Chapter 2
Mason
“Love your imagination, man.”
Hunter didn’t even look up from the blender as he said it. Just casually poured half a can of protein sludge into his practice shake like he hadn’t just accused me of hallucinating a whole entire human being.
“She was wearing coveralls. A— a helmet type thing. You know, with the visor…” Every moment longer that he ignored me, the more worked up I became. I didn’t dream her up. I knew I didn’t. “You heard the fire alarm. You’re telling me I imagined a full response team?”
“I think,” he said, screwing the lid on with unnecessary force, “you hit your head one too many times last season. Now you’re seeing hot mechanics that don’t exist.”
I collapsed onto the couch, rubbing my palm over my face with a groan. “She was real. And I didn’t even get her name.”
“Wait, Zamboni driver?” Hunter looked like he was paying attention for the first time, thinking hard.
I sat bolt upright. “Yeah, that’s what I said. You know her?”
“It only just came to me, but yes, I know her.” He slung his gym bag over one shoulder, power juice in hand. “She’s the ice fairy. Kinda like the Tooth Fairy, but she visits inanimate objects, collecting nuts and bolts. Flies off in a cloud of welding sparks.”
He was the only one laughing. I launched a cushion at his head, which he deflected with ease.
“Your shake’s on the counter, Zamboni Boy. I suggest you leave soon or you’ll be late for practice.”
“I thought I’m driving with you? You know my car’s been a piece of shit lately.”
Hunter scoffed. “You didn’t think of that when you were pining over your imaginary girlfriend instead of getting ready.”
“Five minutes. Don’t be an ass.” I was off the couch in a flash, sprinting to my bedroom to pull on yesterday’s sweats.
But Hunter chose today to be a total ass. The door slammed, and when I made it back to the living room—one shoe on, Surge training jacket hanging half-heartedly from one shoulder—he was gone.
I went into the kitchen to grab my protein shake, and my phone buzzed.
Hunter: We’re kicking your ass if you come late and get Coach in a bad mood. Move it.
“Your Jeep’s faster than my 2004 Neon, genius,” I said to my phone, shaking it roughly. But the text I shot back was just an eggplant emoji.
“That’s if she even starts…”
She did start and, against all odds, my unreliable rust bucket got me to the church on time.
Church being Frost Bank Center, where dreams turned into reality and hockey athletes became stars.
Worshipping the ice god, Coach McAvoy, who, even though he hadn’t won a Stanley up til now, had convinced us all that this was our year.
We hit the ice at eleven sharp. The rink smelled like cold sweat and Gatorade, boards echoing with slap shots and calls for various plays.
“Heads up! Keep ‘em up!” Coach barked. “Puck control, eyes on the play.”
We ran through tight offensive drills, forcing breakaways and transitions until our legs burned. Through it all, I couldn’t stop seeing her face. Those intense green eyes cutting me down to size like she didn’t give a shit about who I was and where I played.
Hot.
“Don’t make me repeat myself, Calder!”
I passed clean to Hunter on the wing, dropped back, then raced up again to keep the line tight. He flicked the puck to Grayson, who smoothed it over to me like a mother stroking her newborn baby. I launched it top shelf.
Goal.
“Nice,” Hunter said, bumping my glove.
We skated off to reset, and between shifts, I scanned the sidelines and empty seats. Nothing. No coveralls or welding mask. No smirking girl with a voice like warm syrup.
“Looking for someone?” Grayson nudged my helmet with his stick as we coasted past each other on the bench.
“Nope.”
He laughed. “I haven’t seen you this jumpy after practice since you first started.”
Before I could answer, Coach called another set and we got moving again.
By the time practice wrapped, my gear was soaked and my calves screamed. We huddled at center ice, Coach giving us his usual half-lecture, half-pep talk about conditioning, playoff mindset, and discipline. Always discipline.
“Our time for fun and games will come, boys. This isn’t it.”
A few guys nodded, most of us just wiped sweat from our brows and prayed for ice baths. I never really got these talks. Hockey was both fun and a game.
“No distractions. No messing around,” Coach said. “I’m in this to the end, and I’d like to take you all with me. But at the end of the day, I’m the one who puts you on the ice. I decide.”
Nothing we all hadn’t heard before. But I was coming off a great first season with San Antonio Surge, and had no concerns I’d be in his starting line-up for the foreseeable future.
“Hey,” I called out to Tucker as we walked back to the locker room. “You don’t maybe know the girl who runs the Zamboni around here, do you?”
He slipped off his helmet, frowning hard. “That’s a girl?”
“Never mind,” I muttered, and moved on down the line, determined to get to the bottom of this mystery before I left the arena.
Shawn was next, kicking out of his pads in front of his locker. “Pretty sure that’s a guy.”
“She’s not a guy,” I said, trying to keep my exasperation from showing. “Brown hair, green eyes, she’s sometimes down in maintenance.”
He gave a sardonic laugh. “Sorry, bro. I’ve got nothing.”
Hunter was whispering something to one of the other guys, laughing among themselves. Then his face lit up and he called me over.
“We hit paydirt!” Hunter called out. “Your Zamboni Babe’s name is Gary.”
“Forget it,” I said, and slammed my locker shut.
As expected, everyone’s jeers followed me out of the locker room and down the tunnel. How hard could it be to get someone’s name in this place? It wasn’t as though the arena had thousands of people working there on any given day.
