Skating: 2P Canada and Reader: Commission
With a heavy sigh you stuffed the skates back inside the bag. You traded them for an ibuprofen that would hopefully get rid of the soreness from running into the rink wall about ten times and falling down twenty, leaving bruises all over your body and a headache that made you give up ice skating for the day.
But you would back tomorrow, and the next, until you could finally skate in a circle without falling down and come to a complete stop without using the wall. Until then you would have to trudge down to the work room and feel self-conscious as people glanced at various bumps or bruises on your forehead, or a runny nose that you had rubbed raw.
“Matt?” you asked, pushing the door to the work room open and peering inside, looking for your Canadian friend who drove the Zamboni and carpooled to the rink with you.
He was lying on the leather couch in the small room where none of the furniture matched. His nose was buried in a hunting magazine that you assumed was filled with hot girls holding guns and “hunting”.
“I’m here,” he mumbled,
“I’m ready to go,” you said, eager to get out of there so you could go home and take a hot bath that would melt away the aches in your shoulder, the pounding headache, and the cold that still nipped at your nose.
Matt stood wordlessly, too absorbed in his hunting magazine to notice the large bump on your forehead or your swollen lip that you had bitten when you fell on your stomach and bonked your chin. He followed you out of the office and didn’t look up until you reached his truck, an eyebrow raised in either curiosity or amusement.
“What’s so important about this party that you have to kill yourself?” you heard him mumble as you climbed into the drivers’ seat.
Your cheeks suddenly felt warm. Another friend of yours was holding a skating party and she had promised that it would be filled with single guys. You normally wouldn’t care about that sort of thing, but you had your reasons, reasons you’d rather not tell Matt so you just let him guess that your look of embarrassment was because he guessed right.
“There are going to be a bunch of guys there, right?” he said, his chocolate brown eyes glancing away from the magazine and over at you.
The half-truth had made your face burn and you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, not daring to make eye contact with him, as he smirked in triumph behind the magazine.
“Weren’t you invited to the same party?” you mumbled and remained silent until you got home. Matt moved to the driver’s seat before saying goodbye.
Once inside you changed into sweats and made yourself some hot chocolate, snuggling into the couch with a large blanket draped over you and the TV remote in hand. You yawned as the TV came to life and one of the many skating videos you had borrowed came on.
You had hoped that watching the videos would improve your skating or at least motivate you but the only thing that could possible motivate you had already driven away and you ended up sleeping through the movie, waking up with sore joints and a horrible throbbing head ache, feeling more tired than before your nap.
You lay there for a moment, starring off into space as your filmy eye sight adjusted to the dim light of the living room lamp, realizing that your parents were already home and that it was probably late.
It was confirmed with a glance at your cellphone. You had two texts and it was already one a.m. For once luck was on your side and tomorrow was a Saturday, but you had planned to get up early and use that day for extra practice.
You checked your messages before standing. One was from your friend who was holding the skating party, babbling words of encouragement and reminding you that half the football team would be there, and the second was from Matt, telling you that he didn’t…have work tomorrow.
You sighed. It seems that the main part of your plan was messed up, but then, through the foggy sleep that clouded your brain, you got an idea. Your fingers quickly flew across the keyboard and you smiled to yourself, not caring that you would have to skip that relaxing bath.
In the morning you would have something that would ensure no bumps or aching joints, and would improve upon your plan immensely; a personal skating teacher.
You were awakened about seven o’clock the next morning by a cough in your scratchy throat, and the various aches and pains throughout your body. But you still flopped out of bed and dressed, rushing out to the driveway with your skating bag flung over your shoulder and a piece of toast hanging from your mouth, barely able to contain your excitement.
Ignoring the ache in your thumb you had checked your phone the minute you woke up. In your inbox was a reply from Matt. He had accepted and would be over soon! Just thinking about him being your skating teacher sent butterflies to your stomach and warmth to your cheeks. He drove a Zamboni so of course he would know how to skate! You mentally cursed yourself for not thinking of this sooner.
