Chapter 1 #3
I mostly listen, since I have no husband to complain about and my only stories are about my daughter and my students, and I don't think anyone else would find my story about Lacey Horowitz completing an entire program in a comp with a stream of toilet paper flying from the back of her unitard as funny as I do.
Partway through the second round of drinks, a big, bearded local ambles up and waits. Alaina sets her beer down and eyes him. "George, what can I do for you?"
"That dang moose keeps destroyin' my garden!"
Speaking of moose…
Alaina tries admirably to keep the laughter in, but with Ingrid's story fresh in our minds, she can't keep a straight face.
Once she recovers, she wipes at her eyes.
“Sorry, George, I wasn't laughing at you.
I know, I know. We're in talks with the Department of Fish and Game.
You're not the only one having issues with them, George. We're working on it."
"What'm I supposed to do in the meantime? I've got a thousand-pound nuisance helping herself to my vegetables. Ain't a fence in the world can keep the fat bitch out." He frowns. "Pardon, ladies. I just…I only meant—"
Alaina splutters. "I know what you meant, George, but it’s best to shut up before you eat any more of your own foot.
" She reaches up and pats George's big forearm.
"We're looking at solutions, I promise. We can't just let you guys run amok with your rifles every time a moose eats your tomatoes, though, George, I'm sure you understand. "
"She gets in there again, I'm shootin' her, and you can put me in jail or fine me, mayor. See if I won't. They're attractin' wolves, too. My little Petunia is scared to go outside at night, what with all the howlin', and I ain't that far outside of town."
George, all three hundred pounds of him, has an adorable little Pomeranian-Shih Tzu that perches on the center console of his forty-year-old orange RAM charger, and can often be seen balancing on his shoulder like a furry, four-legged parrot.
"George," Ingrid says. "Have you looked into an anti-predator suit for Petunia?"
"A what?" the big man asks, eying Ingrid skeptically. "I don't truck with no sweaters for no dogs."
“No, it's not a sweater, it's a—well, I mean, it is, but it has spikes all over it so hawks can't get them."
He blinks, thinking or picturing, and then snorts a laugh. "Guess I could rig somethin' for her. Have to put some lights on it so I can see where she is, though. Spiky sweaters, huh? Who'd'a thunk it?"
He ambles off, muttering to himself.
"Is that a real thing, Ingrid?" Kath asks.
Ingrid already has a photo up on her phone—it's a Chihuahua wearing… well, a sweater with three-inch plastic spikes all over it, like a piece of avant-garde porcupine art.
We all die laughing at the idea of big George trying to get something like that on his little dog.
I get a little more tipsy than I'd planned on, and Kathy's husband Jim shows up to drive me home in my Jeep, followed by Alaina’s husband to take Jim back to his car.
I peek in on Mallory—she's asleep with her lights on, laptop still playing her videos. I try to be quiet as I shut off her lights and close her laptop, but trip over a pile of dirty clothes and land on the floor, stifling my laughter with both hands.
Mallory rolls away from the wall, grumbling. "God, Mom, you smell like a distillery. Go to bed."
"Sorry, baby."
"How'd you get home?"
"Jim and Kathy."
"Have fun?"
"Yes!"
"Good. You needed it. Now go to bed."
Being mommed by my daughter. I love it.
I give her a kiss and head for my room, only bouncing off a couple of walls.
I pass out still clothed.
Oh…oh god.
I roll to my side, whimpering at the pounding in my head, the cotton in my mouth, and the turmoil in my stomach.
Who told me I could drink like a 23-year-old? I should not have had that last round of shots.
Lordy.
My stomach revolts and I barely make it to the bathroom—after which I feel marginally better.
Brushing my teeth improves things, as does a shower—starting cold to shock the system and then turning it scorching.
It's not until I shuffle blearily into the kitchen that I realize it's only 5:20 in the morning. On a Saturday.
My weekend class with the juniors—10-12-year-olds—doesn't start until eight, so I could've slept in until at least seven, but here I am, showered and dressed before 5:30, like a dork.
Ugh. Almost as bad as that time in high school when I got up, got dressed, and ran to school in the dark because I thought I was late, only to realize it was three in the morning and it was Sunday.
I brew a pot of coffee and fix myself a bagel to go, leave a note for Mal, and head for the rink.
