Overnight Sensation(43)

“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.