Outside, the wind slapped me in the face like it had a personal vendetta. It seemed like autumn was coming early to San Antonio this year. I pulled my hoodie up and trudged to the lot, keys already in hand.
Grayson assured me I’d have wheels matching the senior team members in no time, but for now, my glorious rust-patched, duct-taped excuse for a car would have to do.
I slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key. Click. Whirr. Nothing.
“Don’t do this to me now,” I mumbled under my breath.
Tried again. Same.
I left my bag on the passenger seat and popped the hood, shivering as the wind knifed through my clothes. I stared at the engineering with all the confidence of a man who’d once Googled ‘how to tell if your engine is dead.’
Steam hissed faintly.
“Okay, this doesn’t look too bad.”
I poked at something metal. It didn’t move. I poked again. Something else snapped off and went clattering across the parking lot.
Fantastic.
It bounced and skidded to a stop against the wheel of Hunter’s Jeep. Because of course it would.
I took a step back and shoved my hands into my jacket pockets. The only thing to do was catch a lift and fork out however many dollars the tow truck was going to overcharge me to bring my car back to the apartment. I couldn’t wait until my draft contract was up and I was making real money.
“You planning to fix that with positive thought?” I’d recognize that voice anywhere. Dry as desert sand.
I turned so fast I almost tripped up. Because there she was. The firestarter.
Minus the coveralls, but still wearing grease like it was a fashion statement. Cap pulled low, ponytail tucked through the back, and a ratty hoodie that had survived too many oil changes. She had a toolbox in one hand and a granola bar in the other.
“Positive thought until roadside assistance shows up,” I said, then immediately winced at my winning choice of first words.
She smirked. “Don’t sweat it. It’s like a law for Surge rookies to drive glorified lawnmowers.”
“Not a rookie anymore,” I corrected her, but she didn’t seem to care.
Firestarter came closer and looked under the hood. There was only one other time I felt more self-conscious in my life, and it involved a lot more protective gear.
Feeling protective of my car, I said, “She’s small, but she’s got character.”
“Her character’s overheating,” she replied with a soft laugh.
With one hand she peeled the wrapper from her granola bar, and with the other she reached in to poke at things with unsettling confidence.
I tried not to stare too much. Tried not to notice the smudge of grease on her cheek.
Or how her sleeve kept riding up to reveal a delicate wrist and strong forearm.
“You’re like a Barbie mechanic.”
“Excuse me?” It was enough to make her stop what she was doing and glare at me. Like I’d just called her the devil incarnate.
“I mean— I was just… Granola bar in one hand, toolbox in the other. It’s cool. A good thing. I meant it as a compliment.”
I also couldn’t stop myself from rambling, apparently.
“Barbie’s got nothing on me,” she said, one corner of her mouth tilting up in a wry smile.
She kept me on my toes and at the risk of repeating myself— Hot. If I wasn’t careful, I’d be walking away from this with third-degree burns.
Her inspection moved onto something near the belt tensioner, then she leaned closer to my side to look at some other wiring. And since she wasn’t paying any attention to me, I dipped my head just enough to get a whiff of her shampoo. Closed my eyes to it—the sweet smell of coconut and vanilla.
Goddamn. This woman was going to ruin me.
“How did you get into all this?” I asked, abandoning my pride at this point. “Did you just wake up one day and decide to fix things?”
“Something like that,” she said with a shrug. “You either learn how things work or waste time waiting for someone else to fix it. And I’m impatient.”
She tapped something and stood back. “Alternator’s on life support.”
“Yeah, I was just about to say that.” She side-eyed me, but had enough grace to leave my lie alone. “Right after I checked the thermostat. Or maybe it was the… carburetor?”
She bit her lips to keep from laughing. Another grace afforded to me. That meant I wasn’t doing too badly.
“You know you don’t have one of those, right?”
I scratched the back of my neck. “I’m better with trucks.”
“What kind of truck?” It was the first real interest she’d shown this whole time.
“Uh, ‘87 Ford. F-150. My uncle gifted it to me when I moved out here, but I haven’t been able to get it started. It’s a work in progress.”
Something flickered over her face, and although I couldn’t name it, it made me feel like I’d passed some kind of test.
“Respect,” she said, snapping her granola bar in half and tossing a piece into her mouth. “Give her a swing.”
I jumped back into the driver’s seat, all too happy to do her bidding. Unlike every other time I turned the key, I mumbled over and over for it not to start. That way she’d stick around longer.
The damn thing roared to life with one try. Of course.
“I know a guy who’d give you a good deal on an alternator,” she said when I got back out. “Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll hook you up.”
She picked up her toolbox. She was walking away. She was still ‘she’ and I still had no idea who the hell refused to leave my brain since that whole fire alarm incident.
“Let me take you to lunch,” I yelled after her. She turned back looking more confused than I’d hoped. “As a thank-you. Let me buy you lunch.”
“Already ate.” She licked peanut butter off her thumb, and continued on her way.
Just like that.
I stared after her like I’d just been pickpocketed and liked it.
“At least tell me your name.” My voice echoed around the deserted lot.
Her footsteps didn’t slow, and she didn’t tell me her name. Just wiggled her fingers in a type of wave over her shoulder, and disappeared.