10 Things I Skate About You (Quick Pucks #2)

1. Adam

ADAM

The Net Zeroes are assholes.

All three of them. Rhys, Lance, and Kate Pogue. Assholes. Funny assholes, sure. But they’re assholes.

That’s not an opinion, it’s a fact. It’s their brand.

They’re the small-town assholes who talk about hockey.

The only reason anyone outside of Kenton pays any attention to their podcast is because of me.

Because Kate Pogue trolls me and people think it’s funny.

Some people thought it was so funny that they edited together clips of her calling me stupid nicknames, and guess what those videos did?

They went viral. For their insightful commentary on local and regional hockey?

No. Because of dumb shit like this latest episode that I’m hate-watching on my phone.

Yes, this is the second time I’m watching it—because it fuels my rage and pumps me up for my morning practice.

“As of this recording,” Kate says as she updates a whiteboard with her deceptively pretty penmanship, “Adam ‘The Penalty Box Philosopher’ Foley has accumulated fifty-two penalty minutes this season—which, for those of you keeping track at home, is approximately fifty-two minutes more than anyone else on the Icebreakers. This guy spends so much time in the sin bin he gets his mail forwarded there.”

Her brothers are sitting behind their microphones, shaking their heads at her.

“For beer-league games,” she says, as if she’s making a point.

As if beer-league games aren’t as important as NHL games.

Every hockey game is important. Gretzky said he prepared for every game like it was a Stanley Cup final, whether it was an exhibition game or the playoffs.

If the Great One was playing for the Icebreakers he’d take it just as seriously as I do.

Therefore I am as dedicated as Wayne Gretzky.

That’s not my opinion—that’s just hockey logic.

“The Cowpoke Grumpstick’s career beer-league sin-bin counter stands at 247 minutes as of last Wednesday,” she reports as she adds that to the white board.

“Which means that over the past two years, Adam Foley has spent the equivalent of over four hours of his life sitting in a box, alone, thinking about what he did. While his teammates had fun playing recreational hockey. Clearly he is not thinking hard enough.”

“Ohhkayyy,” her older brother, Rhys, says, widening his eyes at the camera. “In other hockey news—”

“In other local hockey news,” Kate interrupts, “democracy is alive and well in Kenton, BC, because the Icebreakers logo remains unchanged. However, their team captain, Kenton’s favorite grumpy former-NHL-player Adam ‘Cowpoke Grumpstick’ Foley—”

“Not a cowpoke and I’m not grumpy,” I grumble to no one.

“Also known as The Lonestar Grump—for listeners and viewers who don’t know—as Adam Foley played for our beloved and illustrious Comets junior hockey team for four years, having moved here from his family’s ranch in Fort Worth, Texas.

He got drafted by Chicago—very impressive—and played in the minors in Illinois for a while before getting called up to the Sentries.

His illustrious NHL career as a center for the Chicago Sentries was sadly cut short by a knee injury—which I am not making fun of.

Career-ending injuries are no joke. And by the way, if you are anyone other than Adam Foley, if you are an ice skater—recreational or competitive, of any age—and you need a movement coach, I have a few slots available via Zoom, over the next month. ”

“I feel like you’re a tad maniacal today, sis,” Rhys points out.

Continuing her rant, she says, “But what I will never stop laughing about on this show is that this man continues to be unhinged when it comes to his inability to accept that small-town beer-league hockey is in fact played for fun.”

“This is true,” her brother Lance agrees. I’ll remember that the next time we play against his shitty team.

“But Adam Foley somehow managed to get the proposed Icebreakers logo change on the agenda at the most recent Kenton city council meeting. Sources who were in attendance at that public meeting at city hall say that his speech was impassioned and hilarious.”

“And did the source by any chance heckle him from the audience while he was giving this impassioned speech?” Lance asks her.

“She sure did, Lance. She sure did. It really got under his skin too.”

“Did not,” I argue with my phone.

“But she was only saying out loud what everyone else in the room was thinking,” Kate goes on, and on, and on.

“A) That this man takes beer-league hockey way too seriously and b) the current Icebreakers logo is unbelievably cute and 3) why should anyone spend money on new jerseys just because Sulky Puckboy can’t accept that his NHL days are over and he’s the captain of a team that is trying to have some recreational community fun. ”

That is such horseshit. She’s just proving my point! If we had a serious logo, people would take us seriously!

“I mean that’s harsh, sis, as usual,” Rhys says, “but I’d like to gently draw attention to the fact that this source who took the time to willingly attend a city hall meeting should perhaps have a little more fun in her own life as well, especially now that she’s single again, and that she is perhaps taking Adam Foley a little too seriously. ”

Dead. Rhys is the cool one. I do like that guy.

“Okay, well, that’s obviously going to be edited out,” she mumbles.

“Oh for sure. You’re gonna edit that out, right, Lance?”

“One thousand percent. Unless I decide not to. Let’s talk about the last brew-crew game, but without any commentary from Kate about Adam.”

She huffs. I love it. That’s why I’m watching this again, for the way they chirp at her and for that look.

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.

“In other other 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 when The Net Zeroes have 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 just say that?”

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

“They’re kind of like Freddy Spaghetti from Parks 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 on my ice.

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—I will wait 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.

And then, suddenly, she sees me.

“No” is all she says. And then she skates right to me, fists on her saucy, rounded hips, her blue eyes ablaze with fury—and something else. Always something else.

She does the most dramatic hockey stop I have ever seen.

Directly in front of me.

It’s impressive that she could land it perfectly in figure skates, but I’m too pissed to be impressed, because the ice spray hits my face.

But I don’t flinch.

I don’t react.

“Good morning to you too, darlin’. What the hell are you doing here?”