The Goon Read online

  The place is near empty inside. After a handful of people leave, it quiets down. I stand in the main entrance staring forward at the bare ice surrounded by white board walls and Plexiglas. Michael is nowhere in sight. I sure hope he didn’t forget about me. Or worse, change his mind.

  A loud engine purrs to life, and an older man in sweats and a fleece jacket opens the doors at the other end of the rink before climbing onto a Zamboni and rolling it out onto the ice.

  “Where is he?” I whisper. I hear a quiet, muffled conversation coming from somewhere down the hallway to the left. It curves to the right, so I can’t see who the voices belong to but as they get closer, I hear them better and one of the voices is male. I hope that’s him. Getting stood up would be the cherry on top of an already bad week.

  Goon approaches, walking alongside a woman who looks to be in her forties. Her long hair is curled to perfection and is a bottle shade of golden. She wears a red jacket with a belt, slim pants, and stilettos. She laughs after Michael says something and reaches over to squeeze his bicep. I roll my eyes. A kid with chubby cheeks jogs up to fall in step behind them. She doesn’t even notice the kid is talking to her. “Mom. Mom? Mom!”

  “I’m talking to Michael. Don’t interrupt.”

  Sigh. The woman beams at Michael, enraptured by everything he says. He’s got game, on and off the ice, I’ll give him that.

  “He just needs more ice time, and he’ll pick it up. Right, buddy?” Michael says.

  The kid shrugs. “More time? Mom, I have weak ankles. They hurt so bad.”

  I also have weak ankles.

  His mother rolls her eyes. “Mark, you need to be more active. You spend way too much time staring at a computer screen.”

  “I like staring at my computer screen!”

  Michael finally notices me and gives me a small wave, accompanied by a dimpled smile. Thank God, he knows who I am. That would have been awkward. The lady glances my way and looks none too impressed to find another blonde.

  They stop near the front doors, a few feet away from me.

  “We’ll see you Wednesday?” she asks.

  “Of course.” Goon ruffles the kid’s hair, but he ducks away, scooting to the other side of his mother. “Later, Mark. Don’t give up yet. Hockey is the best sport on the planet.”

  “On my Xbox,” he says under his breath.

  My lips twitch as I feel the impulse to smile.

  “Thank Michael for his time,” his mom says, forcing a smile. She smacks Mark’s shoulder when he doesn’t do it quick enough.

  The boy grumbles.

  “See you later,” Michael says.

  The Zamboni sputters and catches my attention again. A cloud of smoke comes out the back and floats upward to surround the driver. He bats the gray stuff away, but continues to forge ahead, polishing the ice to a sheen that reflects the light hanging from the tall ceiling. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to drive one of those. I’ll add it to my bucket list later if I remember.

  The lady and her son leave, but not before she gives me the stink eye. My inner bitch smiles back at her—sweetly. The best way to combat mean girls is with sweetness. It infuriates them when they can’t get a rise out of you. It really is the best revenge.

  “Have a good night,” I say to dig the knife in a little deeper.

  The woman grabs the sleeve of her son’s jacket and drags him along though the door, after which, Michael pulls out a key and locks it. “Don’t worry. You can still get out, but they can’t get back in.” He grins at me.

  “She sure likes you,” I say. “Did she give you her number?”

  He laughs at me as he tucks the key in the pocket of his fleece. “Many times,” he says, sighing. He looks through the glass portion of the doors to watch them as they walk to her expensive SUV that’s likely worth more than this building.

  Player.

  “Doesn’t mean I called her, though.”

  Or maybe not.

  When I think about the times I’ve seen him around campus, he’s never around women, even though Charlie said he has a girlfriend. Just his friends. Often girls follow him and his buddies, but they’re never hanging off him. Though I’m sure it’s not from lack of them trying. He’s the definition of handsome with his sparkly blue eyes, square jaw, perfect teeth and dirty blond hair with a hint of a wave. I’ll bet if it were long it would fall in ringlets. There’s something about that I find cute, even on a guy built like him. Broad shoulders with a puffed-up chest, a thick torso that narrows to his waist, a butt that pops, and thick thighs that could easily crush a girl if he wrapped them around her too tightly.

