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“Not well!” I screech.
“You’ll be fine.” He throws the suit at me. “Hurry up.”
My heart is pounding in my chest as I shove off my shoes and start to pull the suit on.
We both see the problem at the same time.
My hips.
The suit catches at the widest part of my hips.
I tug, but it’s stuck.
The man clears his throat. “I’m not saying this to be a pervert, but you gotta take your pants off.”
My eyes snap up to his. “You can’t?—”
The music changes again.
“One minute! Just hurry!” He waves his hands.
“Cover your eyes!”
We’re both shouting, but he slaps his hands over his eyeballs.
I drop the suit and shimmy out of my jeans.
When I get them off, I kick them across the closet and yank the suit back up. It’s still tight around the hips and ass, but I get it up.
“Okay,” I breathe.
He opens his eyes and holds one of the skates steady for me.
I jam my foot into it as I pull off my bulky jersey and turtleneck, positive I’ll die of heat stroke if I leave it on, meaning I’m left in nothing but my underwear and my bra.
This is why you always wear a comfort tank top under your shirt.
The man works on my laces, and I pull the zipper up as far as I can reach.
Thirty seconds later, the slightly too-large skates are tied tightlyonto my feet, I’m zipped the rest of the way up, and the Blizz head is securely on my head.
The man opens the closet door and points to the left.
“There will be someone dressed in all black, and they’ll tell you when to go out. When they do, you just gotta carry the Sleet flag to center ice. Then stand there and wave it around while they introduce the players. When the anthem starts, rest the bottom of the flagpole on the ice and stand still. Then when it’s done, come back here.”
“I’m gonna throw up,” I tell him.
He snorts. “You’re gonna be fine. Now hurry!”
Holding my arms out at my sides, I shuffle-run down the hall in the direction he pointed.
My balance is questionable, and I can already tell wearing the wrong size skates is going to be a problem. But when I reach the turn, I find myself in a wide opening right at the end of the ice rink.
“There you are!” A woman in black rushes to me, a giant Minnesota Sleet flag in hand.
“S—” I swallow and deepen my voice. “Sorry.”
She shoves the flag into my hand, then crouches down.
