Page 2 of Ice Mechanic

I chuckle. “I’ll see you around, Bobby.”

He waves and goes back to his Zamboni-fixing research. I continue to the admin area.

You got this, Chance. Go get ‘em.

Despite the self-talk, my nerves attack me like those defensemen at last year’s Halloween charity game.

Heart? Palpitating.

Lips? Trembling.

Fingers? Fidget-spinning.

After one more tug, I shove the fidget spinner back into my pocket, paste on my don’t-care smile and blow open the door marked ‘TEAM MANAGER’.

“McLanley!” A man twice the size of a defenseman in the Canadian league lights up at the sight of me.

“Max.” I smirk.

Max Mahoney springs out of his chair so fast, it spins like a top before careening into the glass window facing the arena. He launches at me, grabs my arm and pulls me in for a bear hug.

I’m 6’4” and used to towering over people, so it’s an odd sensation to be looking up at anyone but I do have to tilt my chin up to grin at Max.

“I thought you got lost in traffic!” Max bellows.

“What traffic? I didn’t even see a single traffic light driving down here.”

“We have a traffic light,” Max says haughtily, like it’s some kind of flex. “It’s over on Howard and Green.” He pats me on the back. “Have you settled in yet?”

“Yeah, man. Don’t worry about me.”

“Worrying about you is kinda my job.” He smirks. “By the way, where are you staying?”

“Somewhere with an elevator and housekeeping.”

“Long term, that’s going to get old. If you haven’t found any rentals yet, you can always room with me.”

“Once in this lifetime was more than enough, buddy.”

“Door’s always open as they say.” He laughs. “I know you didn’t have much time to prepare for the season, but I have all confidence in your skills.”

“Is that my official welcome?”

“Wasn’t good enough?” Max coughs and then spreads his hands wide. “We’re over-the-moon that you chose to join the Lucky Strikers, Chance.”

“He didn’tchooseus. He had nowhere else to go,” someone mumbles.

The smile freezes on my face, and I glance over my shoulder. I was told I’d only be meeting the manager today, but I’m not surprised to see a few guys from the team lined up and waiting for me. Their faces are tense, frowns hard as the puck that makes or breaks our game.

Max coughs, “Chance, meet the, uh, the Welcoming Committee.”

I hope this Welcoming Committee also serves death penalty inmates their last meal. They’d do a bang-up job.

Facing my teammates fully, I tip my chin up in greeting.

No one returns it.

Max points to a man wearing multiple gold chains and a gold ring on his finger. “That’s Cooper Theilan. The guy in the Hello Kitty Crocs beside him is Viking Renfrow. They’re our two best forwards.”

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