Page 5 of Head Over Skates

“Yeah. So? We’re allowed to free skate during off hours.”

Something twinkles in his eyes, like frost is crystalizing in them even more. All the warm fuzzies I was getting from his soap smell is gone, replaced by a shiver up my spine.

Then, as if he suddenly realizes how close he’s standing, he takes a step back with a jerk. He’s still holding my beanie, but it’s close to that broad chest now.

“What’s your name?”

“Emily.”

“I heard you cheering for Seattle… Emily. Why?”

“Is it a crime to cheer for the other team?”

“No. Just curious.”

“Well, I’m curious about when you’ll hand over my hat so I can go home and…”

I almost said write. As in writing my blog post.

“Go home and what?”

“Sleep.” And seeing something shift in his features, I add. “Alone. I s-s-s-sleep alone.”

Gah! Why am I this way? If I was smart, I’d tell him I had a seven-foot-four boyfriend who could whoop him six ways from Sunday without even trying. Said imaginary boyfriend is waiting for me outside. Said boyfriend gets really jealous. Said boyfriendknowswhat Owen did to my gal, Jaime. How Jaime cried for days. Unconsolable.

But, alas, there is no such boyfriend. And I’m a terrible fibber, anyway.

Owen tilts his head to study me. It’s like he’s trying to figure me out. Or maybe he’s wondering if I’m from another planet.

“Are you planning on using the rink tomorrow morning?”

Why does he even care? I know he comes in earlier than the rest of the team to use the rink. I made sure to get off the ice before he arrived this morning. Does he seriously expect to have a fresh sheet all to himself?

So typical for a guy like him. It makes me want to scream and skate all over his ruggedly handsome face. UGH.

Instead, I bat my eyes and lay on the sugary sweet voice I had to use for the press back in my Olympic days. Times when I wasso tired and emotionally spent, but still had to put on a happy face for the camera.

“Hmm, I don’t know,” I say. “Imightwant to skate in the morning. I’ll have to see how I feel.”

His nostrils flare and I know I’ve got him.

“But if I don’t get my hat back in three seconds, I can’t be responsible if I lose track of time on the ice.”

He holds my gaze, face frozen solid, like an ice sculpture. Then, pressing his lips together, he shoves the beanie at me and tromps away. I should feel proud of the way I stood up to him. But instead, that muscle-floppy-fire is making me acutely aware of my giant boyfriendless existence.

3

OWEN

The principal at John G. Simcoe Elementary is talking—scratch that—lecturing, but I don’t hear a word she says. Whatever trouble my little brother, Cyrus, got into, I’ll get the whole story from him later. Currently, the other nine-year-old boy in question, some punk-faced bully, no doubt, sits next to his snooty mom, shooting Cyrus a nasty look that says, “I’ll get out of this unscathed, unlike you, dork.”

I’ve been in Cyrus’ seat. Years ago in an office much like this one. But I deserved it. I was an angry kid. But Cyrus isn’t like me—although I sometimes wonder if he’s trying too hard to remedy that.

“I’m concerned about the influences Cyrus is getting at home, Mr. Jablonski,” says the principal.

Her desk plaque says her name is Ms. Burk. Not Miss. Not Mrs. She’s middle-aged, dressed in a sensible business ensemble, and has twin wrinkles between the eyebrows—presumably from scowling at children all day.

“Your… profession,” she continues. “And the media…”

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