Page 2 of Breaking the Ice

“That's not fair, Thomas had it coming! Have you smelled his breath?” Parker interjects, and Bill turns his attention to him.

“Will you let me finish? Or do you want to do extra laps around the rink first?”

“Okay, okay, I'm good.” Parker raises his hands apologetically. “I'm just telling it how it is.”

“Anyway, if it were up to me, you wouldn't have a new massage therapist. But the board of directors had a different opinion and arranged for Maxwell.” The coach's gaze shifts to the player, who's sitting there with a wide grin.

“What? Don't look at me like that. It's not my fault Pat tripped and broke his arm.”

“No, Durand,” Thornton growls, “you're the one who got him drunk.”

“So what? How was I supposed to know he couldn't handle his liquor?” Before he continues, the player turns his attention to me, locking eyes. “Sorry, Coach, but only those who can keep up should play with the big boys.” His expression as he says this is unmistakable. Durand, the guy with the upper body tattoo, is hitting on me.

Obviously, he believes his charms or that sultry gaze will work on me. I admit, he's handsome and he seems to have a reputation with the ladies. However, I'm not particularly drawn to show-offs. But for the fun of it, I decide to play along. I give him a meaningful smile and bite my lower lip. A triumphant grin spreads across his face. Let's see how he handles a little competition, I think, shifting my gaze to Parker, his bench mate. I offer him a brief, innocent smile, and his features brighten, freezing Durand's grin. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Durand's bewildered glance towards Parker. I barely suppress a smile.

“Durand's right. If Pat can't handle it, he shouldn't be celebrating with us,” another player joins the conversation, diverting my attention back to the coach.

“I couldn't care less about your drinking prowess,” Thornton retorts. “I have better things to do than find new masseurs every two weeks. Let me make one thing clear: Emma here...” Bill steps closer to me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “...Is your last chance. If you dare to alienate her or her father, I'll personally ensure that they're your last enjoyable massage therapists. Then I'll find some burly, unpolished men to knead you like dough.” As Thornton explains, a mental image forms – a flat-nosed giant with lifeless eyes and a blunt demeanor, bending the players in all directions during massages. Judging by the expressions on the athletes’ faces, similar thoughts cross their minds. Only Durand remains unfazed, looking at me with an inscrutable expression before turning back to the coach. “Don't worry, Coach, we'll behave. Right, guys?” His words sound sincere, but Durand's gaze tells a different story. He looks like he’s plotting something. Amidst the mumbling agreement of his teammates, I wonder what his game is.

“Look...” Durand stands up and raises his palms. “...Emma and her father are in good company with us.” Before Thornton can respond, there's a knock on the door. My dad enters and apologizes for arriving late. All eyes turn to him, all except Durand's and mine. The player keeps his dark eyes locked onto me. I see him lick his lips seductively as I meet his gaze boldly. He's not the tallest, maybe five-foot-five, but he's undeniably well-built. And he knows it. Confidence oozes from him. Well, I think to myself, there's likely nothing serious here, but a little flirtation might be on the table. I glance over the other men, most of whom are also quite attractive. Yes, I believe I'm going to enjoy this new job.

2

Caleb

Feeling deeply satisfied with our team's performance, I turn off the shower and step out of the locker room. As usual, I'm the last one to finish. But that's fine by me; it gives me some peace and quiet. Especially after crucial games, like today, I always need some time to unwind. And since hot water is the only thing that helps me relieve stress, I often spend twenty minutes or more under the shower.

With the unbelieving face of the Cougars' captain in my mind, I take a few steps to the opposite wall. He and his guys won't be sitting comfortably for weeks after the thrashing we've given them. Satisfied, I grab one of the towels from the shelves and start drying off. We sent them home with a seven-to-one defeat. Another team that underestimated us underdogs. If this keeps up, we're going to make it to the playoffs. And there, I've promised myself, I won't give a hundred percent, but a thousand. By the end of the season, the name Caleb Whyler will represent professional hockey. I'll be the Tiger Woods of the ice.

With the towel draped around my neck, I walk through the short corridor leading to the locker room. My teammates are sitting quietly, which is unusual, all looking towards the exit where I just saw the coach disappear.

“What's going on here? Did I miss something?” I ask, toweling off the back of my head.

“You could say that,” my best buddy Parker explains, turning around with a goofy grin. “We got a new masseuse.”

“And?” I shrug and walk to my locker.

“And she's a damn bombshell! I'm telling you, I'm gonna score with that girl.”

“Don't make a fool of yourself, Parker,” Durand chimes in, turning to face my friend who's sitting on the bench behind him. “That girl is out of your league; she needs a real man.”

Physically, he's outmatched by the heavily tattooed Canadian. He doesn't have nearly as broad a chest or powerful legs. And compared to Durand's muscular arms, his look like spaghetti. However, Parker is a whole head taller.

“Well, buddy, hate to disappoint you. Maybe you're a big shot in Canada, but here in America, women need real guys, not garden gnomes.”

“Oh, you mean grasshoppers like you who weigh less than the woman herself? Well, that's something I definitely can't provide.”

“Alright, guys, cut it out,” I mutter as I step into my jeans. I skip the boxer shorts, after all, I've got plans for today.

“No, Caleb, I won't cut it out. Our womanizer here really thinks he's better.” God dammit, this is starting again. The eternal power struggle between Parker and Durand. And who's responsible for that? None other than Thornton. At the beginning of the season, he gave both of them the assistant title. He knows exactly what show-offs they are. This has only spurred them on more to outdo each other. While it might occasionally help on the ice, it's simply annoying in daily life because they're always at each other's throats. I advised Thornton to assign the assistant title to two other players, but the stubborn old mule wouldn't listen. He seems unconcerned that he's playing with a ticking time bomb that's bound to explode sooner or later. I swear, that one day, they'll be at each other's throats and out of commission for the rest of the season.

“I don't know if you've got anything between your ears, Parker, but the way the sweetheart was staring, it was clear,” Durand adds.

“Yeah, clearly she’s interested in me.”

“Don't make me laugh!” Durand lets out a feigned chuckle. The tension in the air is dangerously palpable, something the others notice too. All eyes are on the two arguing men.

“Cut it out, or I'll wipe that grin off your face,” Parker growls, clenching his fists.

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