Page 22 of Pucking the Grump

At least, I think I can…

But as I drift off to sleep, I find myself looking forward to whatever we’re going to do on Saturday with an eagerness I haven’t felt in a long time.

A long, long time.

Chapter 6

Stone

Early Saturday evening…

* * *

There’s something magical about an empty ice rink, especially a charming vintage rink like this one. The freshly polished surface gleams in the rosy light streaming through the high windows up above, transforming the beat-up boards into something sacred, a temple dedicated to frozen water and questionable decisions.

Speaking of questionable decisions...

I wonder what Remy’s going to think of my surprise.

Was renting out an entire ice rink too much? Or just enough? Either way, I’ll find out soon. She should be here any minute, and I’m way more excited about that than I should be.

But, so what? Sue me for looking forward to an evening on the ice with a beautiful woman.

I take a deep breath, savoring the scent lingering in the air—aging rubber mats mixed with stinky feet, a hint of wood rot, and the subtle tang of metal and Zamboni fluid. It smells just like the rink where I strapped on my first pair of hockey skates, back when Mom enrolled me in every sport known to man to help burn off my boundless, six-year-old energy. But after just one day at Pee-Wee camp, I was ready to quit Little League, karate, and soccer. Even as a first grader, I knew that hockey was where I belonged. I played like I’d been born with a stick in my hand. I fell hard for the sport and never looked back.

Now, almost thirty years later, the love affair is nearly over. I’m in my last year as a member of the NHL, and sure, I’ll probably do something hockey-adjacent for work after this, but it won’t be the same.

Everything is about to change…

Maybe that’s why I’m finding it so therapeutic to worry about Remy’s emotional well-being. It’s a great way to keep my mind off the upheaval in my own life.

Or maybe I’m just horny.

I’ve jerked off to thoughts of my favorite redhead at least four times since we parted ways Thursday night, but it’s done nothing to take the edge off. I’m still committed to keeping this Fun Coaching friendly and above-board, but fuck… I’m in quite a state, and it’s all her fault.

If only she didn’t smell so damned good or look so smokin’ hot while crafting.

“Is it weird that I think it’s hot when women enjoy crafting, Flo?” I ask as our private tutor skates past on the other side of the boards, testing the fresh ice he just laid down twenty minutes ago.

“Yes, but we’re all weird, Big Guy. It’s fine.” Florio “Flo” Barone executes a series of lazy figure eights, managing to make them look like part of an inspired performance. He’s everything you’d expect from a former Olympic-level figure skater turned coach: dramatic, flamboyant, and a big fan of sparkles on and off the ice. “What’s not fine is that your girlfriend is late,” he says, arching a dark brow my way. “I will gently remind you that, much like a high-class prostitute, I do get paid by the hour.”

“Of course, you do. But like I said, she’s not my girlfriend,” I repeat for the twentieth time. “We’re not even dating. This is just a friend meet-up.”

Flo smirks. “If you say so, pookie. But I don’t know many straight men who would book a private lesson with a righteously expensive figure skating instructor for ‘a friend,’ they had no intentions of trying to get into bed later. You’re on a mission of seduction, or my undies aren’t ES Collection.”

I’m saved from further commentary on my love life (or his undies) by the sound of the heavy rink door swinging open. Remy strides in like she owns the place, all long legs and controlled energy in black leggings and an oversized Frosted Bushtits Hockey sweatshirt. Her messy bun has those little wisps escaping around her face, the ones that make me want to pull out her hair-tie, burying my hands in all that red silk as I feast on her?—

Focus, dude. You’re her fun coach right now, not her fuck buddy.

I extend an arm for a friendly hug, but she’s already gazing past me, her face lighting up as she sees we’re not alone. I was hoping she’d be excited about that, but maybe not this excited.

“Flo! What’s up, hot stuff?” she exclaims, dumping her gym bag on a nearby bench. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Vancouver!”

“Remy, bella!” Florio glides to the boards, his arms spread wide. He pulls Remy into a hug, before kissing both her cheeks with typical Italian enthusiasm. “I just got back last night. I was going to spend the weekend recovering on my couch with Drag Race reruns, but your charming man here made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” He nods my way, looking smug again. “Though he keeps insisting he’s not your man, so…not sure what to think about that obvious and blatant lie. I mean, you didn’t even say hello to him on your way in. If that doesn’t say ‘we’re secretly in love and fucking like bunnies,’ I don’t know what does.”

Remy glances over her shoulder at me, her eyes sparkling. “Ignore him. He’s terrible, but harmless. Flo knows all my deep, dark secrets, and he never tells tales out of class.”

“I’m a vault,” he assures me. “But Remy is my girl, so I can’t be your shoulder to cry on if this doesn’t work out, Big Guy. Sorry. She had my heart first.”

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