Page 28 of Jaded

“Hey, Coach.”

“Hanging in, Taylor?” Coach props a shoulder against the door frame, but doesn’t quite angle his body towards me. “How’s your daughter? She’s been looking good at practice lately.”

“Still watching high school?” I chuckle, even though I know this is just small talk—the prelude to the main conversation. “Reliving the glory days?”

“Right.” He snorts. “Because coaching you was glorious. There’s some decent kids out there, though. Gotta keep my eye on the talent.”

“Sure.” I start the Zam’s engine, let it rumble to life before I finally turn towards Coach. “So, you firing me yet? Or are you gonna wait and see if your new boy makes a difference?”

Coach’s eyes slide sideways, away from mine. “I’m not firing you yet, but you know when I gotta make more budget cuts . . . I can’t justify having someone on the staff who literally just sharpens skates.”

When, not if.

He has about as much faith as I do.

I nod. “Yeah, I know.”

“Maybe it’s a sign—”

I heave open the Zam door with a reverberating clunk. “One more person tells me to move on and focus on the repo biz, I’m gonna quit repoing altogether.”

“Yeah, yeah, all right. I won’t say it. But maybe think aboutwhyyou’re hearing it from so many people.”

I don’t respond. Haul myself up onto the Zam and guide it out onto the ice, where I can lose myself in the concentration of the task—its own kind of art—for ten minutes. But of course, my mind won’t stay where it belongs.

Coach brought Olli on to save this team. But even though he’s easily the most skilled player we’ve had here in years, I doubt it’ll be enough. I should cut my losses now—walk away from this team, this job, this rink. Take JB up on his partnership offer. Throw my energy into something that will make me money. That I can grow into somethingreal.

I’m just climbing from the Zam when the buzz of my phone draws me back to the rink. Maybe it’s a sign from the universe—JB with a new job.

But no.

It’s an invitation to this week’s Ice Out.

The thought makes my head spin. Turns my blood effervescent. For all that everyone tells me it’s time to move on, for all that I know how muchmoreawaits me outside the world of the ice . . . I know I can never truly turn my back on it.

Maybe that’s why I head back to the Dingoes’ locker room.

The team’s a messy, sweaty, rowdy mass of bodies, shouts, elbow pads, tape, sticks, and bad music. Most still sit in their cubbies, undressing, though a few have already hit the open showers at the back.

Charlie’s talking to Devereaux—the wild gesticulations of his hands indicating it’s more of a debate than a conversation—and across thelocker room, three other skaters fling pieces of clear tape at one another, shrieking like deep-voiced banshees. Everton fiddles with the stereo while Skyler Johnson hovers over his shoulder, yelping his disapproval.

I linger near the doorway, and naturally, my gaze gravitates towards the corner, where Olli sits between Charlie and that empty cubby.

My eyes beg to be allowed to linger.

To study the soft curve of his jaw, the delicate angle of his cheekbones and nose, his pretty, almost feminine features. His athletic frame and thick muscles are lither than my own hardened body; he looks more like he should be modeling swimsuits or cologne than playing pro sports.

I bet the puck bunnies go wild for him.

Maybe that’s why I can’t stop wanting to look, to revisit the moment between us despite his wish to pretend it never happened. It was an accident, a stumble of my own compromised mind. Something that wouldn’t have, if not for the booze in my blood.

Right?

Don’t know why, but I head for the empty seat. Plop down. “Anybody need skates sharpened?”

“What, you lookin’ for a tip, Taylor?” Charlie cracks a grin, tips his head to toss his blond hair back.

I roll my eyes at his clear—and bad—punning. “Yeah, not that kind of tip, buddy.”

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