Probably just a belt, the rational part of me suggested.
The other part—the part that had straightened napkin holders at The Drop last night and needed something to control when everything else went off the rails—came up with other explanations.
I skated over and crouched beside Old Greta's front blade assembly, tracing the bolts with my fingertips.
"Something's off," I called. "The blade energy is... wrong."
I didn't know what blade energy meant. But my mouth spat the words out anyway.
"Are you hexing the Zamboni?"
Jake stood beside me, arms crossed over his chest.
"I'm saving it. There's something wrong with the blade. Listen."
We both listened.
Old Greta sat in silence, refusing to perform her symptoms on command.
"Camera guy's watching," Jake whispered.
I started to sweat.
"Piatkowski."
Coach Rusk's voice cut through the bay. He stood in the doorway, expression radiating disappointment.
"Coach, the blade—"
"Away from the machinery."
"But—"
"Away."
I backed off with my hands raised. "Trying to help. Proactive maintenance. Team spirit."
I retreated to the ice before Coach could assign me punitive drills.
Warm-ups usually cleared my head. If I skated hard enough, the static burned off, and all that remained was the ice and the puck.
I threw myself into the action. Focused crossovers, edges sharp. I pushed harder than I needed to.
For thirty glorious seconds, it worked.
Then Adrian shifted his position near the boards, lifted his camera, and I felt it—a spotlight sensation between my shoulder blades.
I nearly collided with Desrosiers. He swore at me in Quebecois French.
"Sorry! My bad. Didn't see you."
"You have eyes!"
"They're decorative today!"
Coach's whistle cut through everything.
"Bring it in. We've got a visitor today. Two-way contract from Chicago. Donnelly—get in here."
