Hunter

Seeing me almost fall scares Robbie into not giving me any further grief.

"Yeah," he concedes when I tell him I'm done for the day. Shoving a hand through his dark brown hair, he looks at me with eyes a tad less frigid than earlier, and his smile is a bit crooked, but it's there. "Let's get out of here."

Though he agreed to call it a night, his head is hanging when we get off the ice and sit on the bleachers to swap our skates for the sneakers we'd left there.

"Hey," I say, laying a hand on his arm, stilling his hands and he looks up at me with an unguarded expression on his face that leaves me breathless for a moment.

He seems so lost.

"We'll come tomorrow and make up your hours, okay?" I offer, and his face relaxes into a slight smile. "The first gap we get in the storm."

"Thanks," he nods, rising from the bleacher step and holds a hand out to me in invitation to join him. I take it, letting him pull me to my feet and with our skates dangling over our shoulders, we jog up the steps to the DJ Booth to turn off the sound system, store the remote and turn off the lights before we leave the rink and go to the lockers in the central area, where our outside wear is stashed.

The lights are still on in the ice hockey rink, and while Robbie gets his gear together, I hurry inside it to turn them off, thinking Jax forgot to do it after showing the new guy around. I could turn all the lights in the arena on or off in the office in the foyer as well. There are indicators for each sector showing in one glance what is on and what is off, but I'm here now, so... 

I stop on the second step to the control room at the top of the bleachers when I hear the sound of laughter coming from the ice.

The place is not empty.

Jax and Mr. Gorgeous Auburn Hair - Mr. GAH for short - are having a shinny, passing a puck between them while teasing each other. I cannot see it now because he's wearing a helmet, but I know the glorious hair is there. They seem to be using only the nearest basket for goals, and they are chatting and joking and generally having a good time.

I'm so glad Jax is getting along with his new roommate!

He had been very stressed about it since his last roommate, Chester, did not have a sense of humour and was extremely sensitive to noise. He seldom spoke to anybody and went to bed straight after dinner. He wasn't grumpy or mean or anything; he was just a lone wolf who loved solitude. Living in our house must've been hell for him.

Jax slept in the living area most nights because he likes to listen to music and dance around like a broken marionette - he has no rhythm - or play games on his laptop for a couple of hours before bed. All of which bothered Chester.

Ches is a good guy and all, but we were all relieved when he got drafted to a great national team and moved on. We now get to be as noisy as we want to be. I shared Jax's apprehension - we all did - but looking at the boy laughing happily at Jax's antics, I don't think we'll be back to living in detention again. This new recruit might fit into our chaos perfectly.

Smiling, I sit down to watch them, fascinated when the relaxed passing of the puck suddenly turns into a skilful scuffle for control of it. They are perfectly evading and dodging each other, taking and losing the puck, no longer just passing it. It becomes a lovely, dexterous dance, wrapping me in its spell.

Jax finally wins the puck and sends it into the net with a beautifully executed wrist shot, and as expected, he contorts his body in jerks and spasms as if he stepped on a live wire. He whoops and yowls and acts as if he'd just won a championship. I've seen this highly disturbing celebration dance many times before, and it makes me laugh each time.

I've never seen Jax gracefully win at anything. Whether it is rock paper scissors to decide who is doing the extra load of laundry or a pickup game of ice hockey, the dance is always there.

He is happily chirping his opponent, calling him a slow-ass pretty boy, among other interesting things I barely understand. He is so adorably obnoxious. I could see from here that Galen was taking it easy on him. Jax probably realises it too, but he won't let on that he knows it.

New Guy must be worried since Jax is wearing his glasses, and it will be a problem if they get smashed. He will learn that going easy on Farm guys is never a good idea; they don't know the concept. It is drilled out of them from day one. It's all or nothing here. He'll get crushed if he doesn't know that. 

When they're just mucking around, not wearing enough protective gear, they won't body slam each other or check someone into the boards, but they will still put in effort to steal the puck and score goals.

"Aye, ye manky yoke!" he shouts, laughing at Jax, and gliding to the basket, he retrieves the puck with his stick. "Enjoy yer victory while yer head is still clear of yer arse; it won't be for long, ye plonker."

Oh! Be still my heart! He says the most beautiful things!

I think a part of me just passed out, came to, slapped me in the face and passed out again! Every female-related organ and cell in my body is humming wedding marches and lullabies in harmony, and I have to shake my head several times and yank on my braid to get my brain to stop being weird. I am seeing my future children sitting on that hunky dude's knees, and it is beyond unsettling.

I'm not in the market for true love! I have goals, dammit!

Besides, I cannot even see him all that clearly; he is too far away, and that blooming helmet is spoiling my fun.  He might not be as hot as he seems to be. Still, I just love the guy's accent, spoken in that voice, the pitch of which hits me just right! I won't even care if he's not handsome at all. Looks have never been all that important to me anyway. This guy is just...

How is it fair for a person to have hair like that and thighs like those and the sexiest accent in existence?!

Where's the mercy?! The humanity! What have I done to deserve this?

Honestly, I need to date more; I clearly have a void in my life! I am not looking for love and romance and all of that, but I'm far from blind and even further from dead. I can look. I can appreciate. I can drool until I dehydrate. Serves me right for wanting to do this to Whatsisface, the guy I wasted three weeks on.

With stars in my eyes and the colony of butterflies in my stomach doing a happy Irish Riverdance, I watch in stunned surprise as Irish Dreamboat - that is his official name now, and I'm going to suggest that everybody calls him that - effortlessly intercepts the puck he'd been passing back and forth with Jax again.

He races clear of Jax with it at a startling speed, executing a spectacular slap shot, sending the puck with a loud crack across the ice at a gazillion miles per hour into the basket on the other side of the barn.

