Cinderella in Skates (8 page)

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.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Natalie!" Shane's calling my name as I try to get my things together and get out of here. "Natalie, what's wrong?"
 

I hear him but I'm not listening as I shovel my stuff into my hockey bag and grab my skates, no time to put them away properly. I can't meet his eyes. I have to get out of here. Bile rises up in my throat but I force it back down.
 

Now isn't the time for that. All I can think about is getting away from Shane, getting away from this lie.

I leave the check on the floor where it landed after slipping from my fingers and hurry toward the exit.

"Natalie!" he calls.

His footsteps clomp behind me, heavy with the ice skates he hasn't had a chance to take off, but I don't want to see him, don't want to look at his face and remember his warm eyes and great smile sitting across from me just a few nights ago, and how he hadn't really wanted to be there at all.
 

And I don't even want to begin to think about how dumb I've been.

I'm almost to the door now, just a few feet away from getting out of this stupid ice rink for good, when one of his hands lands on my shoulder and the other grabs the door handle so I can't turn it to leave.

"Let me out." My voice seeps out between clenched teeth, low and strained. I don't look at him.

"Wait," he says. "What's going on? What happened? Are you okay?"

Anger bubbles up in me. "I want to leave."
 

"But why? Nat, I have no idea what's going on here."
 

"Yes, you do," I say, finally looking up to meet his eyes, sure that there's a fire burning in mine. "This is because of what you did."
 

He raises an eyebrow. "But what did I do?"
 

I stare at him, my lip curling back, disgust washing over me. How can he stand there and pretend he has no idea about any of this?

"I
saw
it, Shane," I spit. "Stop pretending you didn't take money from my parents."
 

He lets out a sigh, stares at me and doesn't say anything for a few seconds. "That's not -- "

"Spare me. It was right there in my hands."
 

"Natalie, please, let me explain this," he pleads. "It's not what you're thinking."
 

I raise an eyebrow as some anger deflates out of me --
not
because I believe him but because it's really hard to look into those beautiful green eyes of his and stay angry.

"So you didn't take money from my parents to teach me how to play hockey?"

He blinks rapidly. "I -- Nat, Friday night didn't happen because of your parents' checkbook."
 

I suck in my breath. I'm not okay with him taking money from them, not at all, but I have to work to keep my cheeks from twitching upward at his comment.
 

"That doesn't matter," I tell him. "You lied to me."
 

He shakes his head. "No, I didn't."
 

"Well, you conveniently didn't tell me you were getting paid to spend time with me."
 

"That's because I'm not. I'm getting paid to teach you how to play hockey, that's true," he says. "I'm getting paid to coach like all the other coaches out there. But, Nat, I spend time with you off the ice because that's what I want to do."
 

I roll my eyes. "Whatever you say, Shane."
 

He takes his hand off the door and I move to grab the handle and bolt, but before I can both of his hands land on my shoulders and he gently spins me toward him.
 

"Listen to me," he says. "I didn't tell you about the money because I didn't want you to think I was hanging out with you out of pity or because of your parents or anything like that. Because of your reaction right now. I wouldn't have taken you out Friday night if I didn't really want to. I'm not like that. I promise you, Natalie, it had nothing to do with that check. I don't even know if I want the money."
 

"Yeah, right," I scoff, but I think back to how troubled he looked holding the envelope when we first started practice.

"Promise," he repeats.

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because you have no reason not to."
 

I raise my eyebrows. "Are you kid--"

"Okay, maybe now's a bad time to say that," he admits. "But we had a great time on Friday. At least I did. And I'm not saying that they did, but even if your parents had asked me to take you out, I'd still want to go again because I had so much fun."
 

With his warm hands burning into my shoulders and eyes staring into mine, pleading with me to understand all of this and relax, I almost want to shake my head and smile and rewind to just twenty minutes ago when I was so happy about us.

"I don't know what to think."
 

"Ask them," he offers, taking his hands off me, and I'm immediately sorry they're no longer touching me. "I don't know what to say if your mind is made up and you're not willing to listen."

"Like they'd tell me they paid someone to hang out with me."
 

He lowers his eyes and shakes his head.

"What?" I ask.

"I'm surprised you think I'm that big of a jerk."
 

I glare at him sharply. "You're not the one who got burned here, Shane."
 

"I know. I'm sorry. It just sucks that you think I'd do this to you."

"You took money from my parents and didn't tell me. What am I supposed to think?"

"I thought they told you."
 

"Oh, please. Now I know you're lying."
 

"Natalie, I promise you, the money is just for the skating. Only business. That's it. I was going to ask before you left if you want to go to the winter festival with me this weekend."
 

I stare at his face, searching for some sign that he isn't being straight with me but I can't find a reason not to believe him.
 

"I just wish that I'd known about this before," I finally say.

"If you believe me, this doesn't change a thing," he replies. "I still want to see you."
 

A small sigh escapes my lips, but he goes on before I can say anything.
 

"And even if you don't believe me, please give me another shot, Nat. I really don't want something that I know is this meaningless to ruin whatever we've got going here."
 

I narrow my eyes slightly, suddenly desperate to know exactly what it is he thinks we have going.
 

I think for a second back to the scene at the university's terrace on Friday and how easy it was to be with Shane, paycheck or not. Maybe I'm naive but I'm not convinced you can fake that kind of connection with someone just for an extra couple bucks.

But I've been wrong before.
 

"Okay," I say. "We can go to that winter thing."
 

He blinks. "Really?"

I nod. "Yeah, I want to check it out, anyway." I'm trying to keep my tone light and casual, like I'm only going with him because of the festival and not because I want to spend time with Shane, but I'm not sure it's working all that well.
 

A small smile flickers at the corner of his lips. "Oh! Well, okay. Great." There's a pink blush creeping into his cheeks. "I'm glad you want to."
 

I shrug, trying not to lose the leverage I gained today. "We'll see how it goes."
 

My indifferent tone doesn't do much to rattle the grin on his face.
 

"You won't regret it, Nat," he says. "Promise."
 

***

I haven't given much thought to the whole situation with Shane with my tryout looming the next morning. I have to get this right. Not only so I can go back to Arizona early but so I can prove that I didn't waste my time -- and Shane's.

Not that that matters much, considering he gets his money one way or another.
 

But despite it all, I don't really want to disappoint him.

I don't pay much attention to my classes all day as my stomach twists harder and harder as the clock ticks closer to three o'clock. I keep running over what I packed in my gym bag last night, suddenly convinced I've left a crucial piece of gear at home that will doom me in the tryout.