Page 57 of Penalty Box

“Everything’s solid,” I heard her say, acting like my attention was on something in a whole other direction.

“What about ice temp readings?”

“Like I said, I’m on it,” Cass said, the annoyance edging her tone.

Maybe I imagined it, but I could’ve sworn her eyes had landed on me a second ago. Was I the reason for the shift in her voice?

“Okay, good. We need you on top of that, and of course the surface,” the assistant said. “Not just because of the kids, but photos. You know how it goes.”

I strained to hear Cass’ response, but things suddenly picked up around us and made it impossible.

“Calder!” A little kid pulled on my sleeve. “You’re Mason Calder. I saw you play the other day.”

“That’s me,” I said, crouching a little. “You skate?”

He nodded emphatically. “I play center. My coach says I got hands.”

“Bet he’s right.” I knocked my glove to his and got a proud smile in return.

Cass had moved to the other side of the rink, ball cap pulled low. Probably a deliberate distancing, if I had to guess.

My jaw tightened.

We hadn’t spoken since I left her apartment. After the night we had. After she shut the door on it with six little words.

We can’t ever do it again.

She didn’t owe me anything, and I didn’t force it. But God, the silence sucked worse than a loss in overtime.

“Smile, Calder. We’re surrounded by cameras,” Tucker muttered as he skated by.

I did. Barely.

By the time the last round of photos was done, a rink tech signaled that the kids would have a chance to get on the ice. Half skated like baby deer, but a few already had some real glide. One of the PR staff trailed behind, her heels slipping every few steps.

Cass appeared at the entrance of the tunnel with the Zamboni chugging behind her. She didn’t look up, just climbed into the driver’s seat. The beast roared once, then sputtered. A couple kids laughed, but her posture stiffened.

She tried again. Nothing.

I skated over to the bench and leaned on the boards. She mumbled something and popped the access panel near the front.

A media guy next to me groaned. “We need that ice cleaned before the next shoot. Can someone get her moving?”

“Keep your panties on. I don’t think you’d be able to do any better.” I stripped off my gloves and ducked under the gate, boots thudding on the rubber mats as I crossed to her.

Cass was bent over the open panel, hands moving with precise skill. But I could see the frustration in the straight set of her lips, the tension in her shoulders.

“Need a hand?”

She looked up, her mouth opening and closing without sound. Like she didn’t know what to say, or that she should say anything.

I crouched beside her. “Take it easy. This doesn’t have to be weird. What do you need?”

“I think it’s the belt,” she said finally. “It slips sometimes. This thing is ancient. Must’ve overheated.”

“You want me to push while you steer?”

She hesitated, and glanced over her shoulder as though she were expecting the hook-up police to come rushing at us.