Clarisse laughed. “Are you two going to get out of our way, or do we need to fight you for the ice?”
“I’d like to see you try,” Robbie said.
Bash groaned loudly. “Stop flirting. Let’s go.”
Robbie and Clarisse both blushed while the other skaters laughed.
“See?” Bash said. “I make jokes. Let’s go.”
“Bye, Clarisse,” Robbie said as Bash dragged him away.
“Will you guys be at College Ice Con next weekend?” Clarisse called after them.
Every year at the start of the school year, the Collegiate Conference for Ice Sports met in Minneapolis to celebrate the top players from the different conferences in Division I hockey and the highest-performing figure skating clubs, and welcome rookies to their teams. Bash planned on going that year; Kurtzman had hinted that Bash might be getting an award.
“We’ll be there!” Robbie called over his shoulder.
Bash stopped on the ice and looked back at Clarisse. “You’ll be there?” he asked.
“Yes.” She cocked her head. Her expression was unreadable. It almost looked like playful defiance. She was challenging him to ask the question.
He wouldn’t let himself look weak by not asking. “And Adonis?” he continued. “He will be there?”
Clarisse looked like she was trying not to grin devilishly. “He will.”
Bash nodded once. “Good. Maybe we can find another trivia bar there.”
“I knew you liked him,” Robbie said when they left the ice and headed towards the locker room.
Bash didn’t spare a look for his co-captain and friend. “I will impale you on a hockey stick,” he said, but there was a slight bounce in his step as he walked on the rubber mats from the ice to the locker room.
Chapter 8
Adonis
On one hand, the Collegiate Conference for Ice Sports was a nice networking event, a pipeline into professional sports where college athletes could mingle with agents and advisors, attend panels, and participate in informal competitions and scrimmages on the ice. On the other hand (or maybe because of all of this), it was a pressure cooker for social and professional tension.
Adonis had attended every year of his college career, and as a senior, he was excited for his last romp in Minneapolis.
Over the years, he had made friends (and a few enemies) at College Ice Con. He was excited to see both friends and enemies, and especially excited to see Byron Fitzpatrick, an ice dancer from Stanford with whom Adonis enjoyed at least one amorous encounter whenever they were in the same city.
Adonis had texted him before the conference and already knew what room Byron would be staying in at the conference center’s hotel. He packed the necessary tools and equipment for at least one fun night.
The figure skaters and hockey players from Bellford going to College Ice Con were booked on a flight from Boston to Minneapolis, with a short layover at Chicago-O’Hare. Adonis loved airplanes and flying, and spent most of the first flight watching a movie, chatting with Hugo and Clarisse, and doing everything he could to not look at Bash. The hockey player sat in the row next to Adonis and spent the entire flight with earbuds in, his eyes closed. Adonis briefly wondered if he might be deceased, but when they landed, Bash opened his eyes and sat patiently until it was their row’s turn to deplane.
He glanced over at Adonis and caught him looking.
Adonis quickly looked away.
“You first,” Bash said to Clarisse, Hugo, and Adonis, letting their side of the row off first. Hugo and Clarisse wiggled out of the cramped seats, and Adonis followed, lugging his backpack with him.
His carry-on had gotten wedged in the bin above, and he wrestled with it while Clarisse and Hugo continued down the center aisle.
“Let me,” said a deep voice behind him. Adonis froze as Bash stood behind him and reached around him with both arms to get the suitcase. For a moment, Adonis was bracketed between Bash’s muscular arms. He caught a whiff of the hockey player’s cologne, a stark contrast to the stale, recycled air of the plane.
Bash grunted lightly, moved his arms, and lowered the suitcase to the carpet. “There.”
Adonis was a Victorian woman in need of a couch on which to faint. “Thank you,” he said.
