Chapter 10 Naomi
Chapter ten
Naomi
The chalet feels like a pressure cooker by early-afternoon.
We’ve done the food inventory, argued over bacon rations, and confirmed there’s more than enough ingredients to last us a few days if we don’t eat like linebackers. The generator’s fine, the heat’s steady. On paper, we’re organized.
After that, the guys disappeared down the glass corridor to the rink to “burn off energy” and “stay sharp,” leaving me alone with absolutely nothing left to do.
I am used to fourteen-hour days and back-to-back calls.
Now I’m pacing grooves into their rug.
By the time the breezeway door finally opens and a cooler draft slips into the room, I’m one more lap away from clawing at the walls.
The three of them step in, cheeks pink from the cold, talking quietly.
Felix beelines for the kitchen island, rummaging in the pantry for something snackable now that he knows we’re not on the brink of starvation.
Liam heads for the fridge. Silas shakes ice shavings off his sleeves and goes right back to the window.
I stop pacing. “Okay, I can’t just sit here.”
“And what’d you want to do?” Silas turns to me. “Snow-ga?”
“You, my friend, must be a real hit at parties,” I say, dry.
We stare at each other for a beat, our jaws tight.
Felix closes the pantry with his hip, a granola bar in his hand. “Hey. You know, you could come to the rink with us,” he says. “Stretch your legs. You know, so you don't pace yourself to death.”
I glance toward the corridor door. Then at Silas, whose expression tightens immediately.
“Too bad she doesn’t have skates,” he says smugly.
“Actually, we’ve got a few spares that should be her size,” Felix says, not missing a beat.
Silas folds his arms. “Well, we need room to run drills,” he says. “This isn’t open skate at a mall rink.”
Felix tears open the granola bar wrapper with his teeth, then jerks his chin toward the breezeway. “It’s a full sheet of ice, man. We can run drills and let Naomi do laps without anyone dying.”
"Plus, it's not like you actually need the practice," I add, smirking. "You know, since you don't actually intend to play the upcoming game.”
"We practice because that’s what we do. Game or no game.” He grunts, then his gaze flicks briefly to Liam and Felix. Neither argues with that.
Felix lifts his hand. “Okay, then: democracy. All in favor of letting Naomi join us on the ice?”
His own hand stays up… Then Liam raises his after a beat.
Silas glares at both of them like they've just stabbed him in the back.
Felix grins at me. “Two to one. Motion carries.”
"Why, thank you. I'll be happy to join then," I say, matching Felix's smile while holding Silas’s gaze. Not only will this kill the boredom, but annoying Silas is an excellent bonus. "Let's go."
He mutters something under his breath that sounds like “unbelievable,” but he doesn’t argue.
We head for the glass corridor. The air in the breezeway is cooler than the chalet but still worlds better than outside, where the storm is a moving white blur beyond the windows.
Once inside the rink, Silas and Liam disappear into the locker room while Felix peels off toward a storage closet near the players’ bench, humming to himself. He digs around for a second and comes back with two pairs of black hockey skates dangling from his fingers.
“Guessing on the size,” he says, offering them out. “One of these should work.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking them.
He grins. “You're welcome. I’m gonna go change.”
He jerks a thumb toward the locker room and vanishes.
I sit and test the first pair. Too tight. Second pair: better. Snug but not painful. When I stand, my ankles wobble a little. It’s been a while.
The locker room door opens. Silas and Liam come out in full gear now, helmets in hand, blades clacking on the rubber mat.
Silas takes in my wobbly stance and lets out a short huff. “Take it easy, city,” he says. “We’re not calling a medevac in this weather.”
I ignore him, stepping onto the ice and grabbing the boards. I take one shaky glide. Then another, letting my weight settle over the blades. And just like that, old muscle memory slides in.
I let go of the wall, test my edges. I ease into a set of careful crossovers, weight shifting from blade to blade. A turn. Then I switch to backward skating, checking my position with quick glances over my shoulder.
When I look back toward the bench, Felix is just stepping onto the ice, helmet on, eyes wide.
“Oh, hell,” he says, grinning. “You actually know what you’re doing.”
Liam, already gliding past, gives a single tap of his stick against the ice as he goes by. "Pretty good, lawyer."
Silas’s eyes narrow as he pushes off hard from the boards, cutting past me with enough force that a spray of ice dusts my leggings.
I steady myself, a little smile pulling at my mouth.
Looks like I hit a nerve.
* * *
It’s been about two hours.
I mostly stay out of their drills, looping the perimeter, enjoying the simple fact that my body is moving.
But I watch them, as amazed as I was the first time.
Up close, it’s even clearer: they're like a single entity. They don't need to call for the puck; they just know where the others will be.
They’re good. Really good.
Which makes their refusal to play that much more confusing. This obviously isn’t a skill issue on their part.
Eventually, they coast over to the boards near me, breathing hard, helmets off.
“You three are ridiculous,” I say. “In a good way. Whatever you’re getting paid, it’s not enough.”
“Thanks,” Felix pants, bracing his forearms on the top of his stick. “You’re really good yourself. Where’d a city lawyer learn to skate like that?”
“Northern cities have ice, too,” I say. “And years of ballet. Different stage, similar balance work.”
“Ballet, huh?” Felix grins. “That explains the crossovers. Bet you couldn’t check someone, though.”
“I’ve negotiated with corporate raiders during hostile takeovers.” I arch a brow. “I can check someone, just not the way you're used to.”
Liam chuckles. “I believe her,” he says.
Silas snorts. “Talking and hitting are not the same skill set.”
“Good thing I’m multi-talented,” I say, and don’t bother looking at him.
“Ever shot a puck?” Felix asks, nudging one toward me with his stick.
“Never.”
“Perfect.” He flips his stick around and offers it to me. It feels heavy and awkward in my hands… like a caveman's club. “Okay. Basic lesson. It’s all weight transfer. Think plié, but angrier.”
I smirk. “Did you just compare a slapshot to ballet?”
He shrugs, unbothered. “I have a sister.”
I nudge the puck into place, lining it up with the empty net at the far end.
“Back leg first,” he says. “Then snap through, point your toe where you want it to go.”
Weight back. Coil. Release.
I pull the stick back, let my hips turn, feel the shaft bend against the ice as I shift forward and snap my wrists.
THWACK.
The sound of the puck hitting the back of the net is loud in the quiet rink.
I blink. “Oh.”
Felix’s jaw drops. “No. Way.”
Liam taps his stick on the ice twice, visibly amused. “Remind me not to get on your bad side in any arena,” he says.
I turn to Silas.
He’s staring at the net, then at me, then at the net again. He catches me watching and straightens, scoffing like he’s offended by his own reaction.
“Beginner’s luck,” he says, tone rougher than usual. He pivots and pushes off toward center ice, and I fight a smile.
Maybe it was luck. But something tells me I just earned a sliver of respect.