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As I’m walking to the benches to sit down and put my skates on, I see Shane walking into the building.
His eyebrows bounce when he recognizes me. “Hey,” he says, smiling, walking up to me. “Phoebe, right?”
“Right,” I answer.
He extends his hand. After a moment of hesitation, I reach out to shake it. His hand is big, strong, warm.
“A handshake?” I ask, amused. “How formal.”
He smiles, his pristinely white teeth glistening. “I’m a formal guy.”
I let out a little laugh. “I don’t know how much I believe that when you’re wearing a hoodie and basketball shorts.”
Before Shane can say anything in response, a loud, gruff cough from behind me pulls both of our attentions to the supply closet.
“Shane, mind giving me a hand here?” Hunter asks. His brow is set low, his sharp features solid and mirthless, his voice impatient.
Is he that upset that I didn’t answer his question?
Actually, he’s not really looking atmewith that sour expression. The person he’s really staring daggers at is Shane. Maybe they … I don’t know, had a fight about something? During one of their practices?
Whatever. If there’s stupid hockey player drama going on, I sure don’t want to be in the middle of it.
“Have a nice day organizing supplies, boys,” I say, taking my leave and heading to the ice.
* * *
“Dereck! Slow down!”Exasperation is thick in my voice as I yell at the boy who’s skating way too fast, way too far away from me.
I’m absolutely swamped today. The lessons I deliver are drop-in style, meaning that parents don’t have to register ahead of time. Usually, I get about ten kids showing up, most of them being the same every week.
Today, for whatever reason, I have almost thirty rambunctious elementary school aged kids on my hands. And by the way they’re acting, I could swear every one of their parents took them to an all-you-can-eat ice cream buffet right before dropping them in my lap.
A frustrated growl rumbles in my throat. “Stay here,” I sternly tell the group of kids in front of me.
I skate out towards the center of the rink where Dereck—who, it has to be said, seems to take to the ice naturally—is skating around in circles. He’s wobbly, but he’s remaining upright. I take him by the hand and direct him back to the dasher board where the rest of the group is gathered.
Most of the kids here today are here for the first time, and they’ve got baby giraffe legs on the ice. I’m going to need to figure out how to keep the more advanced kids occupied but still in my sight, while I give super basic beginner instruction to the ones who are joining us for the first time and can hardly stand on the ice without both hands gripping the barricade.
I’m wracking my brain figuring out how in the world I’m going to do that, when I flinch in surprise as I feel a mist of ice shavings kicking up from a pair of blades coming to a sudden stop next to me.
“Need a hand, Pheebs?”
I can see the eyes of the kids in front of me going wide with admiration before I turn my head to look at who I know is next to me.
He wears an easy grin on his face, and the glimmer in his eyes tell me what he’s thinking: that I can’t afford to say no.
And he’s right.
“Are you sure you’re up for it?” I ask.
“I better be,” he says. “I’ll be teaching a class with Shane tomorrow myself, after all. You have any students who are, like, more advanced?”
“Yeah. I’ve got about ten who’ve had a couple classes already and twenty who just came for the first time.”
He nods. “How about I take the ten with some experience and teach them some simple maneuvers. You can deal with the kids who don’t have their legs yet.”
“You sure?” I ask, again. Hunter offering to do something nice for me for the second time in one week is downright bizarre. I’m waiting for him to saysikeand skate off the rink laughing at any moment.
