Page 21 of Her Name in Red
Martinez flops back on my bed with a theatrical groan, throwing an arm over his eyes like he's a Victorian lady about to faint. “Fuck me sideways. Can't we skip? Those little shits are exhausting.”
“They're eight, not the spawn of Satan.” I grab my hockey bag from the floor, slinging it over my shoulder. “And no, we can't skip. Coach would have our asses.”
“Coach already has my ass. I'm practically his property at this point.”
“That's because you can't keep it in your pants,” I say, tossing his jacket at him. “Now move it. We're gonna be late.”
Martinez grumbles but follows me out the door, bitching the whole way to the rink about how eight-year-olds should be banned from holding hockey sticks. I let his complaints wash over me, a familiar white noise that's easier to focus on than the churning in my gut every time I think about Maren.
Two hours later, I'm watching little Aiden Michaels attempt his fifth breakaway drill. The kid's determined as hell, even though he keeps tripping over his own skates. Martinez is at the other end of the ice, demonstrating a slapshot to three wide-eyed boys who look at him like he's a hockey deity.
“Keep your knees bent, Aiden,” I call out, skating backward to give him room. “That's it. Eyes up!”
The kid manages to stay upright this time, wobbling toward the goal with his tongue poking out between his teeth in concentration. He takes the shot and actually gets it in. His face lights up like it's Christmas morning.
“I did it, Coach Riggs! Did you see?”
“Saw the whole thing, Aid. That was sick.” I bump his helmet with my gloved fist, and he beams up at me, missing tooth and all.
There's something pure about these kids and their uncomplicated love for the game. No scholarships on the line, no scouts watching from the bleachers, no pressure to perform. Just the ice beneath their blades and the puck on their sticks.
When we finally blow the whistle to end practice, there's the usual chaos of small bodies scrambling off the ice, parents calling out reminders about forgotten water bottles and gloves.Martinez and I hang back, collecting stray pucks and moving the goals to the side.
“I swear to god, that Parker kid is going to be the death of me,” Martinez says, scooping up a pile of orange cones. “He asked me if I knew how babies were made. What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?”
I snort, dumping a bucket of pucks into the equipment bag. “What did you tell him?”
“That he should ask his parents. I'm not getting fired because some eight-year-old goes home and tells his mom that Coach Martinez said babies come from fucking.”
“Solid call.” I glance around the now-empty rink, but something catches my eye.
At first, I think I'm hallucinating. My brain finally cracking under the weight of a week's worth of sleep deprivation and obsessive thoughts. But Martinez's sudden stillness beside me confirms I'm not seeing things.
Maren fucking Marino is gliding onto the ice.
She moves with eerie grace, like she's not even touching the surface. Her dark hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, wisps framing her face. She's wearing black leggings and an oversized gray hoodie that hangs off one shoulder, revealing the black strap of what looks like a sports bra. No hockey gear, just a pair of beaten-up figure skates.
“Holy shit,” Martinez whispers, his voice uncharacteristically hushed. “Is that?—”
“Yeah,” I manage, my throat suddenly dry.
She hasn't seen us yet. We're standing in the shadows by the equipment room, and her eyes are focused straight ahead, something distant and unreachable in her expression. Like she's somewhere else entirely.
“Well, well, well,” Martinez drawls, finding his voice again. “If it isn't the Ice Princess herself. Didn't know the dead could skate.”
I elbow him hard in the ribs, but it's too late. Maren's head turns toward us, those haunting gray-blue eyes locking onto mine. For a split second, I see something flicker across her face—surprise, maybe even vulnerability—before the mask slides back into place. That familiar empty look that makes my chest ache.
“I need food,” Martinez announces, rubbing his stomach dramatically. “I'm fucking starving. Those little demons drained my life force.”
“So go eat,” I tell him, not taking my eyes off Maren. She's still watching us, but she's started to move again, making slow, deliberate circles on the ice.
“You coming?” Martinez asks, but there's a knowing tone in his voice. He already knows the answer.
“Nah, I'll catch up with you later.”
“Your funeral, bro.” He claps me on the shoulder, leaning in to murmur in my ear. “Try not to get stabbed. Blood's a bitch to get out of the ice.”
I shove him away, and he laughs, the sound echoing off the high ceiling of the rink. He gives Maren a mock salute as he passes the edge of the ice. “Later, Morticia.”