  “I bet you get numbers from ladies like her all the time.”

  “You have no idea. Even when I was sixteen.”

  “Really? Did they know you were sixteen?”

  His grins speaks volumes.

  “Wow.”

  “Anyway, we’re not here to talk about my love life, right?”

  “Definitely not.”

  He puts two hands over his heart. “Wow. That hurt a little.”

  He might not be a player, but he’s definitely a flirt. I wonder what his girlfriend would say about that? “As if your confidence would suffer from anything I have to say.”

  “Ouch.”

  He actually looks offended.

  I sound like a bitch, and I don’t mean to be. He’s here to help me, an almost complete stranger, but sometimes words fall out of my mouth before I have a chance to think better of them, and I’m still hating men right now. “I’m sorry. I just meant I’m taking a break from guys right now.”

  “Well, consider yourself safe. I have a girlfriend.”

  “Like that means anything.” Shit. There I go again. “I didn’t mean that.” I did, actually. But I didn’t mean to say it out loud.

  “I…uh…heard about what happened,” he says.

  “And you still want to help the ‘crazy bitch’?” I hold my hands out and shake them as if that makes me look insane. “You must be a saint.”

  He meets my eyes, and there’s a softness to them that causes me to feel a touch vulnerable. I don’t like how it feels, as though he pities me. I tuck the few strands that have fallen free from my ponytail behind my ears and look to my feet. After clearing the dryness from my throat, I say, “Why did you say yes to helping me, anyway? I don’t think we’ve ever said more than a couple of words to each other.” I scuff my boots on the rubber mat.

  “Ozzie asked me. If a friend asks for a favor, you do what you can.”

  I peek up at him. I can respect and understand that because it’s exactly how I feel about Charlie. I’d run a mile over broken glass in a hurricane to help her. “That’s really nice of you.”

  “What can I say? I’m a nice guy.”

  We’ll see.

  An awkward silence follows, and I purse my lips wondering what to say. I wish I knew him better; it would make this easier. But then, I don’t exactly want to get to know him better either. I’m just here to learn how to skate.

  Down to business, I guess. “Should we get started?”

  “Sure.” When he frowns, there are exactly four faint and perfectly straight lines that appear on the forehead of his otherwise flawless face. “You didn’t bring skates.”

  “Oh…I don’t have skates.” When I say it out loud, I sound like a moron. “I thought I could, like, rent them from here or something.”

  “Yeah, they don’t do that here. Maybe at some of the bigger rinks, but not here.” He scratches his head and laughs at me. After turning on his heel, he waves over his shoulder for me to follow. “Come on. Let’s see what we can find in lost and found.” I jog to catch up to him and settle easily at his side. Though he’s taller, he keeps his pace slow so I don’t have to run alongside him. I sure do work up a sweat, though.

  “I’d lend you my old ones but”—he looks down at my size fives—“I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t fit you.”

  He opens a door on the right about
twenty feet down the hallway. Inside is an office with a couple of desks and some filing cabinets. Stray sporting equipment sits in boxes to the left of the door, some sticking out from the top. My eyes train to the box of Girl Scout cookies, the mint ones, on the desk closest to me. When his back is turned, I shove some down my throat because mint Girl Scout cookies are a weakness of mine—and everyone else on the planet who considers themselves sane.

  My crunches are a little too loud. He turns and arches a brow at me. When I smile, I’m sure there are pieces of the black cookie crumbs in my teeth. He laughs and shakes his head.

  “Those cookies have been there for at least six months.”

  I swallow them down. “They’re still delicious.”

  He shakes his head at me, his eyes alight with humor. “Still delicious,” he mutters under his breath.

  In a closet on the right side of the room, and to the right of a fern growing in the corner, he grabs a box big enough for me to fit in. He lifts it easily and sets it on the floor near one of the desks. He pulls a chair over to sit down, and I grab another, pulling it over so I can sit beside him.

