Page 1 of Penalty Box
1
Cass
“Not recording the practice, McAvoy?”
I groaned internally. Nick was up ahead, holding the door open with his foot while carrying a stack of Gatorade boxes. Even so, there was no missing that stupid grin the concessions worker wore whenever he teased me about my last name.
My hands remained snug and warm in the pockets of my bomber. Maybe if he were nicer, I would’ve been more inclined to help him out with the door.
“Not today,Nicole,” I replied. His smile dropped instantly, as I knew it would. His careful crate stack quivered. “I unfortunately have better things to do with my time than cheerlead the pre-season training.”
Skates sliced over the ice, the sound of puck sprints and overworked quads leaking down the corridor of the arena. If I had a dollar for every curse word the coach barked at his team, I wouldn’t need this part-time job.
But alas.
“Chill out. Just messing with ya,” Nick said, backing off physically and figuratively.
“Uh huh.” I shouldered past him toward the maintenance room, my boots echoing off the concrete.
The corridor stretched ahead, just far enough from the main rink to feel forgotten. Finally, I reached the sign that read "Authorized Personnel Only” in faded Comic Sans.
It was always the smell that hit first. Grease, scorched rubber, and whatever ancient crap stewed in the busted vending machine I’d been meaning to fix. I ditched my jacket over a chair, shoved my earbuds in, and pressed ‘play’.
Guitar fuzz crackled to life, and Joan Jett screamed into my brain. Bless her.
The reason I hadn’t yet gotten to the vending machine sat like a sullen middle finger on my workbench. A metal bracket, crooked and chewed-up with rust. I was ready to bet my week’s pay the thing had a personal vendetta against me.
“Sure you can’t do a quick fix, Cass? Hey, Cass, bank’s a little dry. Can you work around it? If anyone can figure it out, it’s you.”
I kicked the bench, and the bracket jumped. I’d welded the damn thing last week and three weeks before that. Still cracked. Still letting the Zamboni rattle like a rogue shopping cart across the ice. If it came loose during resurfacing again, my ass would be the one catching heat, even though nobody wants to shell out for a new one.
Budget this, cost-saving that. But whatever.
I yanked on my gloves and snapped the visor into place. The arc snapped bright, catching with a buzz that was more felt than heard. I wasn’t hearing anything over my music, anyway. Sparks danced on the metal, lighting up the dim corners of the room while the smoke curled up my nose. I angled the tip just right, coaxing the bead across the seam, hands steady.
And even though I was doing a thing I would gladly do without pay, I was mad about it. Because we were going into my second season at the arena, and if the past few weeks were anything to go by, I had some more sucking it up, grinning and bearing it, and not rocking the boat to look forward to.
I quit the weld for a beat, and almost pulled out my phone to check how much these brackets actually cost. If I had enough saved up—
But I shook my head abruptly and picked back up. Not my monkey, not my circus.
Sparks bounced off the steel. I adjusted my stance and leaned in, letting the ghostly glowing dot in my visor pull me into that sweet hypnosis I loved. Just me and the weld. Nobody else. Nobody else’s red tape.
A flicker caught at the edge of my vision.
I paused.
The bracket glowed, molten at the seam, but that wasn’t the thing prickling my Spidey-sense. Everything about my work on this bracket was as it should be.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
Joan wasn’t giving a damn about her reputation and…
A noise cut through the music:Beep-beeep-beep.
I nearly dropped the torch.
Shit.
