by Sarina Bowen
He puts the machine into position. Then, during the last minutes of practice, he goes over the controls. “These here are your hydraulic levers for dropping the conditioner and raising the dump tank. You got your blade adjustment, which determines how much ice you’re takin’ off. Press down here for the snow brake—better hit that puppy once or twice during each pass…”
Good. Lord. I’m nodding like a bobblehead as he tells me all the things I have to do. Then the coach blows the whistle three times, and I know it’s show time.
“Gotta move the nets first,” says Walrus.
Right.
I trudge back out on the ice and remove the first net. But the second one is a problem, because there’s a group of hockey players standing around it. O’Doul is basically using the thing as his pulpit as he sermonizes to Jason. “I think maybe it’s a breathing thing,” he says. “Like, you’re not tightening your diaphragm when you release the puck.”
“No! It’s his shoulder position,” Trevi argues. “He needs to shift his stance to accommodate the change of angle.”
“I think O’Doul is onto something with the breathing,” Beringer chimes in. “You gotta breathe through your eyelids.”
And now I’ve had enough. “Don’t listen to this drivel,” I say to Jason. “That eyelids thing is a joke from Bull Durham.”
“But it worked!” Beringer squawks.
“The only thing working right now is me,” I snap, reaching down to remove the first net pin. When I stand up again, I brandish it at Jason. “He’s the most over-coached forward in the league this week. Y’all just stand around yapping, which won’t help. It’s all muscle memory, for Pete’s sake! This man needs you to snap five thousand passes his way, so his body can figure it out. He doesn’t need your advice.”
It’s suddenly very quiet in the rink. I forgot that there were fans here to watch today. Whoops.
“Anyway,” I say with my voice lowered. “I straightened my hair and my date is waiting, so if you could kindly move your padded bottoms off the rink, I can resurface.”
“Muscle memory,” O’Doul says slowly.
“I could send you some passes,” Trevi offers. “We could all take turns.”
They’re all thinking deep thoughts about this, so I have to physically move O’Doul off the net to dislodge it from the rink. “Y’all wait over there,” I say, pointing at the first row of bleachers. “Please and thank you. Now, I have a Zamboni to drive, so excuse me.”
I’m halfway back across the rink when I realize my mistake.
“Hot Pepper is gonna drive the Zamboni?” Bayer asks. “I gotta see this. Anyone want to make a pool on the time?”
“I’m in!” Jason replies.
Well, shoot. If I hadn’t mentioned the darned resurfacing, I might have done this without spectators.
But now it’s a thing. The Zamboni pool is a rink game where people bet on how long it will take to clear the ice, and the closest guesser wins.
“Twenty-two minutes,” Beringer says, starting the bidding.
Everybody hoots, because twenty-two is a really long resurfacing time. “Who’s got a pen and paper?” someone else calls out.
“I’ll take the bets,” offers Jimbo, the young guy who works in operations. “Got some paper right here. One for you, one for you… Here’s a pen, Castro.”
“Better make this a good run,” Walrus says as I climb up on the machine. “Seems you got an audience. Don’t crash it, for fuck’s sake.”
A frisson of nerves runs up my spine as I put my hands on the wheel.
“Place your bets, boys! Who’s timing this?”
Across the length of the ice, I see Jason holding a pen. He tilts his head to the side, as if considering his bet. Then he scribbles something onto the paper and hands it to Jimbo.
I ease the big machine onto the ice and get my bearings. While I may never have done this job before, I’ve watched a million resurfacings. They always do the edges first. But that’s a bad strategy for me. I’ll save the walls for last, when I’ve already figured out the turning radius.
These are my thoughts as I swing the machine into the first turn. I take it a little too far and have to overcorrect. There are hoots from the bleachers as I come out of the fishtail, and a fine sweat breaks out on my neck. I remember to pump the snow brake and check the surface behind me.
It’s smooth as glass. And if Walrus can do this, how hard could it be?
