Page 7 of Ice Mechanic

“Uh…” Pretending my phone is ringing, I put the device to my ear and yell loudly, “Hello? Yes, this is April. Would I be interested in learning more about alien abduction insurance? Why yes I would.”

“You’re such a bad liar, April!” Rebel yells at my back as I dive into my car and speed down the road.

I’m not just a bad liar.

I’m also a pushover.

But hey, no one’s ever died from either of those things… I think.

The ride across town doesn’t take long and before I’ve belted my lungs out to two Whitney Houston classics, I’m already pulling into the stadium’s parking lot.

Inside, the arena is dark except for the rink which has the spotlights on. I’m surprised to see a player skating back and forth this late at night.

For some reason, my body can’t turn away from the skater. The way he moves on the ice is mesmerizing. Someone as tall as a giraffe should be all gangly knees and discoordination, especially when he’s pushing around a stick half his size. Instead, he’s graceful, skilled, and totally in control of his body.

The skater successfully pushes the puck around the last cone and skates to the other side of the rink. He leans against the rail and takes off his helmet.

I have a mini heart attack at the sight of an out-of-this-world, hewn to perfection,Davidsculpture of a face. The mini heart attack turns into a full-on 911 emergency when he throws his head back. The harsh fluorescent light glitters against the spray of sweat from his hair. Little dots of light fall around him like stars that flash brilliantly before disappearing.

I’m suddenly reminded of that scene inThe Little Mermaidwhen Ariel surfaces to croon about wanting to be a part of the human world.

Except this guy is no slim, red-headed mer-gal.

He’s every bit a Prince Eric with his black hair and ginormous height. I watch as he skates to pick up the cones and set them behind the divider. Even in the bulky hockey uniform, I can tell his shoulders are about the size of two bus engines…

“April.”

“Gah!” I shriek.

My voice reverberates around the stadium and I panic when I see the hockey player look up in my direction.

Mayday, mayday!My brain cells fly the coop, and I do what every empty-headed woman would when faced with flight or fight.

I go with option c.

“April?” Bobby whispers, staring at the top of my head which is all he can see since I cannon-balled right into the ground and hunkered beneath the benches.

“Where’s the Zamboni?” I whisper back, fighting back a blush that’s so hot, it’ll probably melt a few cartilages in my nose.

“This way,” Bobby says.

Thankfully, he leads meawayfrom the rink.

Away from the new hockey player who’s a little too hot to be playing on frozen water.

Away is good.

Because something tells mePrince Eric On Iceis a show I would pay to watch, but in real life, it’d be way too much drama for me.

CHAPTER

THREE

CHANCE

Most athletes have a quirk,something completely inane that they have to do before or after the game to ward off negativity.

My quirk has become a lifestyle.

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