21. CONOR

CHAPTER 21

CONOR

M y heart is beating at a million miles per hour because I just skated as hard as I did during practice drills for my former professional hockey team— not because this is a skating date with Sierra Fernandez. Because this isn't a date. We're here for work.

Except it feels a whole damn lot like one.

The nicest pair of size eight rental skates hang from my hand as I walk the tunnel, every step making my body thrum with more and more energy. It wasn't even like this when I made my way out to the ice for the winter classic game I played in my rookie year. That's the chokehold this woman has on me already.

I hit the ice, my eyes immediately seeking her figure. She sits on the bench glancing around like she's trying to memorize this view, until her eyes find mine. She smiles so wide that her cheeks turn pinker.

Meanwhile, I feel like I'm being checked against the boards and my lungs lose all the air.

That's it for me. There's no going back now. If anything, I need to find a way to move forward with her. I need to tell her the truth—that she's driving me wild and I need her to give me a chance.

"Hey." I'm breathless as I brake in front of the bench.

"Welcome back."

What's the German word for when someone's smile increases your blood pressure, but at the same time you don't ever want to look away from it? I'm sure there's one.

Clearing my throat, I say, "Found you some semi new skates. Do you know how to lace them?" I lift them over the boards and offer them to her.

"How hard can it be?" But the way she eyes them warily and doesn't take the skates tells me everything.

I straighten up and glide over to the door, still carrying the skates in my hand. I tower over her and Sierra has to crane her neck back to keep meeting my eyes. My voice is a throaty, raspy mess as I tell her, "I'll help you."

Sierra's eyes widen as I lower myself to my knees. I hook a finger around her shoe laces and pull.

"Conor!"

"Hmm?"

"I can take my own boots off!" She tries to pull her foot away but I'm faster. I clasp my hand around her calf and that freezes her.

"I'll be much faster, trust me. Besides, I have to make sure that the skates are laced right so you don't hurt yourself."

"What if my feet stink?"

I lift my face, biting my lips so I don't laugh. "Do they?"

Sierra folds her arms, face scrunched up in a pout. "I don't know. I don't think so, but you seem to have a dog's nose and now I'm nervous."

I chuckle. "Well, I appreciate the concern but your feet can't possibly smell worse than a locker full of sweaty men and their gear soaking up all that juice. "

"Eww." She pretends to gag. "That's not the mental image I needed."

"Sorry for ruining any fantasies you may have had." I remove the first of her boots and pause. Her feet don't stink but I think her real worry was this—her Hello Kitty socks. I lift my eyes only, looking at her over the rim of my glasses. "Cute."

I enjoy the way her cheeks explode with heat. "Not another word, Mahoney."

"Didn't know they sold these in adult sizes—ow!" She smacks me hard on the shoulder.

"I warned you." Her eyebrows crash into a fierce frown that would've cowed me months ago.

I'm still laughing as I fit her with the skate. She has to shift closer to the edge of her seat for her foot to go in all the way, and I stiffen as she puts her hands on my shoulders to prop herself. Too soon she removes them, and I trap the skate between my knees to work on the laces, testing with my fingers for the right fit.

We repeat the same process on the other side and I have to bite the inside of my cheek so I don't quip about her fluffy, pink socks again. I never would've pictured tough as nails Sierra Fernandez having a weakness for cute stuff like this, but then again this is why I want to go out with her. To discover what else lies between a perfect baseball throwing technique and Hello Kitty socks.

Once I'm sure she's not going to twist her ankles out there, I put my hands on my thighs and meet her eyes again. "Ready?"

"I'm not sure." Her shoulders rise toward her ears. "This seemed like a fun idea fifteen minutes ago, but now that I have knives under my feet I'm not so sure."

Slowly, I rise to stand on my own knives and offer my hand. "I won't let you get hurt."

Sierra stares at my hand for a moment, until my skin starts to itch. Finally, she places her gloved one on top. "And you won't make fun of me?"

"That, I can't promise." I grin.

After a long sigh, Sierra pushes herself off the bench and stands. She wobbles slightly and I hold tighter onto her hand, but that's all the help she needs up until she's right at the edge between the flooring and the ice. There, she pauses like she's deciding whether to jump off a cliff.

"I wore braces in high school," she says in a mumble out of the blue. "If all that effort goes to waste tonight, I'll hold you financially responsible."

I snort a laugh. "Is the great Sierra Fernandez chickening out?"

"Absolutely not." She lifts her chin, slides one skate on the ice, and promptly loses her balance.

