Cam spots me first. Waves me over with his stick.
"Morning, Coach."
He says it loud enough for the gallery to hear. Testing the title in the vast arena like he's checking the acoustics.
"I haven't signed anything yet."
"Details."
Levi skates over. Handshake—firm, genuine, a goalie’s grip. "How'd you sleep?"
"Like the dead. Is it always this quiet?"
"Wait till there’s an event Karla Berisa gets her hands on. Then tell me it's quiet."
Cam laughs warmly at their inside joke. A few from the gallery snicker too.
And a few others pretend not to watch us.
They’re watching.
I lace up.
Step onto the ice.
The surface is pristine. Whoever runs the Zamboni here treats it like a calling, not a chore.
We fall into rhythm easily. Three men who’ve shared enough ice to skip the feeling-out stage.
Cam still skates like he enjoys proving something. Moves like he was born on skates.
Levi moves like he’s already measured the room and decided it’s acceptable.
By the second lap, Cam lowers his voice.
“They’ll make up their minds quick.”
“About what.”
“You.”
I glance at the boards.
The fireman stands easy, arms folded. Not posturing. Just assessing.
The older woman hasn’t blinked.
A man near the corner leans toward another and mutters something. They don’t laugh.
“They always do this?” I ask.
Levi shrugs. “If you’re going to be visible here, they want to know what they’re getting.”
“That’s… to be expected, I guess.”
I glance at the boards again.
"That's Tara," Cam says. "She knows your shoe size, your coffee order, and your high school GPA. Don't ask how."
