Page 38 of Puck Happens

Yeah, we really were going to be doing things the hard way today.

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After stretching,which…have you seen hockey players stretch? That shit was pornographic. I love a good hip flexor stretch as much as the next gal, but that was some straight up humping happening on the ice. Though that might have just been Dillon, who looked up at me at one point and winked.

Stop winking was going to be added to the list of rules.

How was it possible that the guy could turn me on, make me laugh and cringe all at the same time? It was a real gift.

They circled around at center ice and it was impossible not to notice a few of the guys smirking at me as they stood side by side with Novek. Just a few of them, and fewer than I expected, really. However, they were making it real clear who my enemies were.

“Today,” I said, “is footwork day. You can put the sticks down.”

“We don’t skate without our sticks,” Dillon said. Not exactly helpful.

“Okay. Keep them. We’re doing a basic sequence. Right leg lead and then left leg. Easy enough, right?”

They looked at me dubiously, which made me smile.

I laid out the moves. Back inside edge, mohawk, back outside edge three turn, mohawk. Outside bracket and a cross sequence that was actually a grapevine (but I wasn’t telling them that.) Tap toe jump. Forward inside edge, three turn. Tap toe jump. Repeat.

These guys were some of the best skaters in the world, and while they picked the sequence up pretty quickly - it wasn’t pretty. Smith skated with his tongue between his teeth. Skalsberg mouthed the steps as he did them.

There was zero elegance, but the footwork was tight.

“Nice,” I said. “Faster.”

“Again,” I said when they were done. “Faster.”

“This feels like choreography,” O’Rourke finally said, and I had to hand it to the kid. He was often the smartest guy in the room.

Dillon kept skating. “Because it is, rookie,” he said, proving he was always the smartest guy in the room.

Most of the guys skated to a stop, looking at me suspiciously.

“Everyone in a line along the boards,” I said pointing in the direction I wanted them. They went begrudgingly.

“Top speed guys,” I said, bringing my whistle to my mouth. “You go until the music stops.”

“Music?” They groaned.

I lifted my finger and Donny, one of the assistant coaches up in the booth, hit play on a track I’d asked him to cue up.

Taylor Swift’s Love Story blasted through the rink.

There was some good-natured groaning, but they all started to skate.

“Faster!” I yelled over Tay-Tay and the sounds of their blades on the ice. “Keep the pace.” I started clapping my hands to the beat and felt like Coach Judy, my first figure skating coach.

O’Rourke put down his stick so he could really get into it.

But then Novek yelled, “This is bullshit,” and stormed off the ice.

Some of the guys paused, looking after him like they might follow, but I skated through them, smiling and clapping, encouraging them to just keep going. I could feel Dillon behind me ready to bark at them if they moved a muscle towards the locker rooms, and I willed him to keep his mouth shut.

It was like he said: I had to earn this respect for myself.

Those guys stayed on the ice but half-assed the routine.

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