Chapter Two – Fawn
Stepping through the main doors, I’m struck by how much it resembles a high-end office than an ice rink. Is this the right place? It has to be — there are decals of pucks and skates on the walls.
The space is occupied by a long, white counter so spotless, it glistens under fluorescent lighting. The air has a mild disinfectant scent that is both fresh and slightly artificial, as if someone had just cleaned it before I arrived.
A lady strolls past me, moving toward the door carrying a purple bag with the word ‘Skates’ emblazoned on it. No doubt she’s a figure skater.
Her deep auburn hair is sleek and pulled up into a tight bun. I can just tell she’s one of those people who wake up looking perfect. I, on the other hand, wake up looking like I’ve been going rounds with a tornado.
Without a second thought, I thrust my fingers through my curly brown hair — well, frizzy now.
No leave-in conditioner has ever managed to tame it, and it just refuses to grow any longer than the tops of my upper arms.
I watch her step outside, confident and strutting her stuff like it’s nothing. Just before she leaves, she turns back to look at me. Now, I’m really looking — all that smooth, perfect skin, no freckles or blemishes to be found. It’s like she just stepped out of a magazine.
Before I can stop them, my fingers rise to my nose, feeling every tiny ridge of my freckles. They’ve been there as long as I can remember, darkening and enlarging when summer rolls around, no matter how much sunscreen I wear. Some people, like my father, find them adorable.
A loud slam brings me back to the moment as the woman walks out the door — she probably didn’t intend to slam it.
I blink several times, brush it off, and get back to approaching the desk.
Okay, let’s get down to business. That’s why I’m here. I can do this.
Seriously — who am I kidding? My stomach is doing flips like it’s competing in some sort of wacky Olympic sport. My hands feel clammy; I start rubbing my palms against my dress, but it’s doing little to help.
As luck would have it, since life insists on testing my patience, there is, of course, no one at the front desk to help me. Brilliant.
My throat constricts as I prowl around, searching for someone like I’m a lost kid. Any second now, someone will appear.
Right?
“Hello?” I call out, trying to sound like I have my shit sorted. “Hello? Anyone there?”
No answer.
My teeth sink into my bottom lip, and I shift my weight.
To the left of me are two large doors. On my tiptoes, I reach high, trying my best to see through the square windows, but all I’m able to make out is a white fuzzy impression that seems to look like .
. . ice, perhaps? Or am I seeing an indistinct blur of motion my mind cannot quite grasp?
Do I just walk in?
No, that would be rude.
I consider it for a second — what if it’s a private zone set aside just for players, and I’m trespassing like some nosy little gremlin?
What if I piss off some large, hulking coach who then yells at me?
Jesus, Fawn, you’re twenty-six. Get a grip and stop overthinking.
Letting out a frustrated sigh, I feel myself automatically rise onto my tiptoes again, trying my best to look through the window. Of course, my height of only 5'1" is not proving to be of any help in this circumstance. I am left trying desperately to get even the slightest glimpse of who’s about.
New plan.
Looking like a fool, I start hopping up and down as heat prickles the back of my neck. Oh gosh, if I’m being watched on the security cameras, I bet someone is laughing at me. I look like a bunny, and not a cute one. Okay, at this point, I’m just humiliating myself.
I press my whole body against the door, exerting a great deal of effort in trying to stretch myself as tall as my short arms and legs will allow.
If only I could stretch just that little bit further, then I might—
A latch clicks, the door gives way and gravity wins in a heartbeat, yanking the floor from under me.
My arms flail in the empty air as my knees slam onto the rubber mat with a dull thud. Pain shoots up my legs, and my breath is stolen from me. “That’s — gonna hurt tomorrow.”
Time stalls. I stay rooted, my ears throbbing with heat, my brain trying to catch up with what’s happening, like a buffering Wi-Fi connection.
I let out a horrified gasp. If I stay really, really still, I can try to make myself believe this whole ordeal never happened.
Maybe I can just sneak away quietly, like a raccoon that’s been unexpectedly caught raiding a garbage can?
Before I can crawl off on all fours, I pause, noticing two black boots in front of me.
Oh so slowly, I lift my gaze, letting my eyes travel upward from the scuffed boots. Then, I slide upward along a pair of legs in dark pants. As my eyes make their way higher, they climb up to a broad chest tightly enveloped in a cozy, green puffer jacket. Finally, I’m staring up into a face.