Yikes! That was sooooo hot! I might actually need an ice pack now!

Jax is gaping at him, and though they're wearing caged helmets, so I cannot see their expressions, I can tell by his attitude that Mr Irish Accent 2024 doesn't realise how astonishing that was. Slap shots are extremely powerful and hard for goalies to stop, but it's not just a question of hitting the puck really hard.

Timing is very important. The stick strikes the ice first and scrapes the blade up to the puck, causing the stick to bend until the blade shoots forward and slaps the puck, sending it flying over the ice. Sticks often break if the player exerts more power on it than it can handle.

Most of the recruits have difficulty getting the timing and power right to hit the puck hard enough but still control the hit's precision and accuracy. Galen did it easily, and yet, from what I've heard, he has never had any professional training. The club he was playing for before coming here was third-rate at best... if it was rated at all.

Galen just chuckles as Jax gawks at him, the magnificence of his stick handling and control clearly lost on him.

Circling Jax, he effortlessly sinks into an impressively low spreadeagled squat with his forearms resting on his thighs and his stick casually balanced over his knees. This guy is as at home on the ice as most people are on their feet on dry land. My dad did say that it's been a while since the last time he'd seen a player quite like him. I think I now know what he meant.

"Hey," Jax says when he finally finds his voice again. "You hit that biscuit all the way to the next county! You go fish it from the basket and bring it back."

"I will, yeah," Galen chuckles, and it's clear that he means the exact opposite as he continues circling Jax, slowly rising from his squat.

"Seriously, McKenna, I'm going to whoop your ass."

"To be sure, to be sure," Galen snorts. "Looking forward to it. I'll be here, waiting in anticipation."

I laugh, watching Jax resignedly skate off to go get the puck, and I'm not surprised when Galen takes off after him. They are soon laughing and racing again, shouting obscenities at each other as they fight to be first to the puck.

"Cocky bastard," I laugh, nearly falling off the step I'm sitting on when Robbie suddenly says: "Who?" Next to me. I did not even see him arrive.

"The new recruit," I grin, getting up and jumping down to join him.

"They all are," Robbie scoffs, reminding me that he has nothing but disdain for ice hockey players. He generally sees all of them as rough-around-the-edges brutes and has no interest in mingling with them. That is one of the reasons I'm so looking forward to having him stay over at our place tonight.

He watches the two boys for a couple of seconds, the expression on his face unreadable. I don't know when Robbie became a complete mystery to me. We used to share secrets and giggle about inside jokes, but now we barely speak to each other outside of working on our programs.

When he smirks, turning away to leave the ice rink, I follow him to the lobby where we have to log our hours on the monitor. It's a basic clock-in and clock-out system that relies a lot on honesty, as there are so many ways to bypass it and cheat.

People who are serious about their skating generally do not try to cheat the system. It's as the saying goes, you don't have to watch the good ones, and you cannot watch the bad ones.

Well, I've heard the saying... I think it has to do with promiscuity and trusting teenage boys and girls together, but it works for logging ice hours, too.

The logging system was introduced a few years ago to motivate lazy students to spend more time on the ice and as a tool for skaters to monitor their hours and see how much effort they're putting in and find a balance. There are those at the academy who enrolled for prestige but lack the desire to put in the work, while others overwork themselves.

Snuggled in my new, cute little jacket, covered by my thick ice blue parka, I run to Robbie's car parked in the lot close to the entrance. I'm glad I don't have to walk home. It's not far, about 100 meters, but the wind is trying to cut me in two, and I like all my body parts nicely attached to each other.

"Are you alright, Robbie?" I dare to ask when we're driving along the shortcut between our house and Mrs Riley's. The rough road is blissfully free of roaming chickens tonight; she would've locked them away in preparation for the steadily building storm.

I hope Jax and his new buddy hurry back. I should've reminded them of the storm while I was there, but I was distracted... a little bit...

"Yeah, why?" Robbie grunts, and I know I'm not going to get more out of him. I wish he would just talk to me. He is wound up tighter than an old watch. I can feel his tension a mile away. Something has been up with him for ages now, but he steadfastly refuses to talk about it.

I want to help him if I can.

"You just seem tense."

"I'm behind on my hours," he shrugs, tossing his head in the way he does when he's feeling irritated.

I don't believe that's what's got him so stressed. The hours are easy to remedy. When we clocked out just now, I saw that he wasn't that far behind; besides, there is leniency for illness. Maybe he'll open up to my dad a bit; at least, I hope so.

I'm grateful when the tense ride is over, and we enter the happy warmth of Home, Sweet Home.

"Hey, Tuck," I say, popping my head into the kitchen. Though there's a tinge of burnt food in the air - as usual - the fragrance is not altogether bad for a change. "Is it okay if Robbie crashes with you tonight?"

"Yes, it's okay, Hunter," Tucker says, turning from the stove where he's slowly stirring something in a pot. Hopefully, it's something vaguely edible. I am ravenous. We are in dire need of someone who can cook properly. I wonder if Mr Irish can cook.

I knew Tucker would say yes to having Robbie on the fold-out bed in his room, if not in Duncan's bed. He is quite possibly the kindest teddy bear in my life. He doesn't like Robbie much, but he would never turn him away if he needs a bed for the night. Robbie often stays here when he practised until too late, or the road to his home in Shivermore is frozen over. He rents a small apartment over the garage of his former foster parents. The rent is low, and he often helps them with the kids in their care to make up for it.

"Thanks, Tucker," Robbie mutters. Tucker is not his favourite person either, but though they will never hang out or be buddies, they never fight either and sharing a room for a night now and then is usually problem-free.

After slipping off his shoes and coat, Robbie leaves me standing in