and I turned away.'Do you want me to stay around for the lesson?' I asked, when Sam had stepped onto the ice. His shoulders were huge, even without the hockey padding. Patrick gawked up at him.
Sam studied my face. 'You don't want to.'
I thought it might be easier without me.'
Sam smiled; he didn't believe the excuse.
'Call if you need me,' I said, pushing off quickly, aware of the heat in my cheeks.
For the first five laps I skated looking straight ahead, but when I thought they had forgotten about me, I stopped to watch from a distance. Patrick listened intently to Sam, taking in every word. I laughed to myself when his little-boy arms gestured the same way Sam's did, imitating even the non skating moves. How could a guy resist a child who so adored him?
Sam squatted next to Patrick and adjusted the position of his feet for the hundredth time. Patrick skated, began to turn, and took a spill. Tears startedfrom frustration, I thought, rather than hurt. Sam crouched down again. He talked to Patrick, holding his face in his hands. How could a girl resist a guy who was so tender with a child?
Skate, Kate, I told myself, and moved my legs faster, as if I could give my thoughts and feelings the slip. Dion, making his laps, caught my eye and flashed me a smile. I wondered about Sam's friends, who they were, what they did, what kind of girls he dated. I skated on and tried to think about other things, focusing my attention on the talk show that was being broadcast over the college's radio station.
'Is there anyone here named Kate?'
I looked quickly to the right. Sam had caught up with me. 'Sorry, were you talking to me? Where's Patrick?' I asked, spinning on my skates, looking for my charge.
'He's okay. Dion's taking care of him.'
I skated more slowly, checking out the situation across the rink.
Sam matched my strides. 'So how's it going?'
'I think he's catching on. You're a good teacher.'
Sam sighed. 'I was asking about you.'
'Oh. Everything is, uh, going well.'
'Everything like what?' Sam asked.
I felt confused, by his presence more than his question. 'Like… whatever it is you were asking about!'
He laughed, and the back of his hand brushed the back of mine.
'About Patrick,' I began.
'A safe subject,' he remarked, 'especially given the others we share.'
'Do you know where they sell hockey sticks for little boys?'
'Yes. I can go with him when he's ready to buy. But don't rush him. Let him get his confidence as a skater first.'
Sam's hand brushed my hand a second time.
'In the meantime I should get him some kind of crash helmet,' I said.
'Definitely.'
'About your hat, the one you lent me yesterday, I'll get it back to you.'
'No hurry.' His hand touched mine a third time.
'Kate, when a guy skates with a girl and brushes her hand, she is supposed to take it.'
'I know that.'
'But you choose not to. Okay,' he said, laughing. He skated ahead, then turned around quickly, skating backward, facing me.
'I really appreciate your spending the time with Patrick.'
'It's fun.' Sam skated closer to me, his legs matching the movement of mine like an ice dancer's.
'I can't see past you,' I told him.
'You don't need to. Just follow me.'
'Follow a guy who is skating backward and can't see where we're going?'
I know when someone is behind me,' he replied. 'It's a sixth sense.'
He skated closer still, as close as he could without actually touching me.
He's doing this on purpose, I thought.
'You'd skate better if you didn't look down,' Sam said. 'You don't have to worry, my feet will move out of the way of your feet.'
'I'm not worried,' I insisted.
'Look up. Keep your eyes on my eyes. Trust me,' he said.
I glanced up, briefly meeting his eyes, then tried to look past his left shoulder.
'Trust me, Kate,' he said softly. ''I can't.'
'Give it a try. It's not hard. Just skate and look me in the eye.'
I did, and it wasn't hard. In fact, it was far too easy.
There was no music, but we were in perfect rhythm. We didn't touch, but his dark eyes held me, his intense gaze keeping me there, his body tantalizingly close.
Then suddenly, that sixth sense of his failed. Sam was stopped as if he'd backed into a brick wall, and I flew into him. His arms wrapped around me. We spun off the rink wall and he held me tightly against him. His face was a breath away from mine-he could have kissed me. His eyes lowered, and I thought he might, then Dion's laughter burst the moment. Patrick cackled.
Sam and I released each other slowly.
'Dion, you jerk!' Sam said, grinning at his friend, who had skated into us.
I laughed, trying to act like a normal teen girl with school friends, but nothing seemed normal to me. How can it, when your heart is beating absurdly fast and you feel a person's fingers like heat under your skin?
Dion looked pleased with himself. Patrick tried to laugh with a deep voice like the older boys, which made them laugh more. I got through the moment by focusing on Patrick, playing my nanny role.
Sam reminded Dion about their pile of homework, and the two of them left. Patrick and I skated a little longer. When we emerged from the college athletic center, a soft snow was falling.
Patrick swung his skates, kicking up the thin frosting on the grass. 'No school tomorrow, Kate! They'll have to close school.'
I think we'll need a few more flakes than this,' I said, though it was falling in the quiet, steady way that is the beginning of big snows.
At home, Patrick told his parents of his glorious night, then fell asleep almost immediately. I sat for a while by his bed, listening to his soft breathing and watching the snow. I wished the peace of that moment was mine. But everything was stirred up inside me, questions and suspicions running wild. And through it all I kept thinking about the feeling of being in Sam's arms, being there longer than necessary. Which one of us had been reluctant to let go?
I sat up in bed with a start and glanced around my room, wondering what had awakened me. My sleep had been dreamless. With the heat turned back for the night, the house was cold and silent, not even the banging of old pipes to break the quiet. Shivering, I climbed out of bed and tiptoed to the window.
By the light of the garage lamps I could see that it was still snowing, a windless, silent snow.
Check Patrick, I thought; perhaps he cried out.
I donned my ski jacket, which was warmer than my dressing gown, and started toward the stairway that connected our rooms. Halfway there I turned around. Music-piano music-was coming from the schoolroom. The simple tune sounded familiar, like a nursery school song one had sung repeatedly as a child but had long since forgotten.
'Patrick?'
I hurried into the third-floor hall, then stopped. It couldn't be Patrick-he wasn't capable of playing songs on that level for another two months. My skin prickled. Each note played was like a ghostly finger touching my
