Page 14 of Ice Mechanic

CHANCE

I messed up.Big time.

In my defense, fans have impersonated janitors and hotel employees to get access to me. I had one fan steal her father’s police badge to sneak into the lockers.

If I’d seen the female mechanic wearing a jumpsuit or if I’d spotted a logo of a garage on her car, Imighthave been able to tell who she was.

Heavy on themight.

But I don’t know many guys who would have seen a pretty woman in an unmarked vehicle and instantly assumed she knew her way around a Lamborghini engine.

No matter my excuses, I’ve learned my lesson:keep this big mouth of mine shut.

I don’t speak a word as we drive into the heart of town. The stillness is awkward, but at least I don’t have another chance to put my foot in my mouth.

I don’t much like the taste of socks anyway.

She seems happy with the quiet and doesn’t even turn on the radio. Which is unfortunate. Because when my belly suddenlydecides it wants to practice a yodel for the good of mankind, there’s nothing to cover the noise.

Forest-green eyes shoot over to my reddening face and then down at my stomach. Her pretty mouth tightens at the corners, but she politely turns away without comment.

Shut up.I give my stomach the eyeball of doom, a skill I saw from my mother growing up when my sister and I were being particularly rowdy in church. But maybe I need more practice because my rebellious intestines change from a yodeler to a sperm whale that just. Won’t. Shut up.

The pretty mechanic tightens her fingers around the steering wheel and shifts in her seat.

Since it would be impolite not to say anything now, I explain, “Uh… I haven’t eaten since this morning.”

“You were skating on an empty stomach?” Her shocked tone is louder than my stomach’s next whale call.

“Did you see me training earlier?”

“No,” she says quickly. Too quickly. A blush forms over her cheeks and makes her freckles stand out in the dim lighting of the dusk.

I wonder why she’s lying. Is it possible her first impression of mewasn’tas a clueless buffoon? Did she see me on the ice before then?

Something tells me she did.

And that blush tells me she was intrigued.

Or at least, reluctantly intrigued.

I lean forward but before I can ask more, she blurts, “There’s a burger joint two streets down. The burgers are good and the price is reasonable.”

I could very well tell her that a ‘reasonable price’ doesn’t swing me one way or the other since I’d planned on dining at the hotel’s restaurant with very little thought to what the cost would be.

I also don’t tell her I can’t eat greasy food when I’m training.

My stomach, appeased by the promise of sustenance, calms down and we make it to the burger joint in record time.

The burger joint looks like every diner across America, almost as if one guy shared a blueprint with his diner-owning buddies and no one bothered to change anything.

From the neon sign outside, to the red booths, to the glass window with the sprayed-on ‘Bob’s Burgers’ logo, it strikes a chord of nostalgia.

My college teammates and I used to drive to the nearest truck stop after every away game, rewarding ourselves with milkshakes, burgers and questionably large servings of French fries.

“I’ll wait out here,” Tinkerbell says, pulling out her phone.

Yep, until I know her name, she’s Tinkerbell—the fairy I had a somewhat questionable attraction to for an embarrassing number of years.

---