Page 4 of Ice Mechanic

“Looking forward to it.”

The rest of the guys file out after Gunner.

The door clicks shut, and the silence that falls is so thick, it’s suffocating.

“Make friends, I said.” Max sinks into his chair and covers his face with his hands. “Be nice, I said. Why’d I waste my breath?”

“Putting it all out in the open is better for everyone. At least now we know where we stand.”

“Did youhaveto antagonize the wingers too?”

I shrug. “You called me here to stir the pot, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t ask you to turn the pot over and dance on the chicken bones.”

That’s a vivid image.

“Gunner’s got a grip on this team and you know it. You’re in as shaky a position as I am.”

“Oh, no, McLanley. After all that,” he gestures to the door where my new teammates stormed out, “you’re in a much,muchworse place than me.”

Maybe so.

But the thing is, I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to claw my way back to the league and nothing in this Podunk town of Lucky Falls, USA can stop me.

CHAPTER

TWO

APRIL

The rickety soundof an engine turning over and stalling fills the air. I grin maniacally at the scans on the computer, reading the lines like my sister with the latest social media gossip.

“I hate having to pull off B-pillar panels just to get to a wire.”

“In English please,” screams an exasperated voice. “You can’t expect regular people to understand that gibberish.”

“It’s not gibberish. It’s science. Mechanical engineering, to be exact.” I tuck away a rebellious curl that fell out of my ponytail. “A car is an intricate ecosystem that requires knowledge of chemistry, physics?—”

“Blah, blah, blah.” My sister pops an exaggerated yawn and shuts her phone off. “April, I can’t film like this. Seriously. I love you, but this is not what the people want.”

“The ‘people’ want us in bras and shorts bending over their cars at a car wash, not fixing their engines.” The voice that echoes across our garage is followed by theclick, clackof stilettos marching in a familiar rhythm.

I smile when a slim, perfectly gym-toned arm hooks around my neck and squeezes. At the end of that arm, a plastic bag dangles from perfectly manicured fingers.

“Rebel, youangel,” I mutter as I grab the bag filled with my lifeblood.

“Yes, yes, sing my praises.” She trades the bag of donuts for the OCB scanner.

“I’ll take that,” May says, stealing the donuts in a classic younger sister move.

Hands free, I hurry to the giant sink against the wall. Pushing up the sleeves of my oversized jumper, I grab the lavender scented, industry-grade soap that Rebel special orders for us and lather my hands.

When I return, the donut box is already open and May is staring, slack-jawed at it.

“Are those chocolate covered, jelly-filled donuts?”

“Mm-hm,” Rebel answers distractedly, her eyes glued to the OCB screen.

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