His car pulled up and he rolled the window down, his strawberry blonde hair in a ponytail that was messier than usual and his chocolate eyes rimmed with dark circles. He frowned when he noticed your wide grin.
“Nobody should be that happy this early,” he mumbled as he held the passenger’s door open for you.
You giggled, but a cough interrupted it and you coughed for several seconds, trying to clear the scratch from your throat, “I’m just excited,” you rasped.
Matt frowned; “Or sick.”
Panic seized you the moment he said that and you climbed in and buckled up, slamming the door behind you before he could say more and that he knew you weren’t changing your mind. But you felt fluttery when you heard Matt sigh reluctantly and mumble, “I don’t want to make it worse.”
Even though you insisted that you had already eaten breakfast, Matt ignored you and drove up to Tim Horton’s, his favorite donut shop. He ordered a dozen donuts and two coffees, wordlessly giving you the other coffee and ignoring your objections.
You throat felt much better after the coffee and you were able to speak. “How long have you been skating?” you asked, taking a sip of your warm coffee.
Matt kept his eyes on the road and mumbled, “I don’t really skate,” he said.
Obviously you began to worry when he said that. He drove a Zamboni, a large vehicle that was driven over ice to smooth it out. Knowing how to skate would have to be one of the requirements of being a Zamboni driver.
“But…you do know how to skate right?” you asked, worry evident in your voice.
“Something like that,” Matt mumbled and remained silent for the rest of the ride.
When you got to the rink the parking lot was full of cars. You didn’t find out until you stepped inside that there was an early morning hockey game, and luckily for you, it had just ended.
Beefy team players filed out of the rink, some with smiles on their faces and chatty with their teammates about their win. Some glanced over at you and others winked, but Matt gave them steady glares and…wrapped his arm around your shoulder. You ducked your face to hide your prominent blush.
When the rink was finally empty you went inside. The rink was eerily quiet and the only remains of the hockey game were the long ruff scratches in the ice which Matt stared at warily.
“That’s going to take forever,” Matt mumbled; pulling tight the laces of his skates. His legs began to wobble the minute he stood. He cursed and balanced himself on the rink walls.
You on the other hand had gotten used to standing on the skates, but not used to moving. You hoped Matt had the opposite problem, but doubted that when you helped him into the rink and onto the ice.
“Let go,” he snapped suddenly, pushing you away and trying to stand on his own. You felt a bit hurt, but you understood when Matt took a step forward and immediately began to slip and wobble.
He definitely couldn’t skate, but he tried. His hands balled up in fists and a curse word flew from his mouth every time he tried to get his balance, but you didn’t stand there and look smug or agitated. You were by his side, worried, with your hands out even though he pushed them away, insisting he could do this. A few minutes later he was able to stand still and let out an agitated sigh.
“I’m just tired,” he said, and took a step forward. His foot shook for a moment, but it stopped. He had successfully moved a foot from the rink exit.
“Matt,” you said, but he cut you off.
“I can do this!” he snapped, taking another wobbly step, then another, until he was by your side. You could almost feel his nervousness. There were butterflies fluttering through your own stomach.
You grabbed onto his arm to steady him and held on tight so he couldn’t smack it away. “Thank you,” you said your words coming out as fog in the cold arena; that was now unsettlingly silent.
“For what?” he mumbled, his tired eyes, filled with irritation, softened just a bit and his brows scrunched in confusion.
“For helping me,” you said and reached out; pressing your clammy lips against his freezing cheek; that quickly warmed when you made contact. You broke away to admit; “I only wanted to go to the party to make you jealous.”
You enjoyed the blush that covered his face and his larger hand tangling with yours as his other grabbed your arm, and pulled you over to him, pressing his lips against yours and warming your entire body as electricity surged through it.
“I know,” he said, and almost got a quick joking punch to the stomach if he hadn’t admitted, “It worked,” and he pressed his lips back against yours.