I’m the last guy in the world who cares about sports, whether we’re talking about the Cubs, Sox, Bulls or Bears, or for that matter anything even remotely athletic. So I was a little surprised when Jacob suggested that we take a trip downtown to go ice skating. But nowhere near as surprised as he was when I told him I thought it was a great idea.
What Jacob didn’t know was that I’d played pee-wee hockey the winter I was eleven. (I didn’t give a rat’s ass about hockey. I had a crush on the goalie.) And what I didn’t know was that the ice rink would look so cool after sunset. All the bare trees along Michigan Avenue had been wrapped in white Christmas lights, and the whole Chicago skyline blazed behind them. Millennium Park was insanely cold, but it was gorgeous.
Jacob must have figured out that I could skate before we even got out on the ice. Not only is he smart that way, but I’m about as easy to read as a billboard. Even so, he still spent more time checking me out than he did enjoying the scenery. It’s weird, the way he stares. He doesn’t stop when I catch him at it. He just smiles a little.
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