Fire & Ice

by Rachel Spangler

  “Now what?” She might have used the complete lack of signage as an excuse to go to her hotel and try again later if a green Prius hadn’t arrived at the same time. A man and a woman hopped out, chatting animatedly, and bounded down a short set of metal stairs she hadn’t even noticed.

  “Okay,” she muttered, as they disappeared down a low path that seemed part dirt road and part dirty alley. “I’m a New Yorker. I’ve been in worse places.”

  She followed along at a distance. In her experience, people who drove Priuses didn’t usually lure tourists into alleys to mug them, but at the same time, nothing about her experience suggested that prospective Olympians trained in rusted-out warehouses down sketchy urban back roads, either.

  Still, when she reached the set of glass doors the couple had used, she found them labeled in clean, white stencil: Buffalo Curling Club.

  She went inside and let her eyes adjust to the fluorescent light as she quickly surveyed her surroundings. The entirety of the space consisted of one large rectangle, bisected by a wall of glass. On the side she currently occupied, a small, empty reception desk offered the only sense of order. Tables, mismatched chairs, and old couches dotted the concrete floor. Old lockers lined one wall, and a table overloaded with slow cookers took up another. Finally, two obviously newer drywalled boxes seemed to be bathrooms that had been slapped together as an afterthought.

  She shook her head. Where the hell am I?

  “Hey, newcomer,” an old man in an oversized Buffalo Bills sweatshirt called. “You lost?”

  “Maybe,” she admitted. “I’m a reporter for The Sports Network.”

  He wheezed out a laugh. “Then you’re definitely lost.”

  She didn’t appreciate the vote of confidence, but she fished a piece of paper from her pocket and checked the name she hadn’t bothered to memorize. “I’m looking for a Callie Mulligan.”

  Several more heads turned, and the din of conversation stopped. She shifted slightly under the collective gaze now pointed at her. Several people eyed her with interest, a few more with suspicion. Finally, the same man smiled. “Shoulda known she’d be the one who’d bring someone like you to Buffalo.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “Surprised it didn’t happen sooner,” someone else added.

  She didn’t comment, generally preferring to reserve judgment until she had a good read on a room.

  “Shoulda sent someone else.” Another man grumbled from behind her.

  She set her jaw but didn’t turn. “If you could just tell me where I might find her or—”

  “On the ice.” The first old man cut her off. “She’s always on the ice.”

  She glanced through the wall of windows to her right, and for the first time let herself take in the expanse of ice in the larger portion of the warehouse. Bright, white, and glistening, it was divided into six long, narrow lanes. And on every strip groups of people slid, swept, and called out a cacophony of instructions or encouragements she could barely make out through the glass. Men and women of all ages and sizes bustled about quickly, and round rocks dotted their paths. Nothing had made sense for a long time, and the scene before her only seemed to offer a visual representation of the randomness permeating every area of her life.

  “Ah, come on.” The man pushed up from his chair. “No need to go all deer-in-the-headlights. I’ll show you.”

  She fought the urge to run and instead followed him through a door to one side of the glass.

  “I’m Stan, by the way.”

  She nodded. “Max.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said. “I suppose a lot of people do these days.”

  She grimaced, wondering when this would get easier, or if it ever would. Maybe she’d been wrong to come here. Maybe she should’ve taken some time off or away. Not that it would be possible to get much farther from her own life than where she was right now. She stared up at the exposed metal rafters overhead and shivered as the ice made its way into her lungs. At least if she’d run away, she could’ve gone someplace warm.

  “Actually,” she started, just as Stan stuck out an index finger.

  “There she is,” he said. “First sheet, there at the near end. That’s our Callie.”

  She needed no more description, and Max needed no more introduction. Callie Mulligan might as well have been the only woman on the ice, because the moment Max’s eyes landed on her, everyone else blurred together. The woman was young and lean and totally unadorned with makeup or jewelry, but that did nothing to detract from her smooth complexion or her pink lips, or the way streaks of honey threaded through her loose, golden hair. Most captivating, though, were her hypnotic hazel eyes. A blend of gold and amber, they sparked with amusement as she called out to someone down the ice, and Max felt a pang of regret that she hadn’t been the one to spark that emotion or the laughter that accompanied it.

  The wistfulness of the thought hit her so hard, she lifted the heel of her palm to her chest as if she could somehow stanch the ache throbbing there. Everything about her tightened—her muscles, her jaw, her mind—as she slammed those doors and barricaded them with her most protective instincts. Business. She was here for business.

  “Excuse me,” she said weakly. No one so much as glanced her way. Striding closer across a raised platform framing the ice, she cleared her throat and tried again with more force. “Excuse me, Ms. Mulligan.”

  The woman turned her head and smiled. Max faltered again at the easy genuineness of the expression. Callie had a girl-next-door grin and an athlete’s body. And again with the eyes. The combination threatened to melt her reserves like hot coal on ice, and she forced herself to look away.

  Thankfully, her surroundings provided ample distractions. Everywhere, people slid along with brooms brushing vigorously. The absurdity of the sight helped Max regain some of her indignation. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be in Buffalo. She shouldn’t be covering curling. And if anyone had taken the time to listen to her, she wouldn’t have to stand here, sullen and cold, afraid to make eye contact with a woman beautiful enough to make her forget all that, even if just for a moment.

