Angry metal music bombarded me as soon as he rolled the window down. He didn’t say anything; he just stared at me.
“Can you turn it down?” I asked.
Slowly, he reached for the dial and turned the music down. But only a little.
“Tough loss tonight. I know you don’t want anyone harassing you, but I can tell you’re hiding an injury. I think it’s one of your ribs, but I’m not sure. But what Iamsure about is that it’s affecting your performance on the ice.”
Elias was an intimidating man, but he became truly frightening as his face twisted into an angry scowl. “Fuck off,” he growled in a thick Swedish accent. “If you tell Coach, I will have you fired.”
Then he quickly drove away.
7
June
I stood in the middle of the parking lot, watching the Bronco disappear down the road. At first, I was in shock by his response. I’d never heard Elias sayanythingout loud, let alone to me.
Then I started crying.
The more I tried to stop myself, the more the tears flowed. And once I reached my car, I really started sobbing. I was just starting to feel like a member of the team, welcomed and accepted by the players. And then, in just a few words, the goalie reminded me that I was an outsider.
I knew I was overreacting. It was just one grumpy comment after a tough loss, and wasn’t about me specifically. But I couldn’t help how I felt.
Once I stopped crying, I searched around my car for some napkins to wipe my face. My mascara was running, and my nose was like a faucet. But I couldn’t find anything in my console.
There were only a few cars left in the parking lot, which meant I could probably sneak back inside without anyone seeing what a mess I was. Besides, this would give me a chance to grab the sweatshirt I’d forgotten.
Music was blasting in the arena as I walked through the employee tunnel. Probably the custodians still cleaning up while listening to music, although it seemed louder than normal. Fortunately, I didn’t run into anyone when I reached the bathroom next to the locker room. And that was a good thing because my face lookedawfulwith black streaks running down my cheeks.
As I cleaned myself up, I thought about how unfair it was that men didn’t have to deal with makeup. Or crying, for that matter. Although I’d met plenty of men in my life who could probably use a good cry, rather than venting their emotions in other ways.
I felt better as I went into my office to get my sweatshirt. But then I noticed that the light was off in the conditioning room. I glanced at my watch. Had Rhett already finished up on the treadmill?
The music was still pumping out in the arena. And I had a sinking suspicion I knew who was playing it.
I emerged through the player tunnel by the bench, and my suspicion was confirmed. Rhett Lawson was skating lines on the ice, sprinting back and forth from one end of the rink to the other. Aside from his skates, he was only wearing a pair of black-and-red compression shorts. His bare chest glistened with sweat, and his hair was matted to his scalp.
He wasn’t wearing his sling.
My first instinct was to walk out onto the ice and start scolding him. But something stopped me. I stood there, mostly hidden just inside the tunnel, and watched him skate for a few minutes. The way he glided across the ice, sliding to a stop at the end before turning around, was mesmerizing. Rhett wasn’t a figure skater, but he was still one of the best in the world at ice skating. I couldn’t help but watch him.
Eventually, I shook myself out of it and walked out onto the bench area. I stood there with my arms crossed, hoping that I looked like a disapproving school teacher.
On his next pass, Rhett saw me. He stopped sprinting, stood up straight, and coasted over to me.
“Busted,” I said.
“Shit. How long were you watching?”
“A few seconds. Long enough to see you’re not listening to my advice.”
He groaned. “I’m sick of jogging on the treadmill, June. I miss the ice. I’m not using a stick or anything, I’m just skating lines.”
“But you’re not wearing your sling.”
“I can’t skate as fast while it’s in a sling!” he argued. “It throws my balance off!”
“You’re swinging your arms, which is the kind of repetitive motion that irritates your rotator cuff,” I scolded. “And what if you fall and crash? The ice looks rough right now.”
