Page 4 of Head Over Skates

When I startedBlades After Dark, I never thought anyone would read it, but now that it’s taken off like wildfire, I have an obligation to come up with good content. Not to mention the few sponsors who pay to run their ads on the sidebar.

A whistle sounds and a ref picks up the panties, just being casual about it. Owen heads back to the bench as the second line takes the ice. These guys are good, and the Titans will win tonight thanks to them. The first line forwards, the trio who some callThe Killers, have been off lately. There’s Sawyer “Bonecrusher” O’Malley, who’s the playboyest player that ever played. And I’m not talking about hockey, here. To put it plainly, he’s a party animal. I’m still trying to track down some of his one-night stands for interviews. No luck so far.

Then there’s Hendrix “Enforcer” Ellis. He’s the least controversial of the three, but I’m pretty sure it’s only because he covers his tracks well, and I don’t care to dig too much.

But Owen, he’s a slippery one. He’d like to come off as Canada’s golden boy, but I know his true colors.

What he did to my friend Jaime, for starters. And while I respect her privacy too much to tell her story publicly, I can use my platform to at least prevent other women from falling into Owen’s den of lies.

I take my little notebook from my pocket to scribble down a few lines for tonight’s blog post. If I don’t write it down now, I’ll forget later when I’m staring at a blank screen. I can’t live without this thing. The best dollar store purchase I ever made. Bonus love for my fuzzy pen. Also a dollar store deal.

At the end of my shift, I’m so distracted writing notes for the blog that I don't realize the arena is silent (the way I like it) until I’m relatively alone. I jot some ideas in my notebook. Then, after inspecting the ice, I stick around a little longer to make sure everything is ready for tomorrow’s game. The crowd is long gone, and the players’ dressing rooms have gone quiet. It’s just me, my manager, Joe, and the security team. It’s late and I’m tired, but I’m not about to go outside without my beanie hat. I took it off before I cleaned the augers, and now it’s not where I put it.

“Hey Joe,” I say. “Have you seen my hat?”

“No, but Emily,” he says, holding out my notebook and fuzzy pen. “Found this on the resurfacer seat. Try not to leave personal items on the equipment.”

Oh, snap. I only hope he didn’t see what’s inside. If he did, I’m toast. And probably fired.

“Uh, thanks. I promise it won’t happen again.”

He must notice the sheer embarrassment on my face because he said, “I didn’t read your diary, if that’s what you’re worriedabout. We’re allowed to bring something to do for breaks and downtime. It’s a safety issue to leave it on the Zamboni, that’s all.”

“Got it, boss.” I salute him and sling my skates over my shoulder by the laces, heading out to do one more sweep for my beanie. I’m looking in all the little crevices where it might have fallen, even in the bathroom. But it’s nowhere to be found. If only the souvenir shop were open, I could buy a beanie with the team logo on it. Not really my style, but who cares in the freezing Toronto night? The air cold burns after a mile or two walking home. I guess I’m going to have to rough it.

I head to the service exit, digging in my bag for my earbuds, when I crash into a brick wall.

A nice smelling brick wall.

I’m basically face to face with the broadest chest I’ve ever seen this close up. Okay, as a former figure skater, I’ve gotten up close and personal with my partner’s chest (among other body parts), but he had a dancer’s body. All lean muscle and lithe form. Not to mention, looking at Pierre did nothing for me. This man… this hockey player. He’s almost another species. This proximity to him triggers a complex reaction in my body, like all my muscles are on fire but also loose and floppy at the same time.

When I look up, Owen’s icy blue eyes are fixed on me like he’s about to slash me to bits and hide my body in Lake Ontario. But his mouth. Oh, lawdy. That teasing mouth is curled into a devilish grin.

“Looking for this?” he says, holding my beanie with his forefinger.

I gulp. By the way he’s holding it, one would think it’s just as scandalous as those pink undies from earlier. And then a thought slams into me. What if he’s trying to get with me? Whatif this is one of his womanizing tricks? Cornering me in an empty hallway like I’m low-hanging fruit.

Not today, mister. Not any day, actually. Sisters before misters.

But I lift my chin, not giving him the slightest satisfaction, and hold the high ground in this situation.

“Yes,” I say, voice barely wobbling. “As a matter of fact, I was. Thank you for finding it for me.”

This, folks, is the longest conversation I’ve had with the man in the six months I’ve worked here. The only conversation, really. And it’s also the only time I’ve been so close I can smell his soap. It’s lemony and herby, with a hint of pine. How does a man who sweats for a living smell so good? Then I remember there are showers here. THERE ARE SHOWERS HERE. I will myself not to visualize this man showering under the same roof as me while I do my work.

Yes, I am possibly insane. I blame the soap.

I reach for my beanie, but he lifts it higher, out of reach. I hop from my tippy toes, which is easy for me with these figure skater calves, but he’s so tall, I can’t get at my hat.

“Can I please have my hat now?” I say, lacing my tone with an edge of irritation.

He doesn’t merit my request with an answer. He only smirks and lets his gaze drift to the skates hanging over my shoulder.

He hooks the finger of his free hand through the blade. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“This morning. There were tracks on the ice. It was you.”

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