  Her bitterness added a little bite to her voice. “I’m Max Laurens with TSN.”

  Callie’s smile broadened. “How great to meet you.”

  “Likewise, I’m sure.”

  “I’m so glad you’ll be joining us for part of this season.”

  Max couldn’t even begin to formulate a polite response, so she kept her jaw tightly clenched.

  “If there’s anything I can do to help you get settled—”

  “No.” She cut her off. There was no way to help her settle, and even if there were, she wouldn’t want to do so here.

  “The only thing I need your help with is figuring out what this”—she gestured loosely toward the ice, then sighed—“is all about.”

  Callie tried not to bristle at Max’s sharp tone or clipped words. She didn’t even have a problem with the fact that Max didn’t even know enough about curling to ask a real question. Most people didn’t. However, she had to work a little harder not to be offended at the fact that this woman didn’t even seem able to look her in the eye. Maybe if she had, Callie could have placed her. Her face was vaguely familiar in the way so many reporters’ faces were. She had her coal-black hair cut short at the sides in a utilitarian way, but left longer and feathered flawlessly on top for a wisp of style. She had high cheekbones and a strong jaw, and though she stood a few inches shorter than Callie, her posture and presence seemed to command more space than her stature would indicate.

  “What do you want to know?” Callie asked.

  “All of it,” Max answered drolly.

  “Okay, well, walk this way.” Callie strolled down the ice as Max followed beside her on the platform.

  “If we need to start at the basics, those little round things with the handles on them are called rocks or stones. They’re heavy.”

  Max snorted softly.

  “The idea is to slid
e them to the other end of the curling sheet—that’s the ice—and land them in the middle of those rings painted on the other end. Each team gets eight rocks per end.”

  “End?”

  “Ends are like innings, or periods. In full-on Olympic-style curling, we play ten ends per game. Around clubs like this, you’re more likely to play six, or maybe eight. But the main thing you have to know is that each player on a team throws two rocks per end in alternating fashion.”

  “And then other people sweep them,” Max said flatly.

  “Exactly.”

  “Who sweeps them?”

  “Well, the second and vice sweep for the lead, the lead and vice sweep for the second, the lead and second sweep for the vice, and also the skip, because when the skip throws, the vice becomes the skip.”

  Max glanced up, and for a second Callie was struck by another jolt of recognition as she got a look at her blue eyes, so pale they were almost gray, or maybe that was the glaze of uninterest clouding them. Her happiness at the prospect of the network sending a serious reporter to cover their team was tempered by the realization that Max was already bored with her.

  She kicked herself for going overboard right out of the gate. She always did that when someone asked her about curling and, more times than not, she got the same uninterested look Max had pointed at her.

  Thankfully, they weren’t at a party or, God forbid, on a date. In her experience, there was no salvaging this conversation in those situations, but today she was in the one place where she had home-ice advantage. “Actually, the rules and terms can get a little complicated. It’s not a sport that’s really meant to be talked about in the abstract.”

  “I’ve managed to understand slant routes and defensive formations in the abstract,” Max snapped, then seemed to catch herself only enough to lower her voice without quite adjusting her tone. “I’m sure I’m cognitively capable of following curling.”

  Callie’s face flushed hot. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I only wanted to suggest we might have more fun if I taught you how to play.”

  Max looked down her nose at the curling rocks between them. “Cute, but I’ll pass. That doesn’t strike me as my kind of fun.”

  Callie swallowed a sigh. This wasn’t how she wanted this to go. Max was supposed to be different. She was supposed to take this seriously. She was supposed to help, not make snide remarks and pass judgments from the sidelines. It wasn’t that Callie wasn’t used to people like that. The opposite was true, and she didn’t need one more person to scoff at her dreams. She had to bite her tongue to keep from saying so as the familiar tensions settled in her chest.

  Thankfully, she didn’t have to find a response, as they were interrupted by Layla hopping onto the platform beside Max.

  “Hiya. You must be the reporter.” She stuck out her hand so close to Max, she had no choice but to shake it.

  “Max Laurens.”

  “Layla Abrams. I play lead.”

  Max shrugged.

  “You have no idea what that means, do you?”

  “I could hazard a guess,” Max said.

  Layla laughed. “Is that how you do all your reporting—lob a Hail Mary and hope you land near the truth?”

  Max winced and took a step back before seeming to catch herself. She set her jaw and squared her shoulders. Everything about her posture flashed from bored to braced for a fight. “I may have gotten a few things wrong in the past, but trust me, this sport is well within my comprehension level.”

  “Comprehension level,” Layla scoffed. “What are we in, fifth-grade English? Or are we going to curl?”

  “Hey now,” Callie tried to interject softly.

  “Neither,” Max shot back, ignoring her completely. “I’m here to report on your sport, that’s all.”

  Layla stepped closer, and Callie shot out a hand to stop her. Sadly, there was no stopping Layla on the rare occasion she got revved up. “Go ahead and say ‘sport’ like that one more time, Pencil Pusher.”

