Page 5 of Mistlefoe
“Okay. See you later.”
I respond without looking up from my screen. “Yep, bye.”
“This is gonna be fun to watch,” says Stephen just outside the door, no doubt referring to what could potentially turn into a shitshow. Best I can do is ignore him and focus on my renewed hope.
My browser pulls up the exact flight information I need once I type the first few letters. I’ve looked it up so many times that it remembers. My Christmas spirt returns with a vengeance and I start humming Mariah Carey’s classic seasonal song. Mariah is Mom’s and Grammie’s favorite singer because she has Venezuelan ascent.
“Sierra.”
I freeze. Apparently not everyone left.
Would ignoring him make him go away?
I close my eyes. Probably not. We’re going to be in each other’s grills pretty hardcore for the next three weeks. I swivel my chair and open my eyes.
Instant regret floods me. Conor leans his shoulder against the doorframe, arms folded and holding his laptop against his chest. The problem is that a strand of hair has escaped its pomade hold, arching over his forehead in a way that is offensive. He’s all smiles and easy laughs with everyone but me,which is fine except for the fact that it earns me his most intense stares. Like this one. I wonder how his hockey opponents felt when his brown eyes were on them like this. Or if unlike me, they felt nothing at all.
See, that’s another important item in the list of reasons why he irritates me. He has no right to be so freaking cute.
“What?” I grit the word out.
He narrows his eyes a notch. “Is this going to be an issue?”
I let the silence hang because making him slightly uncomfortable is the only way I can intimidate a guy who is like two hundred pounds of solid, very nicely shaped muscle.
“Not if you don’t get in my way,” I say at last.
“Hm.” He straightens away from the doorframe. “I guess it’ll be an issue, then. That promotion is mine.”
I stretch my lips into a sweet smile that doesn’t fool him, going by the way that little wrinkle appears between his eyebrows again. “You’re going down, Mahoney.”
CHAPTER 3
CONOR
Ice has its own particular smell. I didn’t notice it while I was a kid, skating before I could even walk properly. I certainly didn’t pay any attention to it when I was a teenager or in college, rushing toward my dreams of a professional hockey career. I was too distracted by the smell of sweat and Icy Hot, body odor from a bunch of dudes, the distinctive stench of old equipment, or the glorious smell of new plastic gear.
I didn’t notice ice’s own scent until after the accident. In the year following it, the only thing that could get me out of bed was coming to this very rink. I’d sit on the stands on my own for hours, just sniffing the stuff like an addict.
Eventually, when I was able to pull my head out of my ass, I got a part time job here—which wasn’t hard since I know the owner very well. I still spend my evenings and weekends either teaching kids, or leveling the ice, or cleaning the place. I don’t care what, but I know I have to stay close to the ice to stay sane.
I open my eyes. The rink is empty except for me. It’s Thanksgiving and every normal person is home with their family. Gramps and I worked all day prepping a meal that willfeed us for two weeks, but we both had important plans after supper.
His, a little nap. Mine, a little skate.
He happens to be the owner of the rink, so I have VIP access twenty-four seven.
Pucks lay scattered around the surface. I bounce one with the end of my stick, the smacking sound echoing in the quiet around me. My skates slice the ice with a steady swooshing sound, harsher when I change direction abruptly just for fun. How many times did I do skating drills like this? Just skating around obstacles, pumping my muscles until they burn. It feels colder since I’m alone and my breath puffs faint clouds into the air. I don’t drop the puck even as I zigzag across the expanse, just balancing the disc with my stick like a party trick. I bat it in once I’m close enough to the goal, baseball style.
The momentum takes me around the goal. I shoot a nearby puck into the back of the net in what would’ve been a wraparound goal. The crowd would be roaring right about now.
Taking a deep breath, I pump my legs even harder. That’s the best medicine against the blues I get every time I viscerally miss playing. That and a little prescription pill I always carry in my backpack.
I repeat the drill from the top. This time I drop the puck once but I pick it up in a smooth swing and keep going. Ain’t that the moral of the story? No matter what happens, you pick your ass up and keep going. At least, that’s what I tell myself every morning.
“Knew you’d be here.”
I brake hard enough to spray a frozen shower around me. “Hey, Gramps. I thought you’d nap all the way until tomorrow.”
