"That makes no sense."
"Art rarely does. That's the point."
On the other side of the rink, their goalie Brogran, whose disposition normally made Tarmek look gregarious, was showing Edie his phone with an expression that could almost be called a smile. She was perched on the boards with her legs swinging and her paint-stained overalls bright against the arena's muted colors, and she was laughing at whatever the phone displayed.
Brogan never showed people his phone.
Tarmek scowled, his stick cracking against the ice.
"Problem?" Fen skated past with a knowing grin.
"No."
"Because you look like you want to murder someone. And not in the fun, hockey way."
"Skating drills. Now."
Fen cackled but complied, and Tarmek forced his attention back to practice. He ran the team through formations until their legs burned and their lungs screamed and not a single player had breath left for chatting with visiting artists. It was brutal and probably excessive and definitely motivated by something he refused to examine.
But every time he looked up, Edie was still there. Watching. Sketching in that damn notebook of hers. Occasionally waving atsomeone on the ice with cheerful obliviousness to the chaos she was causing.
She caught him looking once. Their eyes met across the length of the rink, and she had the audacity to smile. It wasn't a professional smile. It was a smile that said I know exactly what I'm doing and I'm enjoying every second of it. He looked away first. He told himself it was because he needed to focus on the drill.
The team dinner was Sam's idea.
"Community building," she'd said, when she'd announced it at the previous day's meeting. "Edie's going to be here for at least two months. She should feel like part of the Enforcers family. Plus, I already made reservations and ordered the appetizers, so this is technically not a request."
Stone's Throw was Greenwood Hollow's closest approximation of upscale dining: a converted farmhouse with exposed beam ceilings, a fireplace large enough to roast a small vehicle, and a menu that specialized in what the owner called "mountain fusion cuisine." In practice, this meant large portions of meat with interesting sauces, and everyone seemed satisfied with the arrangement.
The team had taken over the private dining room in the back, shoving together three long tables to accommodate twelve-odd players plus the coaching staff plus one small redheaded artist who had somehow ended up seated directly across from him.
He suspected Sam's involvement. Sam had an innocent face and a devious mind.
"So," Edie said, propping her chin on her hand and fixing him with those warm brown eyes, "I hear you've been running extra drills this week."
"Standard practice intensification before the pre-season tournament."
"Funny. Fen said you've been, and I quote, 'skating the team like you're preparing for war against demons instead of the Northridge Yetis.'"
"Fen talks too much."
"Fen is delightful." She stole an olive from the appetizer platter in front of her without breaking eye contact, and he tried not to growl. "He showed me pictures of his grandmother's collection of cursed artifacts. Did you know she has a mirror that tells you the exact moment of your death if you look into it at midnight?"
"I've heard."
"He looked into it."
"What did it say?" he asked before he could stop himself, and she gave him an impish smile.
"Eighty-three years from now, complications from competitive eating."
A sound escaped him. He wasn't sure if it was a cough or something worse. Across the table, her eyes lit up like she'd discovered gold.
"Was that almost a laugh? Did I almost make Tarmek Stonefist laugh?"
"No."
"It was. I heard it. I'm telling everyone."