  “Like what? Like it’s beneath me?”

  “Like you can’t be bothered to get down off your high horse and earn the right to disdain what you can’t even do.”

  Max rolled her eyes. “Is that some sort of schoolyard challenge?”

  Layla shrugged. “Put up or shut up.”

  “All right,” Callie said, more forcefully. “This is going so badly. Everyone needs to dial it back a notch.”

  Max and Layla both shook their heads.

  “We’ll keep it simple. Regular rules, two-on-two,” Layla declared. “One end. You can have Callie. I’ll take Stan.”

  “No.” Callie put her foot down.

  “Yes,” Stan cheered from behind them, already shedding his Bills hoodie.

  “I’m in,” Max declared.

  Stan handed Max a slider and said, “Put that on over your left shoe.”

  “Guys,” Callie pleaded, her head starting to throb at what an awful idea this was. “Please stop.”

  “What’s the matter?” Max asked, as she stepped into the slider and turned back to her. “You’re the one who wanted me to learn on the ice.”

  “I wanted you to have fun.”

  Max grinned for the first time since they’d met. “Winning is fun.”

  She shook her head. Max wasn’t going to win and, worse, she might get hurt, which, given her demeanor, would only hurt Callie’s team’s chances of getting the press they desperately needed.

  “Come on,” Layla called, already sliding herself toward the other end of the ice. “Are you going to do this thing or not?”

  Callie stepped in front of Max. “Can we please slow down?”

  Max didn’t even meet her eyes as she sidestepped around her toward the curling sheet and called, “I’m in!”

  Callie turned just in time to see her left foot hit the ice and go right out from under her.

  Then Max went down hard and fast and loud.

  “Oof.” All the air left Max’s lungs in a rush, but she stiffened against the reflex to curl into a ball. Gasping in the frigid air against the ice, she rolled onto her side and braced herself with a forearm.

  “Are you okay?” Callie’s voice asked from high above her.

  “Fine.” She gritted her teeth, then placed her palm flat against the ice, only to jerk it back again involuntarily when a searing shot of cold branded her bare skin.

  “Here.” Callie extended a gloved hand to help her up.

  She shook her head, and this time steeled herself against the cold before pushing herself up. She wobbled slightly before jumping quickly back onto the carpeted platform.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I said I’m fine.” She glanced around to see that several other games had come to a stop as everyone stared at her. She squared her shoulders against their judgment.

  “Want to call it?” Layla shouted down the ice, more amusement than concern in her voice.

  “Not a chance,” Max called back, then turned to Callie. “Just tell me what to do to get the game started.”

  Callie pressed her pink lips together tightly, but Stan stepped in, holding up a quarter. “Heads or tails.”

  “Heads.”

  He tossed the coin in the air, and it landed between them with the tail side up. Of course it did, because that was just the kind of year she was having.

  Stan grinned. “That means we get the hammer, but don’t worry. It won’t matter anyway.”

  Callie opened her mouth, but Max held up her hand. “Just stop, okay? We’re doing this. You can make it better or worse, but you’re not getting me off this ice.”

  Callie closed her mouth, but her eyes still managed to convey her message of pity, frustration, and a flash of anger. She nodded a single time. “You’re going to have to throw first.”

  “Why? The sweeping looks easier.”

  “It is,” she agreed, picking up her broom, “but you’re not going to land anything on the rings, so I’m our only chance to pick up a point. I
need to go second.”

  Max bristled at the lack of confidence. She was new to this game, but she was smart and generally athletic, not that shot-putting a rock across ice took much in the way of athletics. Still, she’d been doubted enough to understand you didn’t overcome disbelief with anything other than action. “Where’s my rock?”

  “You get to pick the color since you lost the toss,” Stan explained.

  She eyed the matching sets of stones. The only difference seemed to be the color of the handles on top, red or blue. “Blue.”

  The older man smiled. “It’ll bring out your eyes.”

  She snorted at the absurdity of the comment and rolled her shoulders. “Okay, so I saw other people doing this. I put my right foot on that little black rubber thingy.”

  “The hack,” Stan supplied. “If you’re right-handed, you use the one on the left side, so the stone is in the middle.”

  She nodded. Seemed easy enough.

  “You use the slider,” he said, pointing to the flat-soled shoe cover he’d given her, “to slide.”

  She winced slightly at the thought of slipping any more than she had the first time she’d stepped onto the ice, but she wasn’t about to back down now. She shifted some of her weight to press the white-bottomed slider flush against the ice. Then with a deep breath for resolve she stepped forward once more.

  “No!” Stan and Callie shouted, and each caught one of her arms so she stood suspended with her left foot half an inch from the ice.

  “Oh, you are a bright one.” Stan chuckled.

  “Don’t lead with your slider foot,” Callie said more kindly. “It has no traction. Step out with your more grippy shoe.”

  Well, that made a ton of sense, and her cheeks burned slightly with the embarrassment of not having thought of it herself. She switched feet and eased onto the ice.

  This time she didn’t fall, which felt like a sad sort of victory, but she didn’t have time to reflect on the low bar she’d just set for herself. Stan used his broom to push a blue-handled rock her way.