“Seriously?” The freshman Terrence has been complaining about groans loud enough for me to hear. Which also means he’s loud enough to ruin the take. “You’re such an ice hog, bro.”
I roll my eyes. “My go-to scent is—”
Leroy enters with a shout, “Distel! It's strength training day, head down to weights already.”
“Am I holding the girls up? Hold on.” He goes to the bench, bending over to grab something. “I forgot my water bottle yesterday. Can’t have me pass out from dehydration, right, Captain?”
Leroy slips his hands into his back pockets, tail flicking like a cat, making it clear it's not in the mood for pets. “Guess so.” He waves to me. “Sorry about that, Rod!”
“Why are you apologizing? Not like he ever practices anything impressive like quads or whatever.”
I dig the heel of my skate into the ice. “Because I’m not interested in breaking my ankle on your hard-ass-ice.”
I’m not going to waste my breath explaining quads alone don’t win competitions, and there’s no way in hell I’m admitting my quads are my weakest element. I’m getting there. I’d rather use one of my technical spots on footwork or spins, but when more and more skaters are landing quads in competitions, there’s more pressure to turn at least one triple into a quad.
This guy can’t tell the difference between an axel and a Salchow, or even a quad and a triple. All he knows is when a skater falls. I refuse to retain the guy’s name. Terrence calls him the annoying freshman-rookie, and I think that’s got a good ring to it. Fits him perfectly.
Marcus asks from behind the camera, “But you could do one jump, right?”
“Seriously?” I snap at Marcus.
“Hey,” Christos’ voice rumbles across the ice. “What are you two doing here?”
Marcus and I look at each other, miraculously both thinking the same thing. Did I forget to clear ice time with Christos? The last time we talked was…notsomething I should think about while wearing leggings.
“My bad coach,” Leroy says. “Distel forgot something, I followed, got distracted. Not trying to bail on weights.”
Christos crosses his arms, barely hiding the smile on his face. “We’re doing cardio today, not weights.”
Rookie-freshman throws his head back, “Fuuuuuck” he bemoans.
“You can start right now, come on.” He claps his massive hands, and it’s like he’s pressed a remote button, Leroy and rookie jog out of the rink.
“Rink’s all yours,” he tells me before following them.
I shamelessly watch him go, only to catch Marcus doing the same. Our eyes meet. “I don’t think I’d seen the new coach before today.”
“Yeah, he’s…” The word nice is on the tip of my tongue, but I worry that one word says too much. “Good. Works the team hard.”
He watches me through the camera display. “Think we’ll actually win any games this season?”
A few weeks, ago I’d laugh to avoid answering the question, but now I have no doubts. “For sure. This is our—theirseason.”
There’s another thing I’ve never said before. I’ve never cared about championship titles or school pride. Maybe I should care about the team but let’s be real, I’m more of a cousin than a Dingbats brother.
In a weird way, Christos is like Scotland: grand and mysterious and fun to fantasize about. Once I start thinking practically, it's harder to justify the cost. Nevermind that I’ve got bigger things to worry about. Right now, that’s this sponsorship.
I squint at the camera’s red light. “Are you still filming?”
“Nothing makesmesweat more than conflict, so I figured it’s good footage.”
I shake my head. “Let’s film some spins. Try not to fall on the ice.”
Key has been approved. You can grab it at my office.
That’s it? So how does this work? I can come and go as I please?
Best we discuss when you want to use the rink to make sure it doesn’t overlap with the team’s allotted time but you’re good about that. Text me when you lock up so we have it on record.
