Page 18 of Ice Mechanic

My palms are sosweaty that they keep slipping over my leather steering wheel cover. I know Chance has questions about what happened with Evan, but he’s not sharing them and that makes me even more embarrassed.

It’s funny how quickly our roles have changed.

When I didn’t know his name, things felt much simpler.

He needed a mechanic, and I was the powerful technician who saved the day.

Now, I’m just the clueless woman who got cheated on by her ex for awhole yearand he’s Chance McLanley.TheChance McLanley.

Talk about a power imbalance.

The only hockey game I ever saw was the one Evan forced me to sit and watch for his birthday. It was Chance’s team in the finals.

I had no idea which player was Chance at the time. Everyone was speeding too fast for me to recognize a face. However, I heard the word ‘McLanley’ mentioned often enough that I asked Evan about it.

“Who’s McLanely?”

“He’s the center. Guy knows where the puck is going almost like he put a tracker on it. But when you’re that strong, the other team sets a target on your back and the guy always falls for it. Ends up in the penalty box so often, there’s a joke that he’s got a microwave, a bed, and Netflix in there.”

I can totally see why Chance would get sent to the penalty box. Remembering how he flew right into Evan’s face, jerking me behind him and shielding me in the process, he definitely wouldn’t be able to handle players intentionally baiting him on the ice.

“I’m sorry,” Chance says without prompting.

I glance at him, my eyes wide. “Huh?”

“If I hurt you when I grabbed your hand.” Brows knitted, he stares a hole into my arm and I notice there’s a slight, reddish bruise forming there.

“Oh, you didn’t. This was from…” My voice trails.

“Evan?” He prompts.

He’s pitying me and I guess, in a way, I gave him something to pity me for. Any woman who willingly dated Evan Kinsey for three years probably has a few screws loose.

“Did Evan… used to hurt you?” Chance asks hesitantly.

I shake my head so hard my ponytail whips my cheek. “No, no. It was nothing like that. Even if he tried, I know how to use a wrench.”

Chance blows out a breath. “That’s good.”

I bark out a nervous little laugh that sounds a couple degrees better than my goat scream. Silence creeps in between us because I don’t know what to say.

“I, uh, actually thought you were apologizing for something else,” I mumble.

“I already apologized for not recognizing you as a mechanic.” He scratches his chin. “Did I do something else to offend you?”

“You didn’t offend me, per se.”

“Then?”

“I thought you were apologizing for stepping in.”

“Oh.” His shoulders relax. “Why would I apologize when I’m not sorry?”

His words are so frank and matter-of-fact that I slam too hard on the brakes when approaching a crosswalk and we both jolt forward. Instinctively, Chance’s arm comes up to protect me.

I clear my throat. “Well then,I’msorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

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