It was quick. Violent in its simplicity. Gone just as fast.
I stepped past her before it could settle into something worse, reaching for the boxes stacked near the far wall. “Give me a second,” I muttered, already moving.
Cardboard scraped softly against wood as I pulled them free, the weight familiar. Inside—skates. New. Untouched. Ready to surprise a group of unsuspecting kids.
“Did you boost those from the equipment room?” Bea’shand was over her mouth as she gaped down at me checking a few blades.
It should have pissed me off. I should have questioned her audacity to accuse me of something so horrible.
But all I could do was chuckle. Not even chuckle—full-blown, tears streaming down my face. A wailing cackle.
Bea’s round, dark eyes blinked at me as her expression morphed over and over. Confusion and frustration competing for prime real estate.
“Alois! Answer me!” she bellowed. “Am I now an accessory to a crime?”
The shrill in her voice didn’t help matters at all, I continued to laugh. Trying and failing to catch my breath. I shoved the receipt into her hand, one the that had come with the packing label.
“I’m so much more confused,” she muttered, eyes scanning the page. “What in the world could you possibly need this many children’s skates for?”
I sucked in a sharp breath, threw a box into my arms, then nodded to the other. “Grab that,” I snickered, brushing off the last bits of antics out of my voice. “And I’ll show you.”
She hesitated.
Not long. Just enough to look at the box like it might explain itself if she stared hard enough.
Then she bent, picked it up, and straightened with a small exhale that told me she hadn’t expected the weight.
“Children’s skates,” she muttered under her breath, more to herself than to me. “Plural. Aggressively plural.”
I didn’t answer.
Big Bear sat tuckedinto a strip of older development—low, wide, practical. The kind of rink built for use, notpresentation. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly behind fogged glass panels, the parking lot half-packed with SUVs and trucks dusted in salt and snow.
The cold didn’t wait this time.
It hit hard the second the door opened—sharp enough to pull breath from your lungs, the wind cutting straight through fabric, through skin, through whatever illusions of comfort the drive had created.
Bea inhaled sharply beside me, the sound small but unavoidable.
“Jesus,” she muttered, pulling her coat tighter around herself as she stepped out.
I grabbed the boxes from the back, stacking them without thinking, the weight settling into my arms in a way that felt familiar. Useful.
She followed without being told, adjusting to the cold faster than I expected, her movements efficient even if her shoulders tightened against the wind.
The doors to the rink opened with a heavy pull, the rush of warmer, damp air hitting us immediately—thick with the smell of ice, rubber, and something faintly metallic underneath. Sound carried differently inside. Echoed. Skates carving. Pucks cracking against boards. Voices layered over each other in uneven bursts.
Life.
Unpolished.
Real.
Bea slowed half a step behind me. Her eyes moved the same way they had in my apartment—quiet, deliberate, taking everything in without making a show of it. The scuffed floors. The mismatched benches. The parents clustered along the glass in worn jackets, coffee cups clutched in cold hands.The kids moving too fast for their own coordination, effort outrunning skill.
I pushed through the inner door without looking back.
The rink opened up in front of us, ice stretching wide under harsh overhead lights, the sound sharper now—cleaner. A whistle cut through the air. A coach barked something that carried just enough authority to be heard and just enough exhaustion to be ignored.