“It’s my fault. I saw those cameras and . . . and your friend Tonie and . . .” She looked away, wiped her cheek.
His friend Tonie? “C’mon. Let’s take a walk.” He leaned over, locked his cell phone in the glove compartment, then got out, circled the car, and caught up to her as she opened her door.
“Wait.” He knelt before her, took her slim ankle in his hand, and silently unbuckled her shoe. He did the same with the other, then picked up her spiky heels. In them, she’d stood nearly to his nose, her beautiful eyes so accessible, her lips only—
Yes, this was much better. Now she stood to his shoulder, her power over him diluted.
Until she reached up and pulled her hair out of its twist. When it trickled into the wind, he turned away, letting her shoes dangle from two fingers. He toed off his own shoes as they reached the sand, shoved his socks in them, and took them in his other hand.
His feet sank into the cool, creamy mortar as he led them along the shoreline. A full moon hung over them, turning the waves to an icy shimmer, the water frothy as the surf thundered to shore. He could make out a group of night surfers hot-dogging.
Grace walked beside him wordlessly.
He dug deep, hoping for the right words. “After my dad died, I quit hockey.”
She glanced at him, frowned.
“I couldn’t play anymore. All the joy had gone out of it for me, and it seemed pointless. After all, if he wasn’t there watching my games, why bother?”
They passed the beach area of one resort, moving toward the light of the next. “And then about halfway through the season, my uncle Norm woke me up early one morning, and he and my mom all but wrestled me into the car and drove me to the arena. My old team had a tournament, and they forced me to sit in the stands, watching.”
She had turned to watch him speak—he saw it out of his peripheral vision. But he continued to stare ahead at the glimmering darkness of the ocean, the memory an ache so ripe he could feel it tightening his throat.
“I longed to be on the ice. To hear the roar of the crowd, but also to feel my own power as I skated toward the goal, juking out the goaltender, slapping in the puck. I love the ice. I love playing. I knew that if I gave it up, I wouldn’t be honoring my dad. I’d be turning my back on what he wanted for me. What I wanted for myself.”
She had caught her lip between her teeth and now stared at the ocean too.
“I couldn’t stay in the stands, so at the end of the first period, I went into the locker room and talked to Coach. He let me sit on the bench with the team, and the next day at 5 a.m. I showed up for practice. I haven’t walked off the ice since.”
Grace seemed to be watching her feet kick through the sand. They had passed the second resort. He recognized the boardwalk, the deck, and the palm-edged walkways of their lodgings ahead.
“I don’t know why you’re abandoning the ice, but after these two weeks, I see more in you, Grace, than someone who sits in the stands. You are an amazing chef. You can do this if you want it.”
She looked at him then, and her mouth twitched as if trying to smile. Her eyes glistened, shiny in the moonlight.
He wanted to stop. To take her face in his hands, to run his thumb down her cheek, maybe chase away a tear. Instead he put it all into his voice, softening it, adding the urgency that churned inside him. “And you’re not alone. We make a great team, and I’m in it to win it if you are.”
Something in her eyes shifted as if his words had filtered through the layers of fear or frustration or even disappointment to latch on and pull her out of herself.
“I do want to do it. It’s just . . . I’m in way over my head here.”
Yeah, well, him too, but . . . “I have an idea. C’mon.” He angled across the boardwalk toward the lobby of their hotel.
She trotted after him to keep up. “What are we doing?”
He punched the elevator button and got on with her. At her floor, he handed over her shoes. “Change into your swimsuit and meet me here in ten minutes.”
She frowned, but he answered with a grin, something birthed from the idea swirling inside. “Trust me.”
When she nodded, it was all he needed to head upstairs, change into his doggers and surf shirt, and race back down, towel around his neck. He slipped a tip to the concierge, who let him into the surf shack. He picked out a board and a long-sleeved rash guard and returned to find Grace in the lobby.
She wore a pair of swim shorts and a tankini top, her towel draped around her neck.
He handed her the rash guard as she eyed the board. “Put this on.”
“Max . . .” She glanced beyond him at the board leaning against the arched door. “You do know it’s night.”