  “It’s like a treasure chest,” I say, looking over the lip.

  “Sure.” I like the way his eyes sparkle when he smiles.

  He opens all four sides, and I reach in and pull out a fuzzy pink toque with a leather beaver tail down the back. I try it on for size. He grins at me while plucking out random items to get down deeper. I snatch a long scarf with sparkles and wrap that around my neck, too.

  “Oh, here we go.” He pulls out a pair of figure skates, the same kind I had as a kid, though these are scuffed and well worn. My old skates used to cut into my heels so bad. I know how the kid Mark felt when he was complaining about it earlier. Skates suck. They’re hard and rigid. There’s no give to them at all.

  He pulls down the tongue and frowns at the sizing. “Six. Is that too big?”

  “I’m a size five.”

  “Oh, perfect. You want them a little bigger. What socks do ya got on?”

  I kick off my boot, lift my leg, and yank up the hem of my bootcut jeans. I prefer them skinny, but I figured these would give me a little more range of motion for skating. I don’t remember what socks I’ve put on until I see them. Matching socks are like unicorns, especially when you hate laundry, so they don’t match.

  He leans in for a closer look. Not to see they’re a cotton-polyester blend, but I think to make sense of what’s on them. I look away to avoid judgment. One of my socks is blue with Big Bird on them—they were a gift. The other sock has hound dogs with writing along the side.

  “Ruff stuff?” he says.

  I shrug. “They were clean.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Don’t judge me.”

  He holds up his hands. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  I lower my leg and quickly get back to the task at hand. “Any hockey skates in there?” They look like they might be more comfortable than figure skates.

  “Nope. I’m not sure you’d want hockey skates, anyway. At least these have a toe pick.” He presses one of his thumbs against the jagged edge of the skate’s blade. “You might appreciate that.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” I say as I take the skates. “I’m not a complete novice.” Yes, I am.

  He pulls a face, and I know he doesn’t believe me. Oh, well, it’s probably better anyway. He’ll know the truth once I get on the ice. “How much experience do you actually have?”

  “I’ve had lessons before,” I say with my head up, still refusing to admit how awful I am. “For almost a full year.”

  “Oh, yeah? When?”

  “I was younger.”

  “How much younger?”

  Okay, so he’s not letting it go, and he’s enjoying making me squirm. “I was five, okay?”

  He covers his smile with his hand.

  “I’m a fast learner.”

  “Can I ask why you volunteered to help kids learn to skate when you can’t skate yourself?”

  I assumed Ozzie would have told him. It would have been easier if he did because then I wouldn’t have to see his reaction when he finds out. I chew on my lip and consider making something up. It would be so nice for him to think I’m just a good girl helping kids. I like when people think good things about me. Who doesn’t? But it’s not the truth. I might be a criminal, but I’m no liar. And he knows I smashed a car, so will this really change whatever opinion he has of me? It isn’t likely high to start with.

  “I didn’t volunteer,” I say. “I was volun-told.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s community service. I have to do this because of…” I lower my voice. “Because of the car I damaged.”

  He’s silent for a beat, but I can see his mind spinning. “Can I ask you a question?”

  I might regret this. “Sure.”

  “Did you really beat up the wrong car?” A grin tugs at his lips.

  I look away, embarrassed for what I did and more embarrassed for getting it so wrong. “Yes.”

  “That’s kind of funny.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m one big punchline.”

  “You’re also kind of a badass.”

  I snap my head in his direction and meet his eyes. Did he just call me a badass? Since that night, people have gossiped about me and talked about me just loud enough for me to hear. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am crazy. Smashing up a car isn’t normal. I know that. But Brad betrayed me, and I couldn’t deal. Michael’s the first person since it happened who doesn’t seem to care about what I did. My parents gave me their disappointed looks and their silent treatments, Charlie cried and told me she didn’t want me to go to jail, and everyone else pegged me as the crazy lady. This guy? He’s just amused. Maybe even respects me for it. I didn’t expect that.

