I stand at the window that opens to the rink. Parents sometimes stood here to watch their kids play and avoid being in the freezing stands.
Rhodes was running some kind of drill, racing from one side of the ice to the other, smashing pucks from the center line into the goal.
He skates harshly to a stop near the entrance and shavings of ice fly around his skates. Rhodes snags his phone off the side of the rink and I watch him scroll through it. Sweat rolls off his hair in beads. I clock the massive bruise above his eye, the still-healing split lip from the fight at the last game.
The Nationals team had been required to watch some of their games and vice versa, with them coming to a few of our competitions—to gain respect for each other’s sport, according to Dad. And there had always been a little bit of fraternization between the figureskaters and the hockey players. Who else could understand our unique love of zooming around on tiny blades over sheets of ice? And I know he was a massive deal his rookie year. Dad talked about him all the time. I wasn’t shocked at all when he made Rhodes captain. And it didn’t hurt that he was gorgeous. Dark wavy hair, navy blue eyes. Megawatt smile. Exactly what you think of when you thinkhockey star.He’d asked me out once, but I’m fuzzy on the details.
He has headphones in, so I can’t hear the song he picked for his next drill. I take that to be my cue to quit staring at the Wolverines captain before he catches me and continue my walk to the closet to find the bathroom-cleaning supplies.
I still had the key to the rink on my key ring, and the master worked for everything. The door groaned as I unlocked it and pushed it open. My eyes land on the cart with the supplies, and I roll it out into the hallway, wheels squeaking.
If their schedule was still the same as it was a year ago, the Wolverines would have the ice before the figure skaters, so I might as well start with the guys’ locker room first. It was still so early, and I couldn’t imagine Rhodes will be done skating by the time he needs to use it.
Lucky for me, even the guys’ space is relatively clean. Elsie runs a very tight ship, and if any of the guys who use her rink even thought about trashing it, they’d be out so fast. My dad might own the rink and coach the team, but Elsie was the real boss here. If she so much as hinted that someone was disrespecting her or her space, my dad had them on their ass outside the rink.
Daughters included.
I scroll through my own playlist and pop my headphones into my ears. Blink-182 blasts into my head, removing any negative thoughts that might be floating around in there. It is better if I don’t think too much right now.
Once the toilets are done, I move onto the sinks and the mirror. I’m methodical, wiping down the glass, refilling the soap dispensers. I dump the trash out into bags and line the cans with new ones.
The locker room smells like boy, sweaty and musty, but I figure there just probably isn’t very much Elsie could do about that. I pull out some of the air fresheners and place them strategically around the area.
Since everyone around hockey knew that nothing smells worse than sweaty hockey gear—maybe a decaying carcass—the fact that this room was only slightly stinky was honestly an accomplishment.
The music was loud, the bass beating through my skull when I stood up from where I was kneeling, grabbing some trash that had fallen underneath one of the benches. A flash of movement had me flipping around, a scream lodged in my throat.
I yank the headphone out of my ear.
“What the hell?” I demand. Rhodes McKnight is leaning against the locker door, smirking at me. He’s wet, probably from the shower. I clearly hadn’t heard him come in at all. A towel is slung low on his hips, accentuating an annoyingly defined V.
“I mean, I could probably ask you that same thing.” He saunters into the room, finds his locker, and pulls it open. I shove my cart to the side, cross my arms and scowl. “Last I heard, you were removed from the premises for aggravated assault.”
“I’m cleaning, jackass,” I snap, ignoring his second statement completely. I did not assault Elsie, but damn,if that’s what he’s heard, the rumor mill must have been working overtime. “Obviously.” I gesture to the cart next to me, as if the overflowing bags of hockey boy laundry and cleaning supplies weren’t clear enough.
“Didn’t realize they were hiring felons,” he deadpans, yanking a fresh set of clothes from his gym bag.
“Didn’t realize my dad wanted a liability for a captain,” I retort. He flicks his eyes back to me, navy blues narrowing on me just for a second, sharp and cutting.
“Man, I’ve heard about your bitter ex-athlete schtick, Abrams,” he snorts, recovering and pulling on a black, long-sleeved shirt. “But damn, sweetheart, to see it in person is truly a work of art.” He flicks his head back, eyes raking over me before throwing me a wink and a grin. And dropping his towel. I see a flash of bare ass before I turn away, cursing.
“Good God, Rhodes,” I bite out, dragging my stupid cleaning cart behind me toward the stupid double doors. “At least wait until I’ve left the room to strip.”
“You were staring so hard, I thought I’d give you a show,” he yells behind me. “You’re welcome!”
I mutter another string of profanities under my breath as I leave and I can hear him bark a laugh as the door swings shut.
Stupid Rhodes McKnight.
The cart is heavy now, and pulling it to the girls’ locker room is taking all of my strength. I’m incredibly out of shape, I’m just now realizing. My arms already hurt from all the scrubbing I’ve done this morning, and I just know I’m going to be sore tomorrow.
Pathetic.
A nasty laugh stops me in my tracks. I look up and wonder how my day could possibly get any worse. I knew this was a possibility, butgeez,on day one?
Natalie Dorier and the rest of the U.S. Nationals team is standing in front of the doors to the ice, huddled together, sickeningly sweet smiles aimed in my direction.
“Oh my God,” she says, a sharpness glinting in her eyes. “Monroe Abrams.”