Fire & Ice

by Rachel Spangler

  “Hey, Pencil Pusher.” Layla’s voice cut through her pity party. She stood at the bottom of the metal bleachers, staring up between a few stray braids that had fallen over her eyebrows. “You look like you could use a beer.”

  She opened her mouth to say she didn’t usually drink beer, then thought better of it. “Actually, I could.”

  “Me too,” Layla called. “You buying?”

  She snorted at the boldness of the question, but Layla’s tone and implicit invitation amused her for the first time in days. “Where?”

  Layla grinned. “The Patch, of course.”

  “Hey,” Ella called, and gave Layla a “what the hell?” look.

  Layla shrugged her off. “I’m gonna let it go, El. We got beat at our best, I’m broke, and the reporter looks a little broken, too. If she’s buying, we’re drinking.”

  Ella pursed her lips together, clearly not thrilled, but unable to argue with her lead’s logic.

  Layla turned back to Max. “So? The Patch, you coming?”

  She sensed the invitation was tenuous at best and decided against asking questions. “Yes, please. I’ll be right with you.”

  She collected her coat and the backpack with her camera, then clattered down the stairs to the arena floor. Thankfully, she still had a network press pass to flash to the pimply teenager working security, but she had to wade through a slew of random-looking fans all hoping to get an autograph from their favorite curler. The thought of curling groupies still sparked a little shot of snark, but she kept her mouth closed and wound her way to where Brooke and Callie had just joined Layla and Ella.

  “What’s she doing here?” Brooke asked. “I thought she got fired.”

  The droll blow made Max’s chest tighten, but she’d had plenty of opportunity to practice not showing it. Forcing a smile, she said, “Sadly, not yet, so I guess I’m buying you all a drink in a patch.”

  “What?” Brooke asked.

  Layla groaned.

  Ella rolled her eyes. “What she means to say is that Layla invited her to come to the Patch with us.”

  “Right.” Max nodded. “Not a patch, the Patch. A specific one.”

  Layla shook her head, but the corner of her mouth curled up. “Talk less, buy more.”

  With that she walked away, followed by Brooke and Ella. Max got the sense she should follow. Instead, she turned to Callie. “You threw a good game today, or called one, or played one, whatever terminology I’m entirely too much of a noob to know.”

  “Thanks,” Callie mumbled, seemingly uncharmed by Max’s self-effacing humor.

  “Congrats on making the finals.”

  Callie sighed. “It’s a start. Congrats on not being fired.”

  Max nodded slowly, then shrugged. “It’s a start.”

  Callie had to brace herself against the din of the rock band on the stage and the tinny vibrations of their chords against the arching metal roof, a venue that resembled a small airplane hangar.

  “This is not really the image that comes to mind when someone says, ‘the patch.’ I was envisioning something with grass, perhaps a few cows,” Max said loudly enough to be heard even in the crowd.

  “It’s November in Thunder Bay, Canada. No one is partying in pastures,” Layla shouted back.

  Max shrugged. “You people spend all day on sheets of ice. It’s not unreasonable to think you might be acclimatized to the cold.”

  “Acclimatized. That’s a good word. Can one become acclimatized to, say, the keg room?”

  Max turned to Callie. “She’s not really known for her subtlety, is she?”

  “Not really,” Callie admitted. She could see the humor in Max’s droll attempts at conversation, and under normal circumstances she might’ve even enjoyed her wit, but tonight she couldn’t help wondering why either of them was even here.

  The Patch clearly wasn’t either of their scenes, but at least Callie had the excuse of being a curler. These were her people. They’d expect her to make an appearance after what most of the field would consider a tremendous showing for Team Mulligan. Even though they’d lost today, they had, once again, far outplayed their official ranking. She didn’t doubt that, come Monday, they’d see another bump in their world standing. Curlers were a genuinely friendly group, and they’d no doubt want to offer their congratulations. The only problem was, she didn’t want to accept them.

