Page 5 of Penalty Box
Hot.
“Don’t make me repeat myself, Calder!”
I passed clean to Hunter on the wing, dropped back, then raced up again to keep the line tight. He flicked the puck to Grayson, who smoothed it over to me like a mother stroking her newborn baby. I launched it top shelf.
Goal.
“Nice,” Hunter said, bumping my glove.
We skated off to reset, and between shifts, I scanned the sidelines and empty seats. Nothing. No coveralls or welding mask. No smirking girl with a voice like warm syrup.
“Looking for someone?” Grayson nudged my helmet with his stick as we coasted past each other on the bench.
“Nope.”
He laughed. “I haven’t seen you this jumpy after practice since you first started.”
Before I could answer, Coach called another set and we got moving again.
By the time practice wrapped, my gear was soaked and my calves screamed. We huddled at center ice, Coach giving us his usual half-lecture, half-pep talk about conditioning, playoff mindset, and discipline. Always discipline.
“Our time for fun and games will come, boys. This isn’t it.”
A few guys nodded, most of us just wiped sweat from our brows and prayed for ice baths. I never really got these talks. Hockey was both fun and a game.
“No distractions. No messing around,” Coach said. “I’m in this to the end, and I’d like to take you all with me. But at the end of the day, I’m the one who puts you on the ice. I decide.”
Nothing we all hadn’t heard before. But I was coming off a great first season with San Antonio Surge, and had no concerns I’d be in his starting line-up for the foreseeable future.
“Hey,” I called out to Tucker as we walked back to the locker room. “You don’t maybe know the girl who runs the Zamboni around here, do you?”
He slipped off his helmet, frowning hard. “That’s a girl?”
“Never mind,” I muttered, and moved on down the line, determined to get to the bottom of this mystery before I left the arena.
Shawn was next, kicking out of his pads in front of his locker. “Pretty sure that’s a guy.”
“She’s not a guy,” I said, trying to keep my exasperation from showing. “Brown hair, green eyes, she’s sometimes down in maintenance.”
He gave a sardonic laugh. “Sorry, bro. I’ve got nothing.”
Hunter was whispering something to one of the other guys, laughing among themselves. Then his face lit up and he called me over.
“We hit paydirt!” Hunter called out. “Your Zamboni Babe’s name is Gary.”
“Forget it,” I said, and slammed my locker shut.
As expected, everyone’s jeers followed me out of the locker room and down the tunnel. How hard could it be to get someone’s name in this place? It wasn’t as though the arena had thousands of people working there on any given day.
Outside, the wind slapped me in the face like it had a personal vendetta. It seemed like autumn was coming early to San Antonio this year. I pulled my hoodie up and trudged to the lot, keys already in hand.
Grayson assured me I’d have wheels matching the senior team members in no time, but for now, my glorious rust-patched, duct-taped excuse for a car would have to do.
I slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key. Click. Whirr. Nothing.
“Don’t do this to me now,” I mumbled under my breath.
Tried again. Same.