I catch her in my arms, easily pulling her against me. Her hands clasp on my jacket at my sides and she keeps her face buried in my chest. I leave my hands wrapped around her arms, trying my best to behave like a gentleman. No doubt she can feel the rapid slamming of my heart against her face, though.

"You okay?" I whisper.

Sierra's response is muffled against my chest. With a deep breath, she pulls away enough to look up at me. Her eyes are wide, lips parted in surprise. "Oh my gosh, this is so much more slippery than I expected."

It takes my brain a moment to process what she's saying, where we're at, and who I even am. "Ah, yes. You uh, get used to it."

"Will I?" She cringes.

I move back carefully, still keeping my hands on her arms as anchors. "If I can do it, so can you."

"Says the guy who was probably born wearing skates." She looks down at her feet and that makes her tense even more .

"Look at me." For once, Sierra obeys. "First of all, that would've been too painful for my mom. Second, I had to learn like everybody else. Third, you don't need to be a professional of any sort to have fun. Loosen up, Sierra."

Her eyes widen almost comically. "Have you met me? I'm the most wound up person in the planet. I don't know how to do that."

"Yes, you do." My eyes lower to her lips as she bites them. She's loosened up in my arms before, when we made out under a mistletoe as if nothing else mattered. Or even when she threw felt-wrapped baseballs at a velcro tree. "You're capable of so much more than you think."

I skate backwards, pulling her along. Sierra gasps and clutches at my forearms with all her strength, but she doesn't let go. She doesn't fall. For a blissful moment, it's just the two of us gliding down the ice. I'm happy to do all the effort as long as she doesn't let go—and she doesn't, even as I slide my grasp down her arms to hold her hands.

"Doing okay?" I ask.

"Better than I expected."

"We'll have you shooting pucks in no time." I run my thumbs over her gloved knuckles but stop when she says my name.

"Conor…" Sierra bites her lip and I'm afraid I might've shattered the moment, but then she asks, "Do you miss it?"

"Huh?"

"Hockey." Her eyes tear away from mine, fixing on a messy pile of pucks I didn't finish picking up earlier. "You looked like a completely different person when you were skating. Like that was who you really are…"

Shit.

My chest twists in a painful way. Somehow, she managed to see right through me in minutes.

I stop us near a faceoff circle, noting how she's able to balance herself well enough, and I cling to the pride I feel to have helped her get to that point. Just like I do every time I teach the kids how to play the sport that has been a part of my life from the beginning.

"Yes and no," I respond in all honesty. Sierra tilts her head in confusion. "Not being able to play feels like… like having lost a family member. But it's kind of weird, because the grief fills that empty spot so they're still kind of with you all the time, right?"

Her eyes soften and she surprises me by squeezing my hands. "You've lost a lot, Conor. Your parents, hockey…"

I swallow down the lump in my throat and avert my eyes. The last thing I want to do is start weeping like a freaking baby in front of the woman I want. "It's not all bad. I, um, I've gained stuff too."

"Yeah?"

"I have a new dream now—teaching the next generation of professional hockey players. And other silver linings, like…" I turn back to her and pull her slightly closer. I inhale deep, the subtle scent of the ice mingling with hers, and I bury them in my mind forever. Two of my favorite things.

"I'd still be trapped in a toxic relationship. I wouldn't have started working at SPORTY …" My heart races, trying to tear out of my chest as I say, "I wouldn't have met you."

Sierra's lips part in a soft gasp, shocked as what I'm implying sinks in. I stay still, waiting for a sign that she's okay with this, that I can kiss her again and whisper how I can't stop thinking about her, about her body pressed against mine, about how her clever quips make my soul sing, and how her dark eyes have the power to make my entire existence thrum with music.

Or not. Or a sign that she doesn't feel this way at all. Or that she doesn't welcome anything more than a friendlier work relationship than we had before .

Sierra runs her tongue through her lips and says, "Conor, I?—"

"What are you two kids doing there?"

We both jump away from each other. Sierra flails her arms, yelping as her weight shifts. I rush forward and wrap my arms around her before she tilts too far.

"Gramps." I breathe hard. "How long have you been there?"

Did he hear what I just said? Because if so, I have to prepare myself to find the nearest cliff and jump from it.

As usual he ignores my question, though. "Are you planning to suffocate the young lady?"

"What?" I glance down. I have Sierra pressed tight against me and when I tear away, she takes a big gulp of air and her face is beet red. "Sorry, I?—"

"It's okay. Maybe, erm, we should start doing some actual work," she mumbles.

The way she evades my eyes doesn't bode well. And even though there's a serrated knife slicing off a chunk of my heart because of what that means, I don't let go of her hands as I help her to the bench to remove her skates.