Page 50 of Ice Mechanic

APRIL: It’s in pristine condition. All it needed was an oil change and it was good to go.

ME: Thanks for changing the oil. Was that canola or olive?

APRIL: Ouch. Was that supposed to be funny?

ME: Another swing and miss?

APRIL: :) Thank you for bringing it over. May says having it in the background of our videos will be great for ‘engagement’ online.

ME: I bet it will.

APRIL: It’s ready for pick up. We’re closing the shop in thirty minutes though, so if you don’t get here in time, you’ll need to pick it up tomorrow.

I don’t mind if April keeps the Bel Air overnight. It’s safer with her than with me since I don’t have a house to park it in front of.

Absently, I tap on her profile picture. The image is of her posing next to the Bel Air. She’s wearing her mechanic jumpsuit with the oil stains and her leg is kicked up in celebration.

She looks so beautiful it literally chokes me up.

I massage my throat, unable to breathe.

Forget seeing her tomorrow, I need to see her.

In person.

Right now.

How much time do I have left?

I check the phone screen.

Twenty-nine minutes.

Tossing the phone, I strip out of my clothes and run into the shower like I’m being chased. The steam curls around me, floating through the air like grey ghosts. Steaming hot water spatters into the shower tiles at my feet.

I scrub my face and hair enthusiastically. Then I scrub down my stomach, grinning when I remember the appreciative gleam in April’s green eyes when she saw me shirtless.

After the shower, I grab a clean towel, wrap it around my waist and return to my locker to grab a fresh change of clothes and some cologne.

Unfortunately, I can only locate the cologne. All my clothes have disappeared.

“What’s going on?” I murmur. Tossing out all the things in my locker, I search every nook and cranny.

No clothes.

I check around the benches, behind the towel hamper and even in the garbage.

Not onlymyclothes, but all the worn jerseys from the hamper are missing too.

Aside from the towels, there is not a stitch of fabric in the locker room.

Gunner.

His name rings through my mind and brings with it a bitter taste in my mouth. What’s with this middle-school prank?

I check the time.

Twenty minutes to go.

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