Page 8 of Play Dirty

I swept my eyes over her, sizing her up some more.

“Undying, huh?”

She was on the taller side, but not enough to stand out. And she was strong. Built lean. Even standing there, shifting her weight over the creaking floorboards, I could see a trace of athleticism in the way she carried herself.

“How about the warm assurance that chivalry’s not dead?” she suggested.

Wow. Cute and funny. I kinda liked this one.

And I wasn’t supposed to like her at all.

“Why should I bother with warm assurances,” I theorized, “when I can just keep the radiator that semi-works?”

She stared at me another few seconds, then huffed. Her shoulders slumped as she gave up the battle. Which was strange, because she looked like someone who didn’t back down.

I watched her go, willing my male mind not to linger on the usual parts. I lost that battle, myself.

“Haven… wait.”

She turned to look back at me, halfway into the hallway. Her ponytail swung in a neat arc.

“If it ever gets cold enough that you can see your breath,” I told her, “you can come in here and warm up.”

I picked up my tablet again, before she could say anything. Not that she answered. My eyes stayed locked on her ponytail this time, as she slipped from the hallway back into her room.

“Door’s always open,” I called after her.

I sighed, staring up at the ceiling. Trying to imagine what set of unfortunate cosmic circumstances led to this poor freezing thing being resigned to the third floor of a hockey team’s bunkhouse, at the ass end of the shittiest neighborhood in all of upstate New York.

Then again, I had my own problems to worry about.

~ 5 ~

HAVEN

The rink looked like a temporary solution made permanent. It also looked like father time had kicked a few dozen dents in it, on all four sides.

From the outside it was nothing special; a low metal rectangle whose corrugated sides had been pummeled with decades of winter and overly ambitious snowplowing. The parking lot was a minefield of alternating patches of salt and ice. A sign over the entrance flickered just enough to look semi-intentional.

Inside was different. Not exactly better, but… theirs.

The air hit first. It was cold and sharp, carrying that familiar mix of ice and sweat and some unidentifiable funkiness. The boards were scuffed to hell, the glass marked up with years of scrapes and violent impacts. The benches looked original to the building. They were worn so smoothly, they took on the appearance of polished wood rather than paint.

Coach Mercer hadn’t said much since I got there. He didn’t need to. He stood with his arms crossed, weight slightly forward, eyes locked on the ice like he could force the players to move exactly the way he wanted them to. Every now and then, he’d grunt.

Studying him, I could derive almost as much info as watching the game. His reactions and shifts in body language told the story every time. A missed pass, here. A blown coverage, there. He flinched at late rotations, and nodded his head slowly when a hit landed just right.

“Too slow,” he muttered at one point, wholly to himself.

When I wasn’t checking on him, I was studying my screen. The glowing tablet in my hand held volumes of precious, delicious data — all of it made available at the tips of my eager fingers.

I was in my element. This was my jam.

“Right side’s collapsing early,” I said, double-tapping the screen to mark it. “They’re overcommitting to the attack. Leaving the far lane open.”

The coach didn’t respond to what I said. He didn’t dismiss it, either.

Together we watched as another shift played out. I saw the same pattern. The same gap. The opposing practice line took advantage of the mistake. When they took a shot on net, it went in clean.