An unamused, wrinkly face.
The man, maybe in his late fifties, stands with his arms folded tightly and stubbornly across his chest. He is glaring down at me with a look that is one hundred percent ‘this is bullshit’. Grimacing, I clear my throat. “Hi.”
“You’re late,” the man states, then mumbles something under his breath.
Like I don’t know that, but of course, he doesn’t know what stress I went through to get here this morning.
Hastily, I pull myself up, brushing my dress as though that’s somehow going to erase the humiliation from face-planting into the entrance of the skating rink. No biggie. Just a casual wipeout. Happens to the best of us. Right?
Although my knees sting, I must confess, it’s my pride that’s suffered more.
“I’m so sorry—” Before I can complete my sentence, the man cuts me off abruptly, without any indication of being concerned or moved by my words whatsoever.
“The team is preparing to start their practice session, so I advise you to take a seat and watch. Recording is prohibited.”
There’s a sharp edge in his voice. I swallow hard and nod, taking note of each of the rules. Before I can probe into who he actually is, though, he’s walking away with a very clear sense of urgency.
Bye then. A little abrupt, I have to say, but considering I’m behind schedule, I suppose I can’t blame him.
My brain catches up. Wait, how did he know who I am? Do I stand out that badly?
Just as I am about to get lost in my thoughts, a sudden, inspiring blast of happy music starts playing. Finally, I take a moment to actually look around, and — wow, I have to say, this place is seriously amazing. It has a different vibe from the main office, more . . . friendly.
The rink itself is enormous. A wide, open area stretches out before me.
A sheet of ice, which has been carefully smoothed out to a glassy finish, flawlessly mirrors the bright overhead lights.
The sideboards that line the rink are covered in the team’s logo, ‘Ivywood Wolves’ or advertisements — everything from bright, colorful sporting drinks to a host of local businesses eagerly attempting to convince hockey players of the essential need for life insurance.
The seating rises steeply around the large rink. Most of the metal benches are empty, with the exception of a few occupied by sparse spectators who appear to be enjoying the music. The smell of popcorn and sizzling meat hovers; perhaps they’re prepping the concession stands.
There are already a few players on the ice wearing black and green jerseys.
I lean over the edge of the rink, catching my breath for a moment as they fly by, looking effortless.
Their skates bite into the ice, making sharp scraping sounds and nice lines as they accelerate.
Their bodies tilt into those hard turns like it doesn’t even matter.
They skate across the surface, exchanging the puck as if it were second nature.
A shrill, loud whistle pierces the air, completely shattering the relaxed atmosphere. I flinch; I guess that’s my cue to take a seat.
Glancing around, I’m unsure where to sit. I could take a seat all the way in the back where nobody would notice me, but then I’d likely miss something. I could sit super close and look like a strange superfan.
Uh, no, I don’t want to look like a stalker.
The middle section it is.
Taking a few steps up, I stride down a row and collapse onto a bench.
My bag slips, so I adjust the strap, letting it rest comfortably in the curve of my chest. The chill of the rink has seeped into the metal, and no question about it — my butt cheeks completely clench in protest, and goosebumps start to form on my skin.
I knew wearing a thong would be a bad idea today.
Delilah was absolutely right — it’s pretty cold in here.
I know it’s not the North Pole or anything, but it’s cool enough that I’m really glad she flung me her giant denim jacket.
I wrap it tighter around me, pretending I don’t look like a little kid all bundled up.
Right now, I could definitely do with a cup of coffee.
The music continues as more players jump onto the ice, gliding with such ease, almost angelic, with a rough and ready feel. They’re enormous! Like giants. Or is their hockey gear making them look that way?
Man, I knew the hockey players were big, but for real, it’s a whole different atmosphere seeing them in person. Their jerseys really make their bodies stand out — enormous backs, powerful thighs, and muscular. They could easily toss me over their shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
My heartbeat trips over itself, leaving a breathless void. When it finally returns I can feel it all the way in the back of my throat. Wait a damn moment, my heart rate is picking up here. What the hell?
No, Fawn. Focus.
I’m here to see how they interact. Yes, this is what I came for.