Page 4 of Love and Other Penalties
. . .
The next morning,I arrive at the arena fifteen minutes early, armed with a large coffee and righteous indignation. If Tomcat thinks he can waltz onto my ice again, he’s about to learn that Ivy Dane doesn’t back down from a fight. Oh, no, today, I intend to lock the door behind me. Tommy-Tomcat will have to call building maintenance to get in.
I execute my plan, a pure thrill accompanying me to the rinkside area where I drop my bag and exhale.
Swish—swish, swish—swish.
The stroke of skates against the ice is longer this morning, and the rowdy Tomcat is already here.
Not only did he beat me here, but he’s set up an elaborate obstacle course of orange cones that spans from end to end, and he’s weaving through them with the puck right on the tape like he’s training for the NHL playoffs. Which, now that I think of it, he probably is.
I lace up Hope and Glory with extra aggression, yanking the laces tight enough to cut off circulation. “Unbelievable,” I mutterunder my breath. I stand and start to go through my upper body warmup routine.
“Morning, Kitten.” His voice carries across the ice, the smirk obvious even without me looking at him.
I glare and stretch my shoulders, triceps, neck, and wrists. I glide onto the ice, my bigger leg muscles tighter than they should be. “It’s Ivy.” I gesture to the vast spread of cones. “What part of ‘the schedule is the law’ was unclear to you yesterday?”
Because I’ve checked and double-checked, and I have this ice time. Finn Travers’s weekly sessions ended last week.
He stops mid-weave and skates over, tucking his helmet under his arm as he arrives. His hair is perfectly disheveled again, and I wonder if there’s a YouTube tutorial for that or if he’s just naturally blessed with effortless adorability.
“I talked to the building manager,” he says, pulling a folded paper from his jacket pocket. “The rink renovations erased some previously scheduled ice times.”
I snatch the paper and scan it, my heartbeat thrashing even as the organ itself sinks into my stomach.
“Collin says you just happened to get on before he knew it was a problem.”
What he’s saying stares at me in red, black, and white: Ice times that were there have been added back in, this time in bolded red, and Bobcat Traverse sits there from five-thirty to seven every Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday.
A note from Collin Deskins accompanies it, explaining the situation and how the facility maintenance is shrinking the time available on the ice.
“It’s just for a couple of weeks.”
I look up at him, a scream gathering in my soul. “I only have a couple of weeks.”
His head tilts, and dang it, he’s so deliciously good-looking. “For what?”
“This is a disaster.” I huff and hand back the paper, then reach up to pull my loose ponytail into battle mode. “I only have three weeks until I have to compete—it’s my last chance to cinch a spot on the Olympic team.”
A sigh falls out of my mouth and I turn in a full circle, nearly kicking a cone in the process. I jump away from it, then fix my glare on him. “And this doesn’t explain why you were here yesterday. On a Wednesday.”
“I need to practice,” he says.
“Why? You’re a starter. Consistently voted most-loved in the Bobcat Banter fan club. Listed first or second for celebrity signing events.”
His eyebrows lift a little higher with every sentence I say. I should stop, but somehow my tongue and vocal cords hate me this morning.
“You have a pretty girlfriend.” I track my eyes down to his skates and back to his face. “It’s almost like you’retooperfect.” I narrow my eyes and study him. “So why are you here three days a week before dawn, during hockey season, when surely you’ve got practice every day already, plus games, and…yeah. Why are you here?”
I do kick a cone now, satisfied when it slides a few feet out of formation.
He slides in close to me, and I throw up a hand to keep him back. Seriously, how in the world does he cologne himself up so perfectly this early in the morning? That alone should earn him a citation.
“Someone’s been reading up on me.”
“I like to know who I’m dealing with,” I say, no apology in sight. He’s a celebrity, and he has four different Wikipedia pages, all of which is a him-problem, not a me-problem.
“You know the Internet isn’t always right, don’t you?”
