I turn my head to give her the you're-full-of-shit look and she breaks. "Okay, okay. I know what you mean."
I grin. "You're my people."
"So," Leila says, uncapping a marker, "how was your weekend? Mine was chaos. Hubs tried to install shelves in the garage. Emphasis on tried."
"Hm?" I'm only half-listening because Ace is now bent forward, stretching his hamstrings, andoof. "Oh. Fine. Got stood up by a blind date, but whatever."
"Oh honey. Sorry to hear that. But you know what they say. Plenty of fish in the sea."
Yeah. And I want that fish specifically.
The one currently doing crossovers at the far end of the rink, his edges so clean they could slice bread. The fish that lookslike what Michelangelo had in mind when making David, but he couldn't quite capture the movement.
And I'm drooling.
I drag my eyes away from Ace—who's now doing some stretch that involves his legs spread wide and I need to be sedated—and focus on the task at hand.
That's why we're here in the first place. Multitasking. Every minute counts.
I grab a marker and start sketching a dog on the poster board. It looks like a deformed potato with legs but I'm committed now.
On the ice, Ace is skating backwards, stickhandling a puck, and the way he moves is unnaturally graceful for someone built like a tank. He makes it look effortless, powerful and controlled, and my brain is going places it absolutely should not go in public.
The arena doors bang open and a group of men file in, led by Marcus. Must be the firefighters. I recognize a few from the bar.
Coach Martin and Washington skate over to greet them, and the team gathers at center ice, still breathing hard from warm-ups.
"This should be good," Leila says, setting aside her marker.
The first firefighter steps onto the ice with the confidence of a man who's about to regret everything, takes one stride, and immediately eats shit. I’m yanking full-body, arms-flailing, spectacular wipeout that ends with him flat on his back, staring at the ceiling with the expression of someone reconsidering all his life choices.
"Maybe I'll just watch from here," one of the other firefighters says.
"Nope!" Marcus claps him on the shoulder and shoves him onto the ice. "All in, boys!"
The rest of the firefighters step onto the ice with varying degrees of caution, and it's like watching baby deer try to walk for the first time—all gangly limbs and zero coordination.
Becker skates over, demonstrating basic skating—push, glide, push, glide. He makes it look easy because he's probably been skating since before he could walk.
One firefighter mimics him.
Sort of.
He's got the pushing part down but the gliding turns into flailing, and he crashes directly into the boards with a bang that makes me flinch.
"Maybe less speed," Becker suggests.
"I wasn't trying to go fast!"
Wall takes over, showing them how to stop. He demonstrates a hockey stop—quick, controlled, ice spraying dramatically.
Another firefighter attempts it.
He does not stop.
He slides across the entire fucking rink, arms windmilling, until he crashes into the opposite boards.
"I think he's dead," I whisper to Leila.
