Page 62 of Ice Cold Hearts
I glance over at Weiss. He’s still red-faced and glowering, but at least he has the good sense to know when to shut up.
Still, what he said was troubling. Everything that’s been printed in the papers so far has just been lewd suggestions based on false tips and the two previous relationships we’d had. It’s not hard to make that leap by any means, but his tone almost made it seem like he actually knew something.
Had we slipped up somehow? We’re in the same neighborhood, so it's possible, but even then, we’ve been careful not to even be affectionate in our own backyard. What could he possibly know?
I’m going to make it my mission to find out today. I’ll corner him in the locker room after cooldown and say I want to talk to him about his beef with Ian and get the information out of him by any means necessary.
Coach’s whistle jars me from my current fantasy of dunking his head in the ice bath until he tells me what I need to know.
“Hope you gents got in a balanced breakfast this morning. Otherwise, this next drill will have you tipping over. That's right, it's time for balance work.” He grins.
I groan aloud at the absolutely heinous pun, and I am not the only one.
“Ah, come on, guys, my eight year old came up with that one. Not even a pity laugh?” He tsks. “And I was going to go easier on you if you laughed. Sucks to be you, I guess.”
He gives another blast on his whistle, and we move into position on one end of the ice. When it’s my turn at the top of my line, I’m pleased to find that gliding on one foot is easier for me now.
I guess the yoga is paying off.
“Hey, LaRue,” Herschel calls from the line next to me, “looking good. You’re only wobbling half as much.”
“Not all of us used to figure skate, Art,” I respond gruffly.
He laughs then kicks his leg back higher than his hip and stretches forward so he’s almost parallel to the ice.
“You like that?” he taunts. “That’s called a forward spiral.”
“Showoff,” I mutter halfheartedly.
I hate to say it, but his skating partner quitting on him was one of the best things to happen to the team. Art’s a damn fine right-winger.
After balance, it’s explosive acceleration drills. Not to brag, but I blow Art out of the water on those.
By the end of practice, I’m pleasantly sore and feeling like I earned my paycheck today. I do a few counter-stretches for the sake of my back and then join the end of the stampede of men headed off the ice. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth when I see Oliver and Ian waiting off to the side of our bench, skates in hand.
“About time, Grandpa,” Oliver teases. “Any slower and you’d be skating backward.”
I scowl. “An eight-year gap hardly qualifies me to be your grandfather.”
“Hey, thirty-eight in hockey is like sixty in regular job years.” He elbows me playfully.
“You want me to put you over my knee too?” I shove him.
“Kinky.” He winks. “I never knew you felt that way about me. Am I about to get a declaration of love or a proposal soon?”
Ian sighs exaggeratedly. “I swear I can't take you two anywhere.”
I smirk. “Pipe down, Whippersnapper.”
“A joke? In public?” Oliver gasps. “Who are you and what have you done to Alexei?”
“Look out,” Ian warns. “Here comes one of the hangnails.”
I follow his gaze and see a member of the PR team making a beeline for us.
“Alexei,” he calls from the other side of the ice, “before you hit the showers, I want to touch base with you on something.”
“I’ll give you two guesses on what he wants to talk about,” I say dryly.