  They’d lost today in a game they might’ve won if only she’d made better calls or better shots, or been a better leader. They could’ve played better, and to her mind they should’ve played better. She couldn’t quite settle into a celebration with that knowledge hanging over her head, so all she could do tonight was play the part everyone expected of a skipper. She’d be gracious and social. She’d buy a drink for her team and accept the drink curling victors owed the vanquished. And then she’d make an excuse to sneak out early. Or at least that’s what she would’ve done if Max hadn’t been watching.

  “Earth to Callie.”

  She blinked away the haze of her own daydream and focused on Max and Layla, who were both staring at her. “What?”

  “You okay?” Max asked.

  “Yeah, I was just . . .”

  “Planning her escape route,” Layla said matter-of-factly.

  Max raised her eyebrows.

  “No,” Callie said weakly.

  “Yes,” Layla cut back in. “She’s silently seething about the loss, and she doesn’t want to be here making nice, but she respects the game and the community enough to do her part even while counting down the minutes until she can leave.”

  Max looked from Callie to Layla and back again before asking, “So, you all have known each other awhile, huh?”

  Layla laughed. “You could say that, but let’s say it over drinks.”

  “Deal.” And off they went, leaving Callie to follow along with a little smile.

  Max hadn’t argued. She hadn’t asked any probing questions. She took the pressure off Callie and rolled with Layla. She’d actually been kind of perfect so far, and the next thing Callie knew Max was paying for drinks. Well, she tried to ask if they had a nice Malbec, but thankfully Layla stepped in and ordered five Labatts. It was a minor misstep, and to her credit Max didn’t complain. She accepted her bottle and waved Layla off with three others for herself, Ella and Brooke. If Max noticed their disappearance, she didn’t seem bothered by it. And yet, she didn’t seem quite happy, either, as she slid the remaining beer over to Callie.

  “You don’t have to babysit me,” Callie said, as she sipped her drink and surveyed the crowd.

  The corner of Max’s mouth curled up. “I was about to say the same thing to you.”

  “Why would I babysit you?”

  “Because I don’t belong here, and everyone knows it. Actually, maybe not everyone, because if most of these people knew who I was, they’d probably have jumped me by now.”

  “No,” Callie said quickly, “curlers are a very easygoing crowd. Everyone knows everyone, and there’s a gossip mill to be sure, but it’s too small a circle for people to be jerks. Not to stereotype or anything, but most people would say curlers are friendly almost to a fault.”

  Max snorted and took a swig of beer. “Yeah, I’ve noticed that around the club in Buffalo. Everyone’s so welcoming.”

  Callie shook her head at the sarcasm. “You didn’t exactly get off on the right foot there.”

  “You’re not wrong.” Max shrugged. “What about you? Why would you think I’m babysitting you?”

  “Because Layla wasn’t wrong, either,” Callie admitted. “I’m kind of a downer at these things when we lose. You notice she ran off as soon as she got her drink.”

  “Actually, I hadn’t, but now that you mention it, seems like she found the only two sad sacks in the arena, paired us up, and bolted.”

  Callie hadn’t quite connected those dots yet, but Max hadn’t made a major leap in logic. Layla knew her well enough to recognize she wouldn’t be great company tonight, but she w
as also a good enough friend not to want to abandon her completely, so she found her a sad buddy in Max. She didn’t know whether to be appreciative or offended and didn’t see why she had to choose one or the other.

  “You really did play well today,” Max finally said, her tone a little lower as the band took a break and some previously recorded music took over at a more reasonable decibel level.

  “Like you’d know good curling if you saw it.”

  Max’s jaw twitched, and she took another drink. She didn’t defend herself, and somehow that gave Callie the space to feel a little guilty.

  “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

  “And deserved,” Max admitted. “I’m trying to get better, though. I’ve been studying. I’ve watched a lot of matches. I mean, I can’t keep stats or anything else because I don’t know the strategies well enough, but I’ve learned to recognize what shot is being called and whether or not you do what’s asked of you. You executed all afternoon.”

