Jonah comes into the first turn in his usual deep lean. It’s the second turn that goes sideways on him. Literally. Jonah’s inner foot goes from 70 degrees to 180 degrees. A thunk echoes around the rink as Jonah hits the ice and slides out of control. Followed by the crack of him colliding with the painted wooden wall—the boards—in front of my table. I jump to my feet.
“Are you okay?” I peer over the top.
Jonah is curled up, his hands cradled around his helmet. Air hisses through his clenched teeth. Mom is going to kill me if our new client dies on his first day at the rink. I hop over the wall and nearly bite it on the ice myself. I squat down. Jonah’s eyes are squeezed tight, his face contorted in pain. Mack arrives seconds after me and plops the first aid kit on the wall. Somehow, I doubt a Hello Kitty Band-Aid and an ice pack are going to help a possible skull fracture.
“He’s fine, ladies.” Mr. Choi jogs up to us. “Happens all the time.”
Mr. Choi puts his hand over the side, but Jonah doesn’t take it. I put my hands on Jonah’s upper arm to pull him to a stand. He jerks away from me.
“If this were a real training facility like in Arlington, they’d have freakin’ safety padding on the boards.” Jonah grabs the wall and scrapes himself off the ice.
“That’s what safety helmets are for.” Mr. Choi taps the top of Jonah’s helmet. “And watch your language.”
Jonah snatches the skate guards off the table and limp-skates away. An unflattering wet mark spreads from his butt up the left side of his skinsuit, thanks to the excess water on the ice.
“Take five, and we’ll go again,” Mr. Choi yells after him. “And use the hairdryer to dry your suit some.”
Five minutes pass, but Jonah doesn’t reappear from the men’s locker room. After fifteen minutes of Mr. Choi over-helping me hang Skater Barbie in the party area, he finally goes to investigate. A minute later, Jonah—now dressed in jeans, royal-blue Chucks, and a NEED FOR SPEED T-shirt—bursts out of the locker room with his dad two steps behind.
“Ladies, I think we are going to call it a day,” Mr. Choi says as Jonah storms out the front door of Ice Dreams without even acknowledging our presence. “See you tomorrow.”
“I hope,” I say when the door closes behind him.
“What a drama king,” Mack says, coming out from behind the now-pristine snack bar. “Derby girls skate without safety padding on the boards. Sheesh. He needs to man up. The girls would kick his walnut-cracking ass.”
“I hope he doesn’t have a concussion. I heard his head hit the boards. He may have scrambled his brains a bit.”
“Speaking of scrambling, the Chois forgot their cooler.”
My phone buzzes as I go back to retrieve the cooler.
Mom: Hurting from PT. Going home until 6:30. Will return for the party so you can leave. Can Mack stay a little longer or does she need to go pick up Fiona?
I relay the message to Mack. Sure thing. Granny MacIntosh has Fiona but Mack needs to leave for derby practice at 6:00 tonight.
I’ll be in at 6:00 then. Stay safe. Love you.
“Since Drama King left his cones on the ice, and we have the afternoon to ourselves…” Mack holds up her pair of hockey skates and nods her head “yes” as I shake mine “no.” “Come on, just for thirty minutes. I need the workout. I’ll even help you deodorize the skates after.”
“Okay, but just for you.”
“Liar. You’re doing it for you.” Mack shrugs. “That works for me. Go put on your fancy skates and meet me in five.”
I pass several more vintage posters of my parents as I jog over to the skate counter and pull my skates from their designated spot. Mack ribs me about my skates all the time—they did cost more than her car, after all—but today after losing Hannah’s tuition and maybe the Chois’ business too, they feel so extra at our little rink. But I love them, and it’s not like I will be getting another pair anytime soon.
“C’mon, princess, let’s go,” Mack’s voice booms over the PA system, followed by Guns N’ Roses, yet again.
Mack does a little air guitar as she comes out of the sound booth. She makes a large, easy loop around the rink as she swings her braids around and sings along. She’s made a couple of passes by the time I hit the ice.
“Seriously, we have to get you up to this decade,” I say when I skate up beside her. “This century, at least.”
“Whose workout is this? Mine. Therefore, we skate to my music.”
“When’s the next Surly Gurlz tryout?”
“This training cycle ends in six weeks, then I might be eligible for a spot on a team. Six weeks to work on this.” Mack pats her belly. “Easy to put on in nine months, next to impossible to get it back off again. But the derby girls told me not to give up. I’m almost there. Gotta keep training.”
“Training. Something I’m good at. Well, used to be good at.”
“Ride my ass about this, Olivia. I need this. I know my life went a little sideways after high school, but this will help me get it back together.” Mack looks over at me, her blue eyes teary.
My stomach clenches. Instinct says I should hug Mack, but Mack doesn’t do hugs. So I punch her in the arm instead.
“C’mon, Mack Truck. Catch me if you can.” I’m only at 50 percent, but I’m leaving Mack in the dust. “Move it! Move it! Move it! You call that skating?”
Mack growls at me. I flip around in front of her and skate backward. I yawn for emphasis. It works. Mack picks up speed. I flip back around and fall in behind her. My heart rate goes up, but I could still skate circles around Mack if I wanted to. I slide off my jacket and tie it around my waist like a skirt.
“Tag, you’re it!” I slap at her braids as I pass.
“You’re going to get it now,” Mack wheezes.
Mack’s got brute strength, but her endurance sucks. At least she stopped vaping. I have to thank the Surly Gurl “Barnacle Barb” for that one. I zigzag in front of Mack, humming the cancan song. At the end of my off-key rendition, I flick my jacket-skirt up in the back with a “woo!” Mack smacks me on the butt.
“Ow! Okay, I need a break,” I say more for Mack’s benefit than mine.
“No. Not yet. Not until. I almost. Puke. Only queasy. Keep going.”
I take it back down to 50 percent until Mack can find her breath. I stop at one of the orange cones and assume the Chicken Dance position.
“Let’s race,” I say.
“You’re on.” Mack lines up beside me and squats down. “On three. One … two…”
And Mack takes off.
“Cheater!” I dig my skates into the ice and explode into motion. Within seconds, I catch up with her. When I go to pass her on the inside, she slides to the left to block me.
“Nope,” Mack says over her shoulder.
Fine. I wait until we are out of the curve to try passing on the right instead.
“Nope.” Mack blocks me again.
I drop back. As we come into the next turn, I see an opening on the inside. I wait until Mack is two strides into the sharp curve and struggling to stay balanced when I duck under her arm and pop through the other side. Except Mack’s blade catches mine. We both stumble forward. Mack’s arms windmill, but my muscle memory kicks in. I pull my arms in and sit back, lowering my center of gravity. Mack crashes into the ice with an audible thunk, but I stay on my feet.