Page 98 of Thrown for a Loop
Just in case Bruce decided to lurk in the lobby, I take the back stairwell down to the main level and enter the rink through the rear door.
My damn hands are shaking, though, as I drop my skates onto the bench. I sit down and press my palms together. I don’t know if I’m shaky from anger, though, or from the shock of having made the decision to cut my last tie to the figure skating world. There’s no going back now.
I lace up my skates as quick as I can, then step onto the rink. The swish of steel against ice calms me down a little. There are already a dozen players in attendance. Several are warming up on the ice, while a few more lace up their skates. Aiden Sharp is here as well, checking the cameras we set up the other night.
Feeling galvanized, I wait at center ice.
By nine o’clock, there are seventeen hockey players in the rink, which means I’m missing six. But I decide not to wait. I pull the stupid whistle Sailor gave me out of my pocket and blow a quick blast on it. “Let’s go, guys! We’re going to make the most of the next hour and a half.”
The players dutifully skate toward me, arranging themselves in a semicircle and growing quiet. As I scan their faces, though, I see resistance. A handful of these guys are card-carrying members of the Zoe fan club, but many look back with skepticism. They’re probably thinking of all the other ways they could be using their morning.
You have to bring it, babe.“Greetings!” I say a little tightly. I can’t fake my usual cheer. “My role, as you know, is pretty simple.” I count off three goals on my fingers. “Faster skaters get more shots on goal. Nimble skaters win more pucks. And efficient motion prevents injury. Those are my three goals for you as a team.”
A couple more skaters step onto the ice as I talk, including Chase. Even Jean-Luc Moreau has shown his face, although he’s wearing a surly expression as he joins the back of the group.
“Today’s session is all aboutefficiency. We’re going to dig into the finer points of glide mechanics, with the goal of capturing more speed without using more energy. I believe this is possible for all of you.
“So let’s dive right in. Our warm-up drill is for maximizing glide and control. When you push off, instead of rushing into thenext stride, we’re going to focus on a full extension and long glide. Work on keeping a low stance, with knees bent and core engaged, almost like you’re sitting into each glide.”
I point toward the goal line. “Let’s line up. Two full laps, guys. Two by two, avoiding the cones in the center. Let’s go.”
They make quick work of lining up, and the first skaters take off, followed by the next two. I can’t look everywhere at once, but my camera setup will help me get more from this later. “Long glides! Deep lunge!” I remind them as they circle.
When I’m satisfied, I blow a short blast to gather them again. The damn whistle is more useful than I thought. “All right! Not bad, but most of you can get a longer glide. O’Connell? Can I pick on you?”
There are a few chuckles as he steps forward.
“Really solid extension there—that push-off is strong. But I want you to watch the angle on your recovery leg. You’re lifting it higher than you need.” I push off and demonstrate, lifting my foot too high off the ice. Like a flamingo in skates. “Keep that foot lower and closer to the ice on each stride, almost like you’re skimming the surface. You’ll hit that next push even faster, without losing momentum.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And, Moreau—”
He scowls darkly, which is rich, since he’s one of the most ragged skaters on the team. “It’s okay to use your hips in these long strides, but keep your shoulders straight forward. Like headlights. Otherwise…” I bend low into my stride and push hard to gain some speed. Then I move my shoulders like he’s been doing. “See how inefficient this is?”
I’m concentrating on my form, so it takes me a half second to realize that something is wrong with my right skate.
A half second, though, is too late. I suddenly trip, then fly forward through the air for a shocking moment until I land in a sprawl.
But the humiliation isn’t over yet. I keep on moving, sliding along the ice on my stomach, knocking straight into the orange cones that Aiden and I set up last night. Four of them bonk me in the arms and face before I finally come to a stop.
The first thing I hear is Jean-Luc Moreau’s laughter.
The second thing I hear is the scritch of blades on ice as a couple of players quickly come to my rescue.
My chest locks up with horror. And then shock and shame. And finally anger when I try to stand up and find that my legs aren’t the same length anymore. Even as I recognize this fact, I almost fall right over again, because one of my skate blades is gone.
Twenty feet or so away, Chase is bending over to pick it up, a deep scowl on his handsome face.
“Shit, Coach,” Tremaine says, steadying me by the arm. “What the hell?”
“No clue,” I grit out. In my whole life I’ve never seen a skate blade just fall off. “Can you text Bernie?”
“I can do better,” he says. “Hey, rookie!”
“Yeah?” Weber says, gliding over.
“Take Zoe’s fucked-up skates to Bernie, and bring her a replacement.”
