Page 1 of Off Side
SAM
Ipull into a parking spot in front of the old rink, noticing the flickering sign and how much the barn needed a facelift. Why did Grandpa think this was the best thing for me to do? Sighing heavily, I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to center myself and block it all out. My chest ached with the effort of willing the tears not to fall as I breathed in and out.
Well, let’s rip off the band aid and get the hard part done, I suppose, I think to myself once I have my emotions under control. Dragging my road-weary body out of my SUV, I stretch out the kinks. I hadn’t meant to make the trip back to my hometown of Sudbury, Ontario from Duluth, Minnesota in one day, but something told me that I should. It is only a twelve-hour drive, but it is a scenic stretch of highway, and I should have stopped to rest more and appreciate the sights of my home province. The urge to return won out, though, and I only paused for fuel and snacks.
I pull open one of the many front doors of the rink and stepped inside, breathing deeply. The rink smells of desperation. It is the distinct odor of musky sweat trapped in hockey equipment, mixed with a healthy dose of Polo cologne and stale popcorn. The sheet of ice in front of me is all chewed up with skate marks and fading paint. Seeing it all, a memory blindsided me, and I paused where I stood.
“Sam, you need to skate faster around the back of the net if you want that play to work. Defence will ride your ass hard around there.”
“I know, Grandpa. I’m just...I don’t know, but I’m not feeling right.”
“Girl, you listen to me, stop over thinking it. Life gave you a gift to make plays. Your uncle and your dad didn’t inherit your skills. They have cement hands for sure. But you…you can be so much better if you get out of your head and play. Use those hands and make the pass.”
I nod, determined to run the play again correctly. This time, I let my mind go blank and focus on serving up the perfect pass to light the lamp. Flying down the right side, I put my stick down, waiting for the pass that is delivered perfectly to me. It floats like a feather into the face of my stick’s blade, and I tuck it in, protecting it by swooping low behind the net and guarding it with my body. With a minuscule pivot, I make a backhand pass to the low slot. The puck sails across the ice and lands perfectly into the waiting stick of Grandpa as he surges into position. He buries the puck in the back of the net with a slick wrist shot.
We whoop and jump onto each other as if we’re team mates winning the Stanley Cup. He grins down at me and thumps the top of my helmet.
“We make a good team, Sam. That was a perfect pass. You’re going to be someone someday; I just know it.”
DREW
What. The. Fuck.
Some chick has been standing at center ice with a glassy expression on her face for at least the last five minutes, although I can admit that for the first three of those minutes, I didn’t move and appreciated the very fine ass those pants showed off. Why do women wear yoga pants in public? It really shouldn’t be allowed because it’s distracting to ass men like me. I have a job to do here and watching her will not help me get it done, but I will definitely remember to recall it later. It’s a top shelf ass.
Running my hand down my face, I shake my head. She is probably some figure skater wishing for more ice time and dreaming of being an Olympian. Ugh. I do not want to have some chick get all moony about her dreams around me.
I’d made a promise to Old Tom that I will stick around, care for the rink, and drive the Zamboni until his heir gets here and takes over. When that happens, I can go back to the farm and stay away from this place. All it does is bring back memories of my life. It was right here where all my dreams came to a spectacular end almost ten years ago. My NHL aspirations were squashed with one career-ending injury at the tender age of seventeen.
My anxiety and anger are increasing, and I force myself to take a deep breath, pushing those thoughts aside. I’m not walking down that memory lane right now. Nope. Not going to happen.
Instead of reliving my painful past, I call out to the woman from where I’m standing at the Zamboni opening, “Hey!” She doesn’t respond, not even a flinch. I yell louder, “Hey, miss!” Still nothing. What the hell? Is she having some sort of seizure or stroke while standing up? Is that a thing? Shit, should I call 911?
I decide to use one more trick I have up my sleeve and save 911 for a last resort. Raising my fingers to my mouth, I release an ear-piercing, shrill whistle that makes my own ears ring. If that doesn’t work, nothing will, and I will definitely have to call someone.
Thankfully, it snaps her out of whatever trance she was in. She stumbles on the ice, losing her balance. Once again, I run my hand down my face and groan to myself. This woman is probably not used to the ice. Fuck! Is she a puck bunny?
Sighing, I look skyward, silently bitching out Old Tom for making me promise to stay here and giving me this responsibility. His heir can’t get here fast enough.
I watch as she moves toward me with a very pissed off expression on her face. She seems to handle the ice well after her initial uncertainty, especially considering she isn’t wearing skates but …were those bunny slippers?? Jesus, why do the hot ones have to be such weirdos?
After doing a one-footed glide from center ice, she comes to a halt in front of me, and it is only then I realize how short she is. This tiny woman barely reaches my collarbone. She can’t be more than five-foot, if that. Peering down, way down, I stare at the top of her head. Her brown hair has blonde and red highlights and is thrown up into a messy pony tail.
I bet her hair looks stunning down, flowing over her shoulders. Wait, what? Why the hell am I thinking about her hair when I’m annoyed this nut case blocked the ice?
She drops her head back to gaze up at me, and I find myself captivated. She has gorgeous chocolate eyes and nice pink lips that are puffy enough to give off a sultry expression. However, those full lips are pursed into a tight line as she regards me coolly, practically glaring at me. What would she look like with those lips wrapped around my dick? Good grief! I need to stop thinking about my cock and her lips. I know it’s been a while since I saw any action, but I don’t need to get a hard-on with the pretty little crazy chick.
“Was that really necessary?” she snaps, and I can hear the annoyance in her voice.
“Yes, it was necessary. I’ve been calling out to you for at least five minutes, sweetheart. God knows what you were staring at!” I retort through gritted teeth, telling myself not to be distracted by her beauty. Damn it! It’s difficult to stay mad when she’s glaring at me, and I’m not sure why.
She crosses her arms over her chest, and my eyes naturally drop lower. I probably shouldn’t have looked, but what the hell, I’ve already checked out the rest of her body. It’s not hard to see she is hiding a serious rack under her hoodie. Drew, you are supposed to be mad! I remind myself.
Leaning forward and frowning at me, she practically growls, “I’m not your sweetheart!” Her attempt at intimidation is about as scary as a fluffy kitten.
But I also realize, she isn’t meeting my gaze. Her eyes travel anywhere else except mine. I think she has even looked at my junk. Interesting.
Time to close this crazy town down. I do not have time or space for women in my life right now, no matter how pretty she is, especially not someone who acts a little off.
