Page 14 of Ice Dance Hockey

“Normal people stop at a shop, Merc. We can’t all be as good at this stuff as you,” I say in an earnest tone so that he’ll feel bad. Meanwhile, I could change my bike’s oil in my sleep.

He does. “Guess not.” He softens. “All right. Take care of your messages and then put your phone on silent. We’re getting to work.”

I expect it to be either Mom or one of my new skate coaches—the only people who contact me—but it’s not. It’s Rhett.

Where did you find employment? As your boyfriend, I should know where you work. Might want to send flowers or something else public. You know, so that my father will note my devotion when word travels back to him.

Right. The conversation earlier.

Nowhere exciting. My brother’s shop. He’s teaching me how to fix cars. Today I learn about things called tools. Do not send me flowers here.

As hilarious as that would be, I don’t want flowers from Rhett. Flowers should be reserved for real relationships, not fake ones.

Why do I get the feeling you already know about tools?

Huh. Okay, he gets points for being perceptive.

Because I do. Shhhh. Don’t tell him. *secret emoji*.

You fucking brat. I knew it.

I laugh. I bite my damn lip.

“What are you laughing at over there?” Merc says.

“Stupid GIF my friend sent.” Why did I lie? I don’t need to lie about Rhett. Yet, I do.

“Put the phone away now. We’re getting to work.”

“Yeah, sure.” Turning it on silent, I leave it on a counter out of the way.

We spend the next hour going over the names of various screwdrivers. “The one shaped like a star is called a Phillips? Why can’t I call it a starhead?” I ask.

“You can call it whatever you want, but if I say to pass me the Phillips, you need to know what I’m talking about. Okay, let’s move on to wrenches.”

It’s hard not to laugh. He’s so earnest. It’s nice. I’ve never had this, so I enjoy the hell out of it. We finish and then he quizzes me, and he’s so damn proud when I get them all correct.

“We’ll make a mechanic out of you yet,” he says.

“Cool. When do I get to fix stuff?”

“By yourself? Not for a while yet, but we’ll have our first customer coming by tomorrow. I’ve been calling my old customer list to let them know I’m back. Mrs. Gibson would like her oil changed, so I’ll show you how to do that.”

“Great.”

“Did … did, uh, Mom … she really didn’t teach you a single thing about cars? I’ve kinda been waiting for you to come clean, to be honest.”

I shake my head. “Not a damn thing.” That’s actually true. Mom wouldn’t let me near her when she’d fix anything, and now I know why. “She taught you, though.”

“Started me off, more like. I learned from various others over the years and got my mechanic’s license when I knew I wasn’t going to play hockey for a living.”

His technique is still reminiscent of Mom, though. I don’t say that part. Sometimes I found hiding places near where she worked and watched her without her knowing I was there.

“And now you’ll be teaching me. So can I negotiate a pay raise?” I say, wiping off my hands on a blue rag. We didn’t touch any grease, but tools are dirty by virtue of being tools.

“You have a one-thousand-dollar monthly allowance, which is more than I ever had, plus room, board, housing for school, and four-hundred-dollar noise-canceling headphones. Still can’t believe Jack spent four hundred dollars on those,” he mutters. “And let’s not forget your rich new boyfriend to buy you whatever you want. You don’t need to get paid more for this, but you do need to contribute.”

“How much did they give for allowances back in your day, Merc?”