Page 6 of Put a Rink on It

“Yep.” It’s easier to say yes than explain what I’m actually doing with Marina. Kids don’t tend to understand the reason behind meeting her like this.

“At our rink?” This time, a girl asks the question, her hair pulled off her face, matted down by a helmet.

“Yep,” I repeat.

“Can we stay and watch?”

This is where things get tricky. I hate telling them no, but the rinks’ policies are usually clear about private time being private. Especially when a professional player reserves the rink.

Thankfully, parents step in, persuading their children to wish me a good night. I appreciate not having to be the bad guy.

I stop by the front desk and say hello to the manager. I’ve gotten to know him well in the past few years.

He sticks his hand through the open glass window to shake. “Rink’s all yours.”

“Thank you for accommodating me on such short notice. I appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

I don’t like using my status to get ahead, but sometimes it helps to have a recognizable name. I had planned to go to a different rink yesterday before my agent called with the news of me possibly becoming a member of the Hartford Nautilus.

But I’m not thinking about that at the moment.

I head into the rink, toss my bag down on the visitor’s side bench, and dig a pair of practice skates from my bag. These meetings with Marina aren’t about skating hard. They aren’t even about training.

They’re about spending time with a friend, doing something we both love. This is the next best thing besides being together in person.

Which, if the trade goes through, will be the biggest benefit of it—seeing Marina more often.

An incoming FaceTime alert drags my attention to the phone, a picture of Marina and me from August when I saw her last illuminating the screen. My finger easily swipes to answer, and her gorgeous face graces my view, her ice-blue eyes mirroring the clean, fresh ice behind her.

“Heya.” Her lips part in a smile, and her golden-brown hair piles on top of her head in a messy twist.

“Let me see your fancy nails.”

No, I didn’t forget I didn’t see them. She never texted the photo she promised last night.

Yes, I might have a slight obsession with spoiling her.

She doesn’t hesitate to highlight her fingers up to the camera, red and white stripes in different patterns covering her nails.

“Fancy, Ms. Keeley.”

“I freaking love them. I love how I splurged for gel. Err, I had the forethought, you provided the funds, for gel nails. I’m not even afraid they’re going to chip while I’m skating, and I only got to bed late last night because Ma and I went to dinner. Not because I was worried about sticky nails.” Her smile brightens as she yaps, and I’m not too vain to admit putting that smile on Marina’s face is something I want to do often.

“Did you download the book?” I ask, lacing up my skates.

“I laughed out loud when the email hit my inbox. A cozy mystery isn’t what I was expecting. Yes, it’s queued up, ready to be listened to.”

“The hardcore mysteries and thrillers were getting to me. I needed a change of pace. The reviews are good, and the author’s local to the Saint Paul area. If it’s good, we can get a signed copy.”

“This ‘we’ business again.”

She said the same thing last night, but I’m still at a loss for what she means.

“Isn’t that what you do? Collect book trophies for your shelf? Or are you not one of those social media girlies?”

She stares at me, her eyes unblinking. After a full minute, give or take a few seconds, her lids close, showcasing the taupe eyeshadow. She blows out a breath. “Dare I ask how you know this?”