She started checking the ice near the gate.
Tanner leaned against the boards.
“Oh, Monique.”
She looked up.
“The Sunday youth skate? Canceled.”
Her hand stopped.
“What?”
“Management needs the ice.”
“For what?”
“VIP parties.”
Monique stared at him.
Sunday mornings belonged to Harbor City’s community program.
Seventy-three children.
Most from families who could not afford private hockey clubs.
Some borrowed equipment.
Others used donated skates.
Her younger brother Malik played there.
“You can’t cancel it.”
Tanner laughed.
“I just told you. It’s canceled.”
“Those families have nowhere else to skate.”
“Not my problem.”
Monique stood.
Tanner looked at the hockey stick resting against the boards.
Then at her.
“Bet you’ve never even held one of these.”
Henrik looked over again.
“Tanner.”
Tanner picked up the stick and held it toward Monique as if offering a broom.
“Come on. Show us.”
Monique ignored him.
She walked toward the resurfacing machine.
Tanner followed.
“Your job is done when I say it’s done.”
Monique turned.
“No. My job is finished when the ice is safe.”
Something in her tone irritated him.
Maybe it was because she did not sound intimidated.
Maybe because cameras were nearby.
Tanner reached for a paper cup sitting on the boards.
Before Henrik could stop him, Tanner flicked the drink toward Monique.
Cold sports drink splashed across her jacket and face.
The camera crew went silent.
Monique closed her eyes.
Liquid ran from the brim of her cap.
Tanner grinned.
“Cool down, sweeper.”
His girlfriend Briella, who was filming behind the glass with her phone, laughed.
“This is going viral.”
Henrik walked toward Monique.
“Are you okay?”
She wiped her cheek.
“I’m fine. Thank you, Henrik.”
Tanner laughed.
“People like you drive the machine.”
He pointed toward himself.
“People like me fill the seats.”
Monique looked at him for several seconds.
Then picked up the hockey stick he had left beside the gate.
Without stretching.
Without removing her work boots.
Without warning anyone.
She dropped a puck onto the ice.
Tanner stopped smiling.
Monique dragged the puck backward with the blade, shifted her weight, and snapped her wrists.
The puck flew across the rink.
It struck the tiny open corner of the opposite net with a sharp metallic crack.
The arena became silent.
Henrik slowly turned toward the net.
Tanner stared.
Monique put the stick back against the boards.
“Your ice is ready.”
Then she walked away.
Nobody said anything until she reached the tunnel.
Henrik whispered:
“Nobody makes that shot by accident.”
Monique heard him.
She did not turn around.
Because there had been a time when she could make that shot ten times in a row.
And if anyone inside Harbor City Arena discovered exactly who she used to be, she feared the life she had carefully built for Malik would begin falling apart.