  Callie nodded. “I made my shots.”

  “But you couldn’t make everyone else’s,” Max finished for her.

  “We all got into a hole early.” Callie dodged the implication about her teammates’ play. “And we couldn’t scratch our way out, not fast enough, anyway.”

  Now it was Max’s turn to nod pensively, her eyes distant, her jaw tight, and Callie felt a strange connection to her.

  “You know how it feels, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Max croaked, her voice strangled. “I’ve dug my own grave a time or two.”

  “Is that why you weren’t working today?”

  “I was working.” A hint of the old defensiveness flared in Max’s voice again, but before it had a chance to take hold, her shoulders fell. “But not on camera. Apparently, I haven’t earned that right back yet.”

  “Because you shit the bed on the last webcast?”

  Max grimaced, and her voice rose an octave. “Should we phrase it quite that way?”

  Callie hid her grin. “Sorry, I didn’t see the footage. I just heard from a few people.”

  “Great. So much better that tales of my bed-shitting are floating around the wide world of curling.”

  She laughed. “No, just our club. No one else watches us on TV.”

  “You’re a real inspirational speaker, you know that?” Max asked, but with some dry humor back in her tone.

  She shrugged. “I’m the skip. It’s what I do.”

  “Well, I envy that about you, Skip. I have no idea what I need to do. I mean, I get that I didn’t turn in my best work off the bench. I came into this sport cold, and I didn’t warm up fast enough. I’ve turned in top-notch stuff to my boss these last few weeks, though. Well, I mean as top-notch as curling can get.”

  Callie rolled her eyes, but before she had a chance to let the comment sting, Max plowed on.

  “I didn’t mean what you think I meant. Curling is a hard subject to write about for a general audience. I can’t assume much prior knowledge of the sport, and therefore I can’t talk to them the way you all talk to each other. However, I turned in several solid pieces in both film and writing. I covered some basics like the history of the sport as well as an introduction to Team Mulligan, despite the fact that three-fourths of them won’t consent to an interview. That’s no easy journalistic feat.”

  Callie nodded thoughtfully. Max hadn’t made things easy on herself, but then again, neither had anyone else.

  “And my boss admitted I’d done a fine job walking an even finer line.”

  “But?”

  Max shook her head, and the first strand of her heavily styled hair fell out of place. “I don’t know any specifics. Maybe I missed a moving target, or maybe the hole was deeper than anyone could climb out of in two weeks, but my boss said, given how the team performed in the last tournament and my lackluster coverage of those events, he wanted a more seasoned reporter on this week’s webcast.”

  “So, you played well enough to stay in the game, but not well enough to win,” Callie summed up.

  “Yet,” Max said quickly. “Until the final whistle blows, there’s always a ‘yet.’”

  “Or the final rock is thrown.” Callie added her own metaphor because she needed it. She needed to believe Max was right, and neither of them had topped out their talent or potential yet.

  “Hello, Callie.” A hand fell on her shoulder, and she spun quickly, surprised to find someone else standing so close, even in the crowd. Somehow, she’d forgotten the crowd, which generally only happened on the ice.

  “Good curling,” the Japanese skipper said in clear, but heavily accented, English.

  “Thanks, Pancakes. You played perfectly.”

  The woman gave a little bow of her head.

  “Are you enjoying your Canadian tour?”

  “Very much so. A very friendly country, always.”

  “Indeed,” Callie said, and the conversation ground to a halt. She should say something else. God, why was she so bad at these things? She was a friendly person. She made small talk at work all the time, but these post-match conversations always felt so forced. Still, Pancakes was trying to keep up her end of the bargain, and she wasn’t even a native English speaker. Callie glanced around for something to kickstart the conversation again, and her eyes fell on Max, who was slowly inching back toward the bar. Callie shot out a hand and caught her around the biceps, reeling her back in.

