Page 2 of 10 Things I Skate About You

Lance talks about the game we had against the Benchwarmers where we destroyed them.

I check the time. It’s after 6:00 a.m. I have the rink booked from six to seven, so I need to get in there. But I have to finish watching this shitshow.

“Inotherother news,” Rhys says, “as we reported in January, the assistant coach of the Comets up and left to follow his girlfriend out to LA. Which was literally a dick move because he moved for his dick. Am I right? But our man Papa Bear, Coach Barrett, has told us he’s already in negotiations with Kyle’s replacement. The best replacement he could find, he said, but that guy has to finish out his contract with another team. My sources say the guy is in Calgary, but we don’t have an official statement yet.”

“Your sources?” Kate snorts. “You mean the guys who were standing behind you in line at Peak Brew?”

Rhys ignores her saying, “Our favorite New York Griffin, goalie Craig ‘The Wall’ Bowman, is still killing it this season.Join us next time on the pod whenThe Net Zeroeshave a Zoom chat with him.” Then he says, “We’d like to thank this episode’s sponsor, Five-Hole Brewing Company, again. And as a reminder to those of you in the Kenton, BC, area—the Kincaid family is hosting a charity auction benefitting the children’s hospital on February tenth. Lance and I will be emceeing the event at the banquet hall in the Kincaid Arena, and we are legally obligated to add that our beautiful and talented wives, Tina and Eunice, have a band called The Shrew Crew. Our sister, Kate, is also their bandmate.”

Kate crosses her arms over her chest, frowning. “‘Bandmate’? I’m the lead singer. Why wouldn’t you justsay that?”

“Because we don’t needyouto like us. What would you say is the vibe of The Shrew Crew, little brother?” Rhys says.

“They’re kind of like Freddy Spaghetti fromParks and Rec, but with three baddies,” Lance says. “Except two of the baddies drive minivans and one of them would rather just be a sad lady who sings while drinking wine in the shower. Her loving family wanted her to get out more after her longtime ex-boyfriend dumped her, and so the duo known as The Shrew Crew became a trio.”

“Accurate,” Rhys says, grinning at their scowling sister. “They will be blessing us with a performance at the charity event. The Shrew Crew are also donating a performance of five of their original songs at a party. So bring your checkbooks and bid high for our beloved wives, so Lance and I can get the BJs we deserve from happy spouses.”

I close the YouTube app, turn off my car’s engine, and get my gear out of the back seat. It’s so fucking cold. My knee’s always stiff in the morning, but in early February out here, it’s brutal. Few minutes out on the ice and it’ll be warmed up.

As I walk into the lobby of the arena, I smile to myself, thinking about the beautiful live-edge coffee table that I crafted in my workshop—the one I’m donating for the charity auction. Gorgeous big-leaf maple. Book-matched slab, natural-figured grain with a matte Danish-oil finish that lets the wood breathe. Hand-cut dovetail joints on the base. It’s a work of art that’s worth around thirty-five hundred bucks.

And Kate’s donating some children’s songs. I should bid on them. Have them come sing the national anthem before an Icebreakers game and then send them on their merry way.

I head straight to the locker room. I love this arena when it’s just me and Ron the Zamboni Guy. I’ve got the men’s locker room all to myself. Gonna have the rink all to myself. I put my earbuds in and pull up my hype hockey playlist before changing. “Feeling Good” by Nina Simone gets me going. By the time I’m walking through the tunnel it’s Jay-Z and I am so ready to do some edge work. I’ll have time to do some stickhandling drills and face-off footwork, but lately I’ve been focusing on getting my edges sharp and clean. That’s what I lost with the knee injury, but I’ll get it back.

I’m about to prop my stick up against the boards, wincing because I really need to get warmed up—and that’s when I see her. Kate “The Red Plague” Pogue, doing a spiral onmyice. The hot-pink fleece jacket she’s wearing should clash with her red hair, but it doesn’t. She’s wearing a thick headband, to hide her devil horns. And the thing that I can’t help but notice, even though I don’t want to—the thing I notice after I stare at her amazing ass, that is—is the absolute joy in her expression. She’s listening to something on her earbuds, lost in her own ice-princess world, moving with such grace and ease.

It impresses and annoys me in equal measure.

I turn off my playlist because I want to hear the sound of her blades on the ice.

It’s been two and a half weeks since the last time we were on the ice together. We were both at the outdoor rink at Waterfront Park because all the morning slots were booked here at the arena that day. I got there first. Had the ice all to myself for twenty glorious minutes. When she showed up, she was wearing a yellow jacket and pink lipstick. Why would she be wearing pink lipstick so early in the morning to go skating by herself, one might ask?

Because she was hoping she’d run into me.

That’s not an assumption, that’s observation. It’s how my brain is wired. I watch for patterns, I read situations, I draw conclusions from evidence. I study the tape. I’m not mooning over some girl, I’m analyzing data. I’m breaking down my opponent’s tendencies. I had seen this woman at the rink in the morning hundreds of times, and she never wore makeup. Two weeks ago—lipstick. There’s no logical reason to wear bright pink lipstick to an outdoor rink at dawn if you’re expecting to skate alone.

Something’s changed.

Has she finally figured out what a douchebag her ex-boyfriend was all along?

Does she finally have the eyes to see how amazing other men are—specifically, me?

I can’t wait to find out.

That’s not accurate—Iwillwait to find out.

You don’t chase the plague, you strengthen your immunity so you’re ready when she comes for you.

I watch her do a layback spin, so fucking lithe and balletic. I’d do anything to be able to do edges and turns like that again. Fucking knee.

Fucking Kate Pogue.

I bet she’s listening to one of those nineties feminist grunge-rock bands that drives me nuts.

I can’t look away. I want to. But I can’t. She’s like a terrible one-woman reality show about a former figure skater, and I can never find the remote to change the channel.

She’s been so unselfconscious, totally unaware of my presence.