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CHAPTER 1
SPENCER
Icame off the ice one solid ache, drained and sweat-drenched and out of sorts.
On a good day of training I’d still finish tired, but not bumbling, stumbling tired. Not tired like this. I’d float off the ice all knife-edge sharp, honed mind and body, ready for more. I’d see colors brighter. Smell the ice crisp and clear. My fingers, half-frozen, would fly over my skates, undoing my laces with practiced ease.
Today wasn’t a good day. I half-fell off the ice. Tripped over the half-step coming out of the rink. My shoulder slammed into the Plexiglas shield, adding one more ache to the growing pile. I blundered to the locker room and plopped down on the bench. Fumbled with my laces. Dan and Enrique clumped up behind me.
“What’s up, Grandpa?” Dan leaned over my shoulder. “He goes for the loop. He tries a punch turn. And… ooh, ooh, he’s lost it. Fouled by a bootlace!”
Enrique laughed. “Did he just tie it twice?”
I clenched my jaw, in no mood for their ribbing. They meant nothing by it — I’d been on the other end enough times to know that — but today had been bad enough without them piling on, every crisp brake turning into a skid, every explosive pivot fizzling on launch. The shouts of our speed coach still rang in my ears — Focus! Get lower! Loosen those hips!
“Fuck off,” I muttered.
“Double knot,” said Dan. “What are you, thirty now? Maybe it’s Alzheimer’s. You’re supposed to untie your laces, not tie them again.”
“My gramps had that too,” said Enrique. “We put Post-Its on everything so he’d remember their names. Anyone got a Post-It? Anyone?—”
“Fuck off.” I jerked on my lace so hard it gave with a snap. Enrique backed off, hands raised in surrender.
“Okay, okay, chill. We’re just messing around.”
“You’re, what, twenty-six?” I spun around, seething. “You think thirty’s still miles off, but it’ll be on you like that.” I snapped my fingers. “I swear, one bad day, and you assholes swoop in?—”
“Hey, sorry.” Dan clapped my shoulder. “I get it. You’re tired. Little moody, maybe.”
Enrique smirked. “Sore back. Swollen ankles.”
“Mood swings.”
“Weird cravings.”
I shoved them off, groaning. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m on the rag.”
“You said it,” said Dan. “But, seriously, we good? We can quit with the old jokes if they’re getting, well, old. We’ve got slow jokes as well.”
“Tall jokes. Tired jokes.”
“You’re a tired joke.” I swatted at Enrique. “Really, we’re good, just one of those days. Nothing feels right out there. Can’t catch my rhythm.”
“Come out for a drink with us. Might loosen you up.” Dan offered his hand, but I waved him away.
“I can’t tonight. Got plans with my roommate. But you guys have fun, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Dan and Enrique headed for the showers. I went back to my skates and gave up in disgust, yanking them off with the laces still tied. Then I wiped off my blades and put on dry skate guards, and sat on the bench with my head in my hands. My whole body hurt, my neck, my back. My thighs, calves, and ankles. My shoulders. My ass. I tried to remember if it’d hurt this bad in my twenties, but the body recalls pain only in the abstract. You might remember an ache so deep you got sick, but not what that ache felt like, or how it compared to some new one. And everything hurt worse when you were losing — which the New Mexico Ice Bears had done a lot lately.
I dug through my duffel in search of my phone. It wasn’t too late to cancel on Leon. If I went out tonight, I’d drink. I’d get drunk. I’d wake up tomorrow mean and hung over, and thirty wasn’t twenty, when it came to hangovers. I’d still be moody come game time, still sour and distracted.
When I woke up my phone, Leon had texted — WE’RE CELEBRATING, then a string of emojis. He’d scored some huge job, some celebrity wedding. His floofy hors d’oeuvres would be on TV.
I was wrong!
SO wrong!
Reality TV isn’t for morons!