Arriving just before 6:30, I'm surprised to find it unlocked and a handful of lights on—the hockey season hasn't started yet, so it can't be them. I leave my bag of gear for the lessons later in the ladies' locker room, lace up my skates, and head for the ice.
I'm annoyed to find someone else already here.
Only half the lights over the rink are on, leaving pools of shadows in spots.
One of the nets has been placed at one end, and a broad-shouldered figure is practicing a stick-handling drill—he's placed pucks every few feet along the blue line and he's figure-eighting around them with a stick and a puck, skidding around the last one in line and making his way to the other end.
He's good—very good. A little slow on the takeoff, but once he gets going, he has excellent speed and razor-sharp stops and turns.
He's dressed in firefighter's blues with a radio on a handmade leather harness at his left shoulder, and a blue FD ballcap forward on his head.
I'm at the far other end of the rink, and it's dim, so I can't make out who it is. He’s in shirtsleeves despite the cool of the arena, a blue crewneck sweatshirt draped on the back of the net, along with a water bottle and a cell phone.
I watch the man practice for a moment or two, but he seems content to stay down on that end and practice his drills, so I figure I can keep my own practice on this end, and we won’t have to bug each other.
I skate in lazy circles at first, just warming up my legs.
I do a few mobility drills of my own— forward-to-backward swings, crossovers, inside turns and outside turns, backward cross-pulls.
Basically, I put myself through the same warm-ups and drills I use for my kiddos of all ages just to get bodies ready to work and in the skating mindset.
Once I'm warmed up, I take a beat to catch my breath—this old bitch is out of shape, I'm discovering. Yeesh. Winded from warmups—not good, Morgan. You've gotten soft.
I know better than to go right into fancy stuff since it's been so long since I've tried them—when teaching, I focus on watching my student and pinpointing cues. I used to demonstrate—meaning show off—when I was a brand-new instructor, but I stopped doing that a long time ago.
Instead, I focus this first session on spotting better during turns, sharpening my edgework, and making my transitions from forward to backward smoother.
Time dissolves as I get into the old groove of solo practice—I used to spend hours on the ice alone perfecting my skills, and as I work myself into a sweat, I find myself wondering why I stopped.
I've almost forgotten my love for the sport—I teach because it's my job now, my career, and I'm pretty damn good at it.
I love skating. I love seeing my girls go from wobbly little deer on the ice to graceful, powerful skaters.
I love seeing my girls podium at comps, beaming with pride.
But I've somehow forgotten how much I love just skating.
I get lost in it, as I once did so easily.
I forget that I'm not alone on the ice, and my carving path takes me away from my end and toward center ice. I flip around to coast backward, relishing the rush of the wind past my face and the burn in my thighs as I put on speed and the sound of my skates knifing over the ice.
I'm home.
God, I'm home. Why did I stop skating?
My body knows what to do, now that I've woken it up. My brain goes into autopilot, and I find myself running through an old short program—a mostly-floorwork routine ending in a double toe loop to a single. There's no thought, just pure instinct and muscle memory.
I crouch, prepare myself mentally for a beat, and then launch myself into the air.
For a split second, I'm flying again, arms crossed over my chest, and I'm spotting perfectly, lining up my landing; my left skate smacks ice with a jarring crack, and I take a single pace and launch into the single.
I nail that with decent height and distance, coasting backward with my arms out, leg extended.
Setting my skate down and coasting backward, I'm grinning ear to ear as I let out a triumphant whoop…
Only to crash into something solid.
I'm at the center of the opposite end of the ice, so it's not the boards.
The something—someone—I crashed into tangles up with me, and we both hit the ice in a painful jumble of limbs and skates, skidding across the ice.
“Fuck me running," a deep, gravelly, smoke-rough voice growls. "That hurt." Another pause. “Two minutes for unnecessary roughness.”
The breath has been knocked out of me, so I can't even curse, much less laugh at his joke, which is kinda funny, under the circumstances and all.
Ice is cold under my back as the hockey player I crashed into works himself out from beneath me and to a knee.
Big blue eyes fix on mine—dark blue, royal blue, almost purple.
He's lost his hat and his dark blond hair is sprinkled and streaked with silver.
His jaw is trimmed with a short, neat beard, more silver than blonde.
Noah Austin.