Okay. I got this. Leaning forward in my seat, I set about discovering how much speed I can pick up on the straightaways and still have plenty of time to take it easy on the turns. I’ll finish the job faster than the earliest bet in the pool. That’ll show ’em.
Turn after turn, I lay down a fresh sheet of ice. The hoots grow louder as I near the ending. The last loop takes all my concentration, since I have to get close to the boards without mangling them. I’m vaguely aware of shouting and whistles as I make my final pass by the players.
When I finally pull the Zamboni through the open doors at the rink’s far end, my arms ache from clutching the wheel more tightly than necessary.
“Official time is fourteen-thirty-seven!” someone shouts from the peanut gallery.
Whoever bet twenty-two minutes can bite me.
In the ladies’ room, I do a quick change into my dress and heels. I nearly dislocate my shoulder trying to get the zipper fastened, but somehow I manage. Then I shove my work clothes into a bag and leave them in a corner of the maintenance room until tomorrow.
When I finally walk into the public end of the rink, I’m properly dressed for dinner. Eric is smiling at me from a seat in the bleachers. As he stands to come down and meet me, Jimbo appears and pats me on the shoulder. “Nice work with the Zamboni!” he crows. “You showed them.”
“Did you bet?” I ask him.
His face turns sheepish. “Yeah. Didn’t win, though. I bet twenty minutes.”
“Who won?” I ask.
“Drake.” Jimbo rolls his eyes. “Rookie luck. He picked sixteen minutes.”
“Oh.” The disappointment I feel is swift and brutal. It should have been Jason who won. He should have been the one who knew I could drive that thing when everyone else thought I’d fail.
Where do I get these ideas? And why do I even care? My gaze flickers toward Jason, who’s already out on the freshly resurfaced ice with two other players. A woman shouldn’t try to impress a guy who doesn’t care.
He’s never going to care. He said so already.
“Heidi! You look amazing.”
And here’s Eric, looking suave in a navy suit and perfectly boring striped tie. A lifetime of good manners allows me to smile and greet him without revealing that I feel unaccountably heartsick.
My ex wishes me a happy birthday and gives me a chaste kiss on the forehead. And that’s fine. It’s not like I want my ex to push me against the wall and force his tongue into my mouth.
Then again, if he’d ever pushed me against the wall and forced his tongue into my mouth, we might not have broken up in the first place.
Eric takes my arm with the same care that a nice boy takes with his grandma in church, and we take our first steps toward the door.
“Hot Pepper.”
My body practically jerks to a stop at the sound of Jason’s voice. “Yes?”
Jason leans on his stick and looks Eric and me up and down. His expression is grumpy. Maybe he’s annoyed that I waded in earlier to tell his teammates to stop yawping at him. “Nice work on the Zamboni,” he says finally. “And, uh, happy birthday.”
“Thanks.”
There’s one more awkward beat before he turns around and skates back to his pals. They’re doing a shooting drill, sending passes to Jason. So maybe he took my advice, after all?
Not my problem. My goal for tonight is not to think about Jason. Not even once.
Not all goals succeed.
“Table for two,” Eric tells the host at the Peter Luger Steakhouse. “The reservation is under
Tobias Pepper.”
“Right this way, sir.”
Following the host, I hiss over my shoulder, “It’s under my dad’s name?”
“Sure,” Eric says easily. “I asked him for a little help. It’s not easy getting a Saturday-night reservation at Peter Luger.”
My temper flares—privately, of course. The thing is, when Eric asked where I wanted to go out for my birthday, I’d said, “Somewhere sleek and weird. Asian fusion, maybe? Brooklyn is full of new restaurants. Or I could come into Manhattan.”
But here we are at a restaurant that’s been a favorite of stodgy men since 1887. My father has brought me here a dozen times, at least. The steak is phenomenal, but the ambiance isn’t. It’s done up in a style I’d call Old Boy Network, with dark paneling and geezer-style chandeliers.
Our steaks will arrive on a platter with a plastic cow shoved into the meat to let us know how it’s cooked. A red cow for rare or a blue for medium. So elegant.
