Page 1 of Put a Rink on It

CHAPTER 1

marina

Champ

Forget it. I can’t meet today. Does tomorrow work for you?

The way my stomach sinks so fast, I’d think I was on the downhill of a roller coaster.

But what else can I do but agree to tomorrow?

It’s not like I haven’t been looking forward to this for a week. Not like I rearranged work meetings to accommodate his schedule.

I’m sorry.

The second text does little to assuage the feelings of disappointment, but it’s something.

What time tomorrow? Gotta make sure my schedule’s clear

I pick the nail polish off as the bubbles jump.

I’ve never met a guy who texts as much as he does, though he’s pretty chatty in person, too. They must go hand-in-hand.

7 or 9 p.m. I’m gonna guess your preference is 7

I’m glad you’re understanding

I chuckle, the sound bouncing off the walls of my office, though there’s no one else to hear it.

Meet there?

One of these days I’m gonna get bold and demand he pick me up. If only for his reaction.

Sure

Today isn’t that day.

You’re the bomb dot com, Ships

If I hadn’t grown up with a brother who’s a hockey player and grown up in a town with a college hockey team and two rinks, I would think him more ridiculous. But I know hockey players.

And I know Nero Champion.

We met as freshmen in college at Centennial University, where he was the star of the hockey team, but more importantly, my study buddy. The Minnesota Storm eventually drafted him, and after earning his college degree, he started on their affiliate team. He’s played professionally for eight years. Currently, he’s a pending free agent, but he’s settled in Minnesota now and claims he enjoys the frigid winters. They’re colder than where he grew up by Lake Tahoe, California, but as he’s quick to point out, the rink’s his second home. “What’s a little cold air blowing on your face?” has become one of his favorite questions.

Thinking of a place colder than Vermont, where I’ve lived all my life, makes me shiver. It gets cold here, but apparently not as frosty as Minnesota. My visits to his house confirm it. Except the breathtaking beauty of living on a lake—even when it’s frozen—has an appeal.

As if that’s even an option in my life. Nero and I don’t have that kind of relationship. We’re friends.

To be fair, I was into hockey before Nero, knowing all the rules before my brother, Walsh, started playing. The one season I spent on the ice didn’t go as well as I’d hoped, and I “retired” from the sport, but I’m a hockey lover and fan all the same.

I check my email one last time, hoping the one I’ve been waiting for has hit my inbox. Alas, no new emails, so I shut down the computer.

I’m doing my best to follow my sister Juliet’s lead and am taking off the last two weeks of the year. Way better at budgeting her money, she lets her clients know she’s unavailable the last three weeks of the year.

I wish I had those skills, though our jobs are way different. She has her own business, and I don’t. It’s been something she’s encouraging me to do—become a freelance grant writer instead of working for a company. I’ve only been settled into this line of work for a couple of years, and I don’t love my job. It was fine in the beginning, but now, writing proposals to “beg” corporations for money so people get basic human rights has become depressing. Even when they agree and fund the opportunity. It doesn’t bring the endorphins it once did.

Plus, I’m not sure my boss would sign off on the paperwork even if I had the means to take an extra week off. Two weeks is pushing it.