“You don’t feel…weirdwhen you’re at the rink around those guys?” I question. “I mean, they stare. A lot.”
“No.” She shakes her head, but then a beat later, she smiles. “I mostly feel horny. Maybe a little jealous. Rook Slater always looks at you like he wants to chain you to his bedpost and have his wicked way with you, and I’d like to have my wicked way with him. Or his brothers. Any of the Iron Knights will do, really.”
A laugh bursts from my lungs. “He looks at me like he wants to kill me, Al.”
“With orgasms, maybe.” She snorts. “A death I’d happily accept if I were in your position. It’s been a long ass time since I’ve gotten my kitty licked.”
I pick up a pillow and throw it at her. “You’re foul.”
Alyssa laughs her ass off. “More like,I’m sexually repressed because school is turning me into a hermit. I’m definitely going to need to go out this weekend and get some play. Even stray kitties need love.”
I roll my eyes and laugh. “That’s exactly what you said two weekends ago after you met a deadline. And the deadline before that. And the deadline beforethat.”
She shrugs and pops another chip into her mouth. “Patterned desires are indicative of an underlying need, Ky. It’s scientific.”
Alyssaloveshooking up. I, on the other hand, take a more chaste—some might even saypicky—approach to sex. Sure, I’ve messed around with guys, but at twenty-four years old, I’ve yet to find the right guy to have actual sex with. Alyssa thinks I’m batshit crazy for holding out this long, but I’ve never second-guessed it. For some reason, I’ve always felt really confident that I’ll know when the time is right.
“You really don’t get skeeved out by them?” I ask again, the thought looping back as a shiver runs down my spine.
“They’re harmless, Ky.” She waves a hand. “Just a bunch of macho cavemen.”
I shrug. I guess she’s right. It’s not as if any of them has ever crossed a line before, and it’s a little unfair of me to project my assumptions onto them without proof.
I grab my duffel from the hallway closet. “Okay, I’m out. I’ll see you later.”
“Have fun!” she calls toward my retreating back. “I’ll just be here, rotting into the couch!”
I snort and head out the door, making the short drive to the rink with my head in the clouds. My mind races with client folders from work and ways to let Gammy down gently and hockey guys and their wandering eyes.
It’s not long before I’m pulling into the parking lot of the rink and cutting the engine, and a horrible sense of not even knowing how I got here snaps me back into focus.
I’ve got to shed some of this stress, or I’m going to be a hunchback by the time I’m thirty.
The sky is pitch black, and the winter air hovers as I lock my car and walk inside, scanning the parking lot as a precaution. When the rink door shuts and locks behind me, restricting access to people with a membership fob of their own, I relax a little.
The rink smells like ice and rubber and sweat in a familiar and grounding way that settles a calm into my bones and reminds me why I dragged my tired ass here in the first place.
I lace up my skates and take off my hoodie, reveling in the relief that hits me as soon as my skates hit the ice.
The rink is blissfully empty, and my heart instantaneously full. There are no hockey guys finishing up a game, no shouts or bodies being violently slammed into the glass, and no expectations or deadlines to be met. There’s just the low hum of the lights overhead and the clean bite of cold air against my lungs as I free myself through the movement from one end of the rink to the other.
This is exactly what I needed.
I start my laps, letting muscle memory and rhythm take over. The tension of work and Gammy and weird feelings—along with a million other weights I didn’t even know I was holding—begins to loosen, and I can feel my shoulders drop as my breath evens out.
This is why I come here. This is peace. This is home.
Maybe it’s because it makes me feel close to my mom and dad—they met here at this very rink and fell in love nearly thirty years ago, before they had me. Before they passed away. Maybe it’s because it’s the only thing I do just for me. And who knows, maybe it’s even simpler—a true testimonial for the endorphins in exercise.
But whatever the reason, I’m grateful such a place exists.
I’m halfway through my fifth lap when all those good feelings start to meld with something of a different kind. It’s a subtle shift—a slight raise of my now-relaxed shoulders and a tingle at the back of my neck. But it’s enough to get my attention.
I slow my speed and move my eyes away from the ice and toward the plexi. I spot Holland on the other side of the glass, one shoulder resting on it casually. As our eyes meet, a soft smile spreads across his mouth.
“Long day?” he calls out toward me, and my stomach tightens a little.
How long has he been here?Whyis he here?He’s not dressed in hockey gear, and the Fighting Fangs don’t usually practice on Monday nights anyway.
