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“Might be worth airing this space out once in a while.”
Elliot grins. “Then the icewouldmelt. You’ll get used to it.” He tugs me to the side of the main entryway. There’s a wide-open window displaying a room with shelves of skates. Elliot gracefully jumps over the counter, landing in the open space without so much as a stumble. I would probably break an ankle if I attempted a similar maneuver. “What shoe size are you?” he asks, surveying the shelves.
“Uh, 7.”
He nods and hunts through a couple of shelves before grabbing a gray pair and vaulting back through the window with them in hand. He hands them to me when he’s returned to my side. “Here, take these to one of the benches by the ice. I’m going to grab my skates from the locker room and then I’ll meet you out there.”
I retrace our steps to the entrance and make my way to the home team bench, hesitantly opening the heavy door to enter the sectioned-off space. The plastic makes a loud creaking sound as it’s swung open. The sound echoes through the massive, empty building. It’s humbling, being inside the cavernous space all alone.
Elliot reappears a couple of minutes later, a pair of hockey skates in hand. His other is clutching gray fabric. He changed, now wearing a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He takes a seat beside me and passes me the fabric, which unfurls into sweatpants. “Put those on over your shorts.”
“Thanks.” He nods an acknowledgment as I pull on the sweatpants, slide off my sneakers, and lace up the borrowed skates.
Once I have them on, I hobble over to the door that leads to the ice. I step onto the glistening surface cautiously, surrounded by silence except for the rhythmic scrape of the metal blades against the frozen water. I manage a small lap around the center of the ice, reacquainting my body with the gliding motion. In elementary school, I had an ice princess phase perpetuated by the winter Olympics, and it seems more of the two years of lessons stuck with me than I thought. My movements grow more confident as I gaze around the deserted seats, imagining what it must be like to play in the arena when it’s full of screaming fans. I’ve never been to a hockey game, but I bet it’s loud.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Elliot’s voice snaps me out of my musings, and I startle, nearly losing my balance. He steps on the ice and skates effortlessly across the rink until he reaches me, coming to a crisp stop that sends a flurry of white dust flying. Yeah, he was definitely being modest last night. He’s more graceful on ice than most people are on solid ground.
I remain vertical—barely. Elliot’s amused grin tells me he saw me fumble during his approach.
“When was the last time you skated?” he asks, seeming surprised I managed to make it out into the middle of the ice.
“Birthday party a year ago,” I reply. He smirks, telling me he takes that as me saying I’m inept on ice. I pull in a deep breath of cold air. “Do you have a couple of hockey sticks?” I ask.
Elliot raises an eyebrow in surprise. I’m not delusional enough to think I’ll be able to beat him, but I feel fairly confident I won’t humiliate myself. He didn’t ask how many times I’ve skated, just the last time. Elliot’s initial surprise fades into an amused grin before he glides off to one of the benches wordlessly, returning with two sticks, two helmets, and a puck.
He hands me a helmet. I eye it dubiously, but a quick sniff reveals nothing but a clean, soapy scent. I pull my hair back into a sloppy ponytail and plop the helmet on my head, fastening the straps.
I take the stick Elliot offers, eyeing his casual posture as he plops his own helmet on. We face off in the center of the ice. He quirks a brow at me, blue-gray eyes twinkling as he drops the puck, holding his stick with one hand as he does.Showoff.I take advantage of the brief handicap, trapping the puck against my stick and taking off toward the opposite end of the ice. Any head start is only momentary, so as soon as I feel confident, I send the puck flying. I watch nervously as the black blur sails across the white surface and feel a surge of relief when it slams into the back of the open net.
I circle around the end of the rink and turn back to the center, where Elliot stands with his mouth slightly agape.
“Well, shit,” he says, glancing between me and the puck in the net in shock.
“I might have slightly underrepresented my skating experience,” I tell him.
Elliot laughs. “You think?”
I’m relieved he’s not annoyed. Some guys I know would be. “I thought you were a hockey prodigy who would make me look like an amateur no matter what. I took figure skating lessons for a while.”
His lips quirk before he goes to retrieve the puck, and I smirk as we line up again in the center of the rink. I know he’ll be expecting the same maneuver this time, but if I allow him to get past me, I won’t have a chance of catching him.
When he drops the puck, I tap it between his open legs. I propel my body forward, colliding with him directly. He isn’t expecting the impact. I take advantage of his surprise to spin around, chasing the sliding puck until I’m close enough to send it into the waiting net again. I glance behind me and laugh at the astonished look on Elliot’s face.
“I’m going to take a wild guess and say you’ve never played hockey with a girl?” I taunt, grinning.
I skate the rest of the way to retrieve the puck and rejoin him in the center. This time I drop it, and he immediately swipes it away from me.
Rather than rush down to the net, he takes his time moving across the ice, executing a variety of spins and weaves while he keeps perfect control over the puck. I stay between him and the goal for the moment, though I know I have no chance of stopping it once he actually decides to take a shot, unless I want to end up with a bruise. He fakes left and I follow, both of us grinning like lunatics as I valiantly try to mirror his complicated moves.
“Just shoot it, Eli,” I finally say, rolling my eyes at his theatrics. He complies, a quick flick of his wrist sending the puck into the waiting net, cutting my lead in half.
“Lucky shot,” I grouse, retrieving the puck. I glance over at Elliot, who’s already looking at me, a small smile playing on his lips.
“What?” I ask.
“You called me Eli,” he replies.
“Elliot is kind of lengthy when you’re trying to heckle someone.”