  “Pancakes, have you met Max?”

  Max gave a little shake of her head and extended her hand. “Pancakes? Really?”

  “It is my English nickname,” Pancakes explained, just as she likely had multiple times. “When I began to travel to the bonspiels, I wanted an easier name for the other players to say.”

  “So, you named yourself ‘Pancakes’?”

  “I enjoy breakfast.”

  Max grinned at her, then turned to Callie with a look on her face that seemed to ask, is this for real?

  “Pancakes is one of the top skips in the world right now.”

  “Of course she is,” Max said, amusement creeping into her voice. Turning back to Pancakes, she added, “Congratulations on your win today.”

  “Thank you, but also thanks to Callie, who beat the Swedish team yesterday.”

  Callie nodded. “You could do the same on any given day.”

  Pancakes nodded her appreciation at the compliment, but Max arched an eyebrow. “Do you beat the Swedish team often?”

  “Not often at all,” Pancakes said, and then her dark eyes went wide. “I will buy you a drink now as my way of thanks and good sportsmanship.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Callie said, eager to move this little tradition along. She held up her almost empty bottle for her to see. “Another Labatt would be great.”

  Pancakes stepped up to the bar and immediately had the full attention of the bartender.

  “You know this whole thing is a little surreal, right?” Max asked, when she was out of earshot.

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I’m in a raucous Canadian curling party talking to someone named Pancakes, who just won a tournament, and who now has to pay for your drinks.”

  “Drink, singular,” she corrected.

  “That doesn’t make it any less weird.”

  Callie shrugged. “It’s just how curlers do things.”

  “You know that’s not how any other sport works, right?”

  “I’m sure they’ve all got their traditions that seem odd to outsiders. I mean, I have a cousin who’s into NASCAR—”

  “Don’t.” Max held up a hand. “Do not try to use NASCAR as a logical justification for anything.”

  Callie laughed, a real laugh that shook her core. “Fair enough, but I still maintain that being friendly with your opponents is a nice way to stay civilized in a competitive culture. But, I’ll admit, some people are better at it than others.”

  “And where do you fall on that spectrum?”

  “I have no animosity for anyone. Honestly, I ge
nuinely like the vast majority of the people I curl against, but in the wake of a loss, the wound is usually a little too raw for me to want to party with anyone, much less the people I came up short against.”

  As if on cue, Pancakes returned with two beers in hand. Callie accepted the first but was surprised to see her hand the other one to Max.

  “Are you not drinking tonight?”

  “Please don’t tell our hosts,” Pancakes stage-whispered, “but I find the stuff terrible.”

  Max laughed. “Pancakes, you are really upping my estimation of curlers overall.”

  Callie stiffened. The comment shouldn’t have bothered her, but it did. She’d thought she’d built a rapport with Max. She didn’t know why. They hadn’t spent any real quality time together, but lately it seemed as if they’d connected, as if they understood each other. And that connection seemed earned, even hard won, given how they’d started off. To think Max would so easily bond with someone else over a distaste for bottled beer made her remember how little Max wanted to be here.

  “Is your team on the dance floor?” she asked abruptly. “We don’t want to keep you from them.”

  Pancakes grinned. “Layla was teaching them a cha-cha slide when I left.”

  “Well, you won’t want to miss too much of that,” Callie said. “I’ll see you next month?”

  “Yes. Safe travels,” Pancakes said amiably, then turned to Max. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” Max lifted her beer in salute as they both watched Pancakes recede into the crowd.

  Callie sighed and took a long pull from her bottle, the new beer cold and crisp, but not enough to soothe the burn still heating her cheeks.

  “So which one of us annoys you more?” Max asked. “Me or Pancakes?”

  “I’m not annoyed,” she snapped, then shook her head. “That didn’t sound convincing.”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “It’s been a long couple of days.”

  Max snorted. “No kidding. Is it over now? Do you get to make your escape? Or are there more curling traditions to be observed?”