Page 4 of Penalty Box
“I have to go.”
Mason nearly jumped clean out of his towel on account of me practically yelling at him. Well, it was more to the relentless voice in my head that refused to get out of the gutter. But he didn’t know that.
“Uh, thanks for the bribe and everything,” I said, avoiding contact with his curious blue eyes and endless miles of bare-naked skin. It left me staring at nothing over his right shoulder. “I owe you one.”
His gaze lingered on my face for a beat too long. I felt it. Felt him cock his head, that curiosity sparking brighter.
“You look… familiar,” he said finally. “Are you maybe related to the Zamboni guy?”
I looked him dead in the face. “I am the Zamboni guy.”
2
Mason
“Love your imagination, man.”
Hunter didn’t even look up from the blender as he said it. Just casually poured half a can of protein sludge into his practice shake like he hadn’t just accused me of hallucinating a whole entire human being.
“She was wearing coveralls. A— a helmet type thing. You know, with the visor…” Every moment longer that he ignored me, the more worked up I became. I didn’t dream her up. I knew I didn’t. “You heard the fire alarm. You’re telling me I imagined a full response team?”
“I think,” he said, screwing the lid on with unnecessary force, “you hit your head one too many times last season. Now you’re seeing hot mechanics that don’t exist.”
I collapsed onto the couch, rubbing my palm over my face with a groan. “She was real. And I didn’t even get her name.”
“Wait, Zamboni driver?” Hunter looked like he was paying attention for the first time, thinking hard.
I sat bolt upright. “Yeah, that’s what I said. You know her?”
“It only just came to me, but yes, I know her.” He slung his gym bag over one shoulder, power juice in hand. “She’s the ice fairy. Kinda like the Tooth Fairy, but she visits inanimate objects, collecting nuts and bolts. Flies off in a cloud of welding sparks.”
He was the only one laughing. I launched a cushion at his head, which he deflected with ease.
“Your shake’s on the counter, Zamboni Boy. I suggest you leave soon or you’ll be late for practice.”
“I thought I’m driving with you? You know my car’s been a piece of shit lately.”
Hunter scoffed. “You didn’t think of that when you were pining over your imaginary girlfriend instead of getting ready.”
“Five minutes. Don’t be an ass.” I was off the couch in a flash, sprinting to my bedroom to pull on yesterday’s sweats.
But Hunter chose today to be a total ass. The door slammed, and when I made it back to the living room—one shoe on, Surge training jacket hanging half-heartedly from one shoulder—he was gone.
I went into the kitchen to grab my protein shake, and my phone buzzed.
Hunter: We’re kicking your ass if you come late and get Coach in a bad mood. Move it.
“Your Jeep’s faster than my 2004 Neon, genius,” I said to my phone, shaking it roughly. But the text I shot back was just an eggplant emoji.
“That’s if she even starts…”
She did start and, against all odds, my unreliable rust bucket got me to the church on time. Church being Frost Bank Center, where dreams turned into reality and hockey athletes becamestars. Worshipping the ice god, Coach McAvoy, who, even though he hadn’t won a Stanley up til now, had convinced us all that this was our year.
We hit the ice at eleven sharp. The rink smelled like cold sweat and Gatorade, boards echoing with slap shots and calls for various plays.
“Heads up! Keep ‘em up!” Coach barked. “Puck control, eyes on the play.”
We ran through tight offensive drills, forcing breakaways and transitions until our legs burned. Through it all, I couldn’t stop seeing her face. Those intense green eyes cutting me down to size like she didn’t give a shit about who I was and where I played.
