“I can’t decide, but my least favorite was when you got slammed into the side of the rink.”
“We call them the boards,” I tell her, trying to control my smile. “Worried about me?”
“The windows shook, and I don’t know if you heard how loud it was, but it was like the air was knocked out of—you,” she finishes with a swallow.
“It was,” I agree. “But that’s all a part of the show. Pretty tame as far as games go.”
“Seriously?” I nod. “And you still play?”
“I love it.” I shrug. I also don’t know what else I would do. I’m good with numbers, but hockey soothes my soul. It has been my therapy and only constant since my dad died and so much of my life went to hell.
“I think you’ve maybe had one too many TBIs.”
“That’s more of a football thing. Like halftimes,” I tease over her saying something about it being a hitting your head thing.
“It’s stupid to divide it into three. Can you really not go an extra ten minutes without a longer break? Isn’t everyone always switching out anyway?”
I chuckle. “It’s as much for us as it is for the Zamboni.”
“The thing that cleans the ice?” I nod. “They never mow the lawn mid-football game,” she says confidently, then reconsiders.
“That’s because grass doesn’t improve by rolling a tractor over it.”
“And ice is better when it’s all wet and gross?”
“Have you ever skated on fresh ice?”
“I’ve never skated, period,” she admits. “But I’d be worried about falling and getting wet.”
“Hold up, you’ve never been skating?” I ask instead of focusing on her getting wet…for a very different reason.
Her mouth opens to reply, but then she looks uncertain, and I hate that I’ve done that to her.
“I’m sure lots of people haven’t?—”
“You’re writing a book with a hockey player.”
“Which is a new development,” she reminds me. “I get the idea. You glide on the ice, fly across the rink…” she assures me, but she doesn’t look any more convinced than I am.
“Nope, I need to fix this.”
“What?”
“My reputation as hockey consultant is at stake here. I won’t have you writing something completely off-base.”
“So you’ll what? Read all my hockey scenes for mistakes?”
“I could do that. Given your current knowledge, you’ll need someone to check things.” I realize it may come off as rude, but it’s an afterthought to my main plan. “I’m going to teach you how to skate.”
She laughs, but I’m serious. Eventually, she catches on, and her eyes go wide. Perhaps in fear.
“I’ve rollerbladed, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she assures me.
“I can fix what I see when I read it, but wouldn’t you rather know firsthand?”
“You’re not going to read it, and I can take classes if I need to learn how to skate.”
“Because you don’t want me to, or you don’t want to trouble me?” I focus on the first part, surprised that it hurts. “Or you think I won’t follow through?”
