Page 58 of Home Ice

“What do you come for?”

“For this,” she said, gesturing and taking in the entire hall. “Now, look.”

She pulled her phone out, putting her glasses on halfway down her nose. She thumbed through photos with the screen tipped toward me. I assumed they were grandchildren.

“That one’s Danny. That one’s the oldest, Eva. She studies at Loyola. That one”—it was a teenager in a hoodie, giving the camera a peace sign—“is Marko. He watches hockey, all of it. He knew who you were when I told him Lucas said you would come.” She swiped on. “This one wants expensive earbuds for his birthday. I said he could have them if he shovels my walk until March.”

“That’s fair.”

“It’s better than fair; my walk is short.” She put the phone away and pulled the glasses off, letting them hang by the chain around her neck. The band played something slow, with one violin carrying the melody up high and sweet.

“So, next time you bring your boyfriend,” she said. “The one all over the internet who works on houses. Next time, bring him. Does he dance?”

“It’s not real.”

The sentence was out of my mouth before I understood the words. No preparation. Nothing.

“It’s for publicity; the team set it up. Max is a great guy, but—“

I finally stopped myself.

Nobody in the world outside the deal knew. I hadn’t told my mother or the team, and I’d just let it walk right out of my mouth in front of a stranger.

Marta nodded slowly.

“Ah,” she said. “For the TV.”

That was her entire reaction. She shrugged.

“It happens more than we think,” she said.

She continued to watch the dancers.

“And is there a real one?”

I felt my entire face flush, and I struggled to push no out of my mouth, but it didn’t come.

“Hm,” Marta said. She patted my knee once.

The song ended, and the crowd applauded.

I changed the subject. “What’s the slow dance called? The one with the turn.”

“Lassú,” Marta said as she stood. “Come. You’re ready now.”

It was past two when the dance ended. I made myself useful. I stacked chairs until three separate people told me to stop, and then I stacked a few more.

Varga walked me out through the gravel lot. “Marta says you can come back,” he said. “I want you to know she’s not being polite. She doesn’t do that. It took Rook two years to understand. He thought it was because he brought her flowers.”

Varga stopped at my truck and looked at me with his hands jammed in his pockets. “You danced the lassú on your first day. When we’re old, I’m going to lie and say I taught you.”

“You can say it now. I’ll back you.”

“This is why you’re my favorite.” He knocked twice on the truck’s hood and walked off toward his car, whistling one of the tunes the accordion played.

My apartment was quiet when I returned. The team chat was busy. Someone had found a video of a beaver walking through a Canadian hardware store, and Trier commented on its confidence. Heath said the beaver reminded him of Varga entering a room.

Every time my phone buzzed, I looked. There was nothing about what I told Marta. There was nothing from Niko either.