  “Ready?” Michael asks. He grips the arms of his chair and pushes himself up. He’s like a giant looming over me as I sit.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be. Skating’s easy, right? I can pick it back up. I wasn’t terrible as a kid.”

  He rubs the short stubble of hair on his chin. It covers a good scar underneath, near his throat. I would never have noticed it, but from this angle, it’s obvious. It almost blends in with the crease between his head and his neck. It’s just a pale white horizontal line, a few shades lighter than his tan complexion.

  Normally, I don’t have much of a filter. I say things that come to my mind as soon as I think them. As much as I want to ask about his scar, it feels a touch personal, and since he’s being so nice, I force myself to keep silent. I give him a nod, and he leads me out.

  Show time.

  We get to the player’s bench through a back door rather than going over the ice. Good thing. My rubber boots don’t have any grips, and I’d be on my ass quicker than I could dial 911. His skates are already on the banged-up wooden seat that looks like people walk on it rather than sit. The blades on Michael’s skates are still wet and shiny from skating with the kids.

  “Do you teach here regularly?” I ask as I take a seat.

  “Just one night a week.”

  “Out of the goodness of your heart or for the money?” Did that come out right?

  “For money. I volunteer, too, but these classes are for money. I have a scholarship, but that’s for tuition. I still got bills, and I have to make up the difference somehow. This seemed like a good fit for me, and the kids seem to like it.”

  “Except Mark?”

  He laughs. “Except Mark,” he says in agreement.

  “I’m pretty sure his mother drags him here so she can stare at your ass.” Oh, great. He probably thinks I’ve been looking at his ass now. Because how else would I know it was stare-worthy?

  “If you say so.”

  I try to shove my foot in my skate since it seems loose enough, but it’s not quite big enough. I put my foot on the ground to try and jam it in again, all while Michael looks at me from under a single arched brow.

  “You’re killing
me here.”

  “I got this.” I stomp on the rubber mat. Over and over. It doesn’t help.

  “Stop. Just stop.” He puts a hand on my knee to gently urge me to stop forcing it. I stare at his hand and slide a little farther away from him.

  He clears his throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean for that to be creepy.” He picks up one of his skates. “You have to loosen your laces or you’re going to wreck your heels and the back of your skates.” He demonstrates and then stares at me, waiting for me to do the same. With an eye roll and a grin, I follow his instructions. He’d seem condescending if he wasn’t so charming.

  “Now pull the tongue forward and slide your foot in. Then you’re going to start at the bottom and hook your fingers to tighten. I like to leave the top eyelet undone. It gives me a bit more room for my ankles. But it’s a personal choice.”

  Because he suggested it, I do the same. I need all the help I can get, and he likely knows what he’s talking about.

  He frowns as he runs a finger along the blades of my skates. “You can probably keep these. I think they’ve been here a while, so I don’t think anyone’s coming back for them, but you’ll want to get them sharpened. If you had another pair, I’d make you take these ones off, but since we’re limited, we work with what we got.”

  “They look fine,” I say glancing at them. “But I’ll sharpen them. Or get a new pair.”

  “How do they feel?” he asks once I’m laced up. “Not too tight?”

  “Nope. Feels good. Though they’re really stiff around the ankles.”

  “It’ll take some time to work them in.”

  “Sounds painful.”

  “Maybe.” With his big hands, he grips the edge of the bench and pushes himself up. “All right, it’s time to dance.”

  “Shit, I hope not.”

  He lets out a silent laugh that has his shoulders jumping and his eyes almost disappear because his lids narrow so much. He reminds me of Charlie. Her laugh was one of the first things that drew me to her, even when a lot of the other kids at school labelled her a loser and a waste of space because she hadn’t grown into her looks yet. Popularity and superficial friends have never mattered to me. I wanted something sincere, something real, especially since my relationship with my parents has never been satisfying. Charlie gave that to me—she still does. It’s odd to see the same easiness and genuine nature in this tall, muscular package. And also in a guy.