Page 68 of Blue Line

“No, it’s perfect. I’m excited, but…” I hesitate.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know if I’ll be taking any pictures.” I toy with the camera bag in my lap.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to. Whatever you feel like doing.” He reaches over and squeezes my knee.

When he goes to move his hand, I put mine on top of it. He turns it over under mine, and then we’re holding hands. I like it. I realize I haven’t held hands with a guy over the center console of a car in a long time.

He clears his throat. “Are we going to talk about the other night?”

My heart skips a beat. “What’s there to talk about?”

“Wanted to make sure I didn’t …” he trails off, and I wait for him to continue. He takes a deep breath before saying, “Wanted to make sure I didn’t cross a line.”

“No, you didn’t. Did I?”

“You cross a line? How would you do that?”

“I don’t know. I figured if you were asking the question, I should too. I enjoyed it. A lot. Everything about it.”

That causes him to glance over at me. “Would you do it again?”

“Yes, and I have a couple of ideas for how we can make it even more enjoyable.”

He groans, shifting in his seat, and I can’t help snorting. “Tornado, you’re killing me.”

“You’re the one who wanted to talk about this now,” I point out. “We could have had this conversation at home, where we could have done more than talk about what went on between us.”

He shakes his head.

When we finally pull into the parking lot, there’s only a couple of other cars here, like he predicted. We decide to leave our lunch in the Jeep while we walk around. He guides us to one of the trailheads.

“This one is short, about a mile round trip. But it’s got great views of the lake, and there’s plenty of shade.”

“Perfect,” I say, smiling up at him. He takes my hand, and we make our way down the trail in silence for a while.

“What made you get into photography?” he asks after a few minutes.

“From a young age, I always enjoyed taking pictures at Holt’s game. Of the players. Other people. Random things in the stands. It kept me entertained during the countless hockey games I got dragged to.”

“And you never thought about being a sports photographer?”

“It crossed my mind, but”—I wave a hand around—“as I got older, I wanted something for myself the way Holt had hockey. My parents didn’t so much as blink when I asked to take photography classes or asked for a new camera. They were happy to oblige.” I sigh. “I think they felt guilty.”

“Why?”

“Because they spent so much money on Holt playing hockey over the years. I think they felt bad about it.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, squeezing my hand a little tighter.

“I’m the only one in my family who isn’t athletic. My dad played hockey too. He never made it to the NHL, but he was in the AHL for a couple of years. Even my mom was an athlete. She ran cross-country in college. When I was growing up, she was always training for a half or full marathon. She even did a few triathlons. My dad was always helping Holt with his hockey skills. And I …”

He stops and tugs me into his arms. “You what?”

“I always felt as if I didn’t fit in. I once asked if I was adopted.” I bark out a laugh. I’ve never admitted that to anyone, not even my brother. “I have zero athletic skills. I can ice skate, but nothing fancy. I’m decent on roller skates and a bike. Play catch, sure. But that’s about it.”

“I can’t imagine what that must have felt like growing up.”