I’m obviously a horrible person for thinking these thoughts. A nice girl would donate her birthday gifts to a worthy cause. Or at least say no to a dinner that makes her a little uncomfortable.
Then again, I’m not a nice girl. Why does everyone insist on thinking I am?
We’re seated, and Eric gives me the better seat against the wall. He’s a gentleman in so many ways. I sneak looks at his boyish face over the edge of my menu. He’s objectively handsome. And he is a hockey player—totally my type. But I don’t feel any zing.
Every zing and flutter I feel these days comes from one particular struggling right-winger on Brooklyn’s greatest sports team.
“I’m told we’re supposed to get the tomato and onion salad to start,” Eric says, lifting cool eyes to mine.
“Great idea!” I hold his gaze and smile, willing my hormones to flash and pop.
Nothing.
“You look amazing tonight,” Eric says.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I say and then inwardly cringe. He’s a good man. He’ll make some girl very happy. Am I selfish to want more than Eric can make me feel?
This is way too much thinking to do on my birthday.
We order the salad and the steak for two, and side dishes as well. “What a feast,” I say, trying to be a gracious date as the wine is poured and the appetizers served.
“It’s really good to see you.” He chuckles. “The Zamboni, though? I thought you had an office job.”
“I did. But Daddy is in a snit. He’s trying to force me to go back to school.”
“He’s worried about you,” Eric says. “You moved out, and he hasn’t seen you. I’m supposed to report back on your condition.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Eric’s eyes widen at the curse. “I’m just fine, as you can see for yourself. And the jobs I’m doing at the rink aren’t so bad.”
Eric grins. “You’re like their mascot. You actually know some of the team?”
Not biblically. “A little. Sure.” Eric obviously hasn’t seen that awful blog photo of Jason picking me up off the sidewalk. Small mercies.
“Why do they call you Hot Pepper?”
“It’s just a nickname. I mean—it’s catchier than Bell Pepper.”
Eric chuckles.
But—wait. “Actually, that has a nice ring to it. Sorry, one second.” It’s horribly rude to use your phone at the dinner table, but I pull mine out and tap Belle Pepper’s Delivery Service into my notes. Then I put it away again. “I need a name for my side hustle.”
“You’re hilarious,” Eric says with a smile.
“That’s the general consensus.” I wonder what it would even feel like to be taken seriously. But enough about me. A good Southern girl knows how to keep the conversation balanced. “How was the interview at Goldman Sachs?”
“Brilliant,” Eric crows. “I think I’m getting in. They’ll let me know in two weeks when they finalize the incoming trainee class.”
“Wow.” I wonder what that kind of confidence feels like.
And Eric in New York? I don’t know what to do with that idea.
Our steak—when it arrives—is delicious. I enjoy every bite and feel less bad about the world. The tasty Cabernet Sauvignon Eric ordered doesn’t hurt, either. “Your dad said that 2013 was a good year for California wines, and I’d have to say I agree,” he tells me.
I’m in a good enough mood to let another mention of Daddy go by without comment. And it’s not too hard to fall back into a rhythm with Eric. So long as I ask about his hockey teammates, we don’t run out of conversation.
“You must miss your sorority sisters,” Eric says at one point.
“I don’t. Not really.” College just wasn’t as fun as I’d hoped it would be. I was always trying to figure out how I fit in with the intellectual crusaders at Bryn Mawr. Even their parties were nerdy. The theme of the spring formal was “Kafkaesque.”
What’s a girl supposed to do with that?
“Why is the job better than school, though? I mean—driving the Zamboni looked fun, but…” Eric’s question peters out, because he really doesn’t understand me.
“It’s real work. I love the Bruisers organization. I want them to succeed. They’re underdogs. Last spring everybody was betting against them.” The way my daddy does with me.
He smiles at me like I’m a cute little kitten.
“And the Zamboni was fun. I’ll be better at it the next time. The steering is like a 70s Cadillac. Too much oversteer. It’s a smooth ride, though.”
He refills my wineglass as the dishes are cleared. “The players were timing you. Did you see who won?”
“Yep. Drake, the rookie. That’s just beginner’s luck, right? The rest of them picked times that were too long.”
“Not all of them.” Eric chuckles. “Somebody went over.”
“Over?”
“Yeah—they were playing it like on the Price Is Right—closest to the time without going over. Somebody had fourteen minutes and didn’t win the pool.”
My heart skips a beat. “Did you see who?”
“One of the forwards. Not Trevi.” He shrugs. “I think it was that Spanish guy. Castro?”
“He’s not Spanish,” I say without thinking. “His dad is half Brazilian and half Cuban American.” Okay, that’s too much information. Aren’t I the perfect little fan girl?
“Okay?” Eric just blinks at me. “Mighta been him.”
“I’m just going to powder my nose before dessert,” I say brightly. “Back in a jif!”
Eric stands up when I do, because he’s been taught how to treat a woman right.
As long as she has her clothes on.
16
Jason
Trevi, O’Doul, and I stay after practice. The two of them skate up and down the rink, sending me about a thousand passes, which I return as fast as possible. When we run out of pucks, we collect them all and start the whole thing over again.
“You know,” O’Doul starts. “I think you—”
I hold up a hand. “Let’s not talk about my failings for one whole afternoon. I just want to work out and feel my way through it.”
Maybe Hot Pepper was only blowing off steam when she said that everyone should shut up and wait for muscle memory to work its magic on me. Or maybe she’s some kind of fucking oracle, because if one more person tries to fix me, I won’t be responsible for my actions.
“Okay.” O’Doul suddenly shuts his trap and gets ready for another pass. And then another dozen. When I wear him out, Trevi steps in to play.
By the time we’re done, I’m exhausted and starving. “You guys are the best. Let’s shower and get some food. My treat.”
But the two of them go off to spend the evening with their womenfolk, so I end up treating Silas to takeout instead.
We’re sitting in the living room eating spicy chicken and watching our rivals lose to Tampa. Just like old times. Except I have this niggling feeling I can’t shake. Like something’s missing.
Or someone. Heidi isn’t here. Sh
e’s out on her date. I got a look at that guy who showed up in a suit to take her for dinner. Mr. Straight and Narrow, with his shiny penny loafers and his boring tie.
He’s bad in bed, I remind myself. Although it’s unclear why I care in the first place.
I shove some more noodles in my mouth and try not to wonder if she’s going home with him tonight. Lord knows it’s none of my business.
My phone vibrates with a text. From her. It’s like I conjured her up with my inappropriate speculation.
I just have one question, she writes.
Eight inches, I reply, just to be a tool.
OMG, stop. She adds an eye-roll emoji.
Aren’t you out on a date right now? I ask. I’ll bet charm school frowns on texting another man when you’re on a date.
Charm school can bite me, Heidi replies, and I let out a bark of laughter. Just answer my question. What time did you write down for the Zamboni pool?
Why? Does it matter?
It does to me.
Where are you right now? Are you coming home?
I can’t believe I went there.
I’m in the ladies’ room at Peter Luger, and I have to get back to my date. What did you bet?
14 minutes. If you coulda just been 27 seconds faster, I wouldn’t have lost my 20 bucks to the rookie.
“Who are you texting?” Silas asks from the other end of the couch. He takes a leg off the coffee table and swings it over to give my thigh a nudge, because only goalies are that flexible. “You’re smiling like a goober.”
Sorry about the money! I’ll make it up to you.
I put the phone down to save myself from asking how she’d like to make it up to me. And because Silas is giving me a smug look. “It’s Hot Pepper, right? You always look like a goober when you’re thinking about her.”
I rest my head back on the sofa’s back and close my eyes. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what? State the obvious? Can you fall for a girl when she’s driving a Zamboni? No, wait—I think you fell for her when she was beating me and Bayer at darts.”
“News flash. I’m not falling for anybody.” I used to think of Silas as an easygoing roommate. I don’t anymore.
