I can’t stop myself, her words from last night keep running through my mind.
Maybe they never had a reason to bother.
She must be wrong. If they were good enough to win games, they would. The team sucks, right?
I decide I should find out. I have a week until their next game, but they train most weekdays in the evening.
Usually, I show up at the rink at ten, an hour before closing, when it’s almost empty, but on Monday, I make a point of arriving two hours earlier, in the middle of the hockey team’s practice.
I grimace, willing myself to think about anything other than my asshole ex. I have enough problems with the men currently in my life.
I act casual, pretending to open a textbook, headphones firmly over my ears, but I don’t bother to turn the music on, and I sneak peeks over the top of the book.
I’m somewhat disconcerted by what I see. While I’m not a huge fan of the sport, never watching it on TV or attending a pro game in person, I’ve been to my fair share of hockey games in high school, given the fact that I dated a player. I have a fairly good idea of how to spot good players. Speed, precision, ruthlessness, strength.
I never really understood the point of ice hockey in California. It’s a northern sport. Back in Michigan, our winterswere cold enough to have decent snow, so most of us were into winter sports. Sunny California doesn’t see much snow. I figured that the team never won anything because the players can barely skate.
I was so wrong.
I make a face. All right, they can skate. Cross, especially, is fast and precise, as at home on the ice as me.
“All right, team!” Cross calls. “Drill seven. Get your asses moving!”
They move in line, skating between cones, puck flying left and right between their sticks, not a single one of them missing a step.
Howare they consistently losing every game? Is the rest of California this good?
“I don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” someone says.
It takes me a second to realize they’re talking to me. Glancing up from the book I’m not reading, I’m shocked to recognize the blonde in many of Cross’s pictures online. I even think I saw her in passing yesterday.
She wears a short skirt and a lovely red silky top with a deep sweetheart neckline under a cardigan. Perfect clothes for October in Thorn Falls. Not so much for the ice rink. She must be freezing her ass off.
“Oh, I come almost every day,” I say somewhat dismissively.
She lifts an eyebrow. “No. I would have noticed you.”
There’s no room for argument in her tone.
“And yet.” Rather than justifying myself further to a complete stranger, I return to my textbook, this time actually reading the words.
“So who are you watching? Carmichael? Goltz?” the blonde pushes, making me snort.
Who in their right mind would come here to stalk Markus Goltz? Dez would have their skin.
“Actually I’m waiting for them to finish so I can skate, if you must know.” I kick the triangular padded bag at my feet to illustrate my point.
“Oh, you’re in the skating class?” Her tone is suddenly a lot friendlier. “I want to try. Is it very difficult?”
I purse my lips. The beginner class right after the hockey practice takes up half of the rink, which is why I normally only show up after that. “No, I’m not part of the class. And skating’s pretty easy."
That is accurate, for me, but judging by the way some people penguin waddle before face planting when they first try, I am not certain that is a universal truth.
“Maybe I’ll sign up. But I’m not putting my feet inrentals. Where did you get your skates?”
I glance down at my bag again. Inside, I have Riedell boots fitted to me, with perfectly sharped blades. I had to save up for months before getting them. One glance at the blonde tells me price won’t be an issue.
“I’m from a skiing town. I got mine back home. I think there’s one in town—Pro Skate?”
