come here as a kid.

"Two scoops chocolate chip, Denny?" Mr. Weller asked, holding up a cone.

"Yes, please." I hooked my thumb at Hank. "My friend is?—"

"I know who your friend is. He's here almost every day." Mr. Weller winked. "Two scoops vanilla and pecan pralines and cream, Hank?"

Hank grinned. "Yes, sir."

"Comin' right up."

I smiled at the teenagers I recognized from camp as I shuffled to the register with Hank. "I didn't know you were a regular."

"I like ice cream and they have the best—" He paused, angling his head toward the window. "I think your friends are here."

Sure enough, a group of my buddies were waving like goofballs from the picnic table on the side of the shop under a string of fairy lights. Niall, Abe, Micah, Harry, MK and a few of her friends. I waved, handing over a wad of cash and thanking Mr. Weller for my ice cream.

"I should say hi."

"Yeah, go on," Hank urged. "I'll see you later."

"Nah, come with me. They're cool."

"I know they are, but they want to be with you—not their boss, and not the guy they think is making moves on their girl's boyfriend."

"They don't think that."

Hank snorted. "I'm sure they do. Besides, I need to ice my ass."

I rolled my eyes. "That's ridiculous."

"The ice or my astute observations? You know I'm right, Den," he said in a low voice. "I'll see you later."

He was gone before I could respond and that was…fine. I mean, we weren't dating, we weren't a couple. We were the very definition of temporary.

But that motley crew out there were my people, and they would always be part of my life. I licked my ice cream, ignoring the pang in my gut at the thought of losing Hank…of meeting him after a game next year or bumping into him on the street and pretending we never happened.

Okay, that was bleak.

I forced unhappy thoughts from my head and pushed open the door, smiling as my friends greeted me with a round of "Yo," "'Sup, man," and even an annoying, "Here's the hot shit…I mean hotshot."

I flipped Niall the bird and sidled next to MK on the bench.

"You made it!" Mary-Kate scooted to make room, elbowing me playfully. "How are you? I haven't seen much of you."

"Just busy."

"No one's seen much of this guy since he started riding horses in his spare time," Micah piped in, crunching into his cone.

"Riding horses?" Harry asked. "In Fallbrook? Why? I didn't know you liked horses."

Harry had played hockey with us in high school, but he'd never been into it. His passion was food, and he'd spent the last year in Paris studying at an elite culinary institute and was currently visiting Elmwood for a short vacation. We had a secret bet that he'd be working for Jean-Claude and Nolan at C'est Bon when he came home for good. His time out of the country had left him out of the loop and the guys were happy to fill him in.

"Our boss is his instructor." Niall scraped the bottom of his cup with a plastic spoon and shrugged in a universal "Don't ask me how that happened" gesture that made me want to kick him under the table.

Harry's brows creased in confusion. "Huh? I thought you worked at the mill."

"Don't remind us," Micah griped, polishing off the last of his cone. "Hey, the pay is good and the work is steady, but you can't help feeling like you're selling your soul."

I bristled on Hank's behalf. "What do you mean?"

Niall rolled his eyes. "Oh, c'mon, Den. This isn't news. The Cunninghams are chopping up our forest to give that new construction company supplies to build houses on every open bit of land in Wood Hollow. A bunch of outsiders are going to buy places in our area, take our jobs, and where the fuck will we be? Twenty years from now, will we even have a forest?"

"They wonder why they're having a hard time hiring," Micah huffed. "No offense to your new buddy, Denny, but let's be real, this is some grand-plan bullshit. They stole the mill from the Larsons and they're brainwashing us into thinking they're doing us a favor."

"No one stole the mill," MK reminded him. "The Larsons sold out. And how are they brainwashing us, moron?"

"They sold it for a song, which means they probably got cheated. And the new owners brainwash us by sending over a slick cowboy who fucking brown-noses his way into everyone's good graces." Niall pushed his empty cup aside, gaze hardening as he warmed up to his list of grievances. "Look, I know you like the guy, Den, but you gotta admit it's suspicious that he showed up, befriended a successful hockey player, and started volunteering for homegrown causes out of the blue. This is how corporations plant the seeds for mass takeovers. They buy a small business, ingratiate themselves in the community, then buy another business…and another. Little by little, they own more and more of the land. And natives, like us, are shit out of luck."

MK snorted. "Wow, your pessimistic outlook is bordering on conspiracy theory territory. If you're so against the new ownership, why work for them?"

"Where else would we go? They pay well, the benefits are great, and the mill is really nice. We're like lambs being fattened up before a slaughter. They want us fat and happy, eyes on the shiny coin so we won't notice when Wood Hollow is unrecognizable. It's gonna happen, man. It's gonna happen."

I bit into my ice cream cone as I considered my reply. I wished I had my grandmother's quick wit and claws. If we were on the ice, I'd know what to do without thinking twice.

See, this was tricky 'cause in a way, Niall and Micah were right.

Everything they said about the Cunninghams was basically true. Hank's dad had bought the mill for profit. It was a business move, plain and simple. Hank was an ambassador, the friendly face sent to assure residents they came in peace. The difference was that I believed Hank in spite of the fact that he'd asked for my help to do exactly what my friends were accusing him of.

And I'd agreed…for sex.

That sounded creepy, like I'd been complicit in selling out my town, and that wasn't true. What happened between Hank and me was personal. It had nothing to do with Elmwood or Wood Hollow.

Or maybe that was delusional thinking.

Maybe I'd unintentionally put myself in the middle of this debate.

Fuck .

Diplomacy wasn't my thing, but I had to speak up.

"Change can be good," I said after a long moment. "New blood, new ideas, new growth. Maybe it doesn't always go smoothly, but if you want to get real…ask yourself how we build a high school or invite hundreds of kids and their families to spend their hard-earned dollars for hockey camp and not invest in our infrastructure? You can't expect people to commute from fucking Rutland, for fuck's sake. You can't have it both ways. Something has to give. It doesn't have to be the end of an era or of the forest. It can be a beginning."

My friends stared at me in frozen silence for a beat, no doubt wondering why the guy who conserved words like a miser was suddenly giving speeches. For the enemy, no less.

"You're sipping some interesting Kool-Aid, bro. But hey, I could be wrong." Niall fixed me with a harsh look. "I don't think I am. I think they'll hire outside of our area and the cowboy will fuck off back to Denver at the end of summer or fall at the latest. He's not one of us. He's pretending to be to get what he wants. If he were staying for good, that would be different."

I furrowed my brow. "How so?"

"It would mean he gave a fuck about this place."

"Okay, enough about the mill." MK slapped one hand on the table and squeezed my knee with the other. Maybe in solidarity, maybe in warning that this wasn't a battle to be won over the dregs of ice cream on a hot summer night.

She guided conversation to camp news—the kids who'd lined up to get autographs from goalie legend Olaf Gustafson, the parents who'd cheered their son obnoxiously from the stands during a drill, and how much more boisterous this group seemed compared to the last one with kids trying to outskate, outscore, and out-BS each other.

The stories turned to our camp days when we'd thought we were immune to the pomp and circumstance of hosting famous athletes for a few weeks during summer. News flash: we weren't. We'd been in awe of those players, tongue-tied at the idea of sharing the ice with them.

"That hasn't changed," I commented, gesturing to the long line outside of the ice cream shop. "I bet Mr. Weller makes more money this summer than ever. There're two sides to every coin."

Niall kicked my shin under the table and Micah gave a rude hand motion while everyone else snickered, reverting to adolescents who relied on silliness to get out of uncomfortable discussions. Fine by me. I'd made my point. I could figure out my part in this later. Right now, it kind of made my head hurt.