As I pull open the door to the rink, the cold air hits my face, sharp and clean. Here we go. Another day for me to prove to everyone that not only do I belong here, but I’m ready for the number one job.
I step onto the ice, expecting the bite of my blades as they slice into the surface as I push off, but I get nothing.
My feet shoot out from under me like I stepped on a cartoon banana peel.
“Whoa!”
My arms windmill, desperately flailing as I try to regain my balance. Unsuccessfully. For a second, I’m suspended in mid-air, staring at the rafters as I realize with crystal clarity that I am about to land flat on my ass in front of the entire team.
SPLAT.
I hit the ice hard. The impact jars my teeth and knocks the wind out of me. My stick clatters away.
For one heartbeat, the only sound is the hum of the compressors.
Then the laughter begins.
It starts as a snort and erupts into a chorus. I lie there, staring up at the ceiling as my face burns hot enough to melt the ice I’m lying on.
I sit up quickly, but my skates still can’t get any grip. I contort myself to look at my blades, and when I see them, my jaw clenches.
Clear tape, neatly applied along the full length of the skate.
Rage flares in my chest, hot and bright. Are you kidding me? This is peewee-level garbage. This is—
“Careful there, Bambi.”
Lou is towering over me. His mask is pushed up, and he’s grinning like the cat who not only ate the canary but thanked the chef afterward.
“Ice is slippery, eh?” he teases. Then he winks at me—winks at me—before extending his gloved hand to help me up.
I stare at it, the urge to smack it away almost irresistible. I want to yell at him that this is my job, that I’m trying to be professional, that I don’t have time for his frat-boy nonsense.
But then I look him in the eye. He’s laughing, yeah, but it doesn’t seem like he’s mocking me. Not really. His eyes are… warm? Friendly?
There’s a sparkle in them that hits me right in the chest, and my anger dissipates. A little.
I take a breath, swallowing my pride. I’m a team player. I can take a joke. I have to take a joke.
“Ha ha,” I say drily as I grab his glove.
He hauls me up with surprising strength, and for a second, we’re almost pressed chest to chest. He smells of coffee and mint toothpaste with the slightest hint of goalie pad funk.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then flicks back up to my eyes. What was that? Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought when I went down.
“Gotcha!” he says, and is it my imagination, or is his voice an octave lower than usual? “Always remember to check your blades, Rook.”
He winks again and releases my hand before skating backward toward the net, still wearing that shit-eating grin.
I quickly grab the boards so I don’t wind up on my ass again before gingerly stepping off the ice and sitting on the bench. My heart hammers as I peel the tape off my skates.
I’m pissed because he embarrassed me. But more than that, I’m pissed because for a second, when he pulled me up, my hand in his, I didn’t want him to let go.
Practice is a grind. I spend the next ninety minutes playing angry. I make save after save, fueled by humiliation and rage.
By the time we wrap up, I’m exhausted. I shower quickly, keeping my head down, and pack my bag. I just want to get to my car, blast some angry music, and analyze every save I didn't make perfectly today.
I hoist my gear bag over my shoulder and push through the heavy back door of the facility, squinting against the gray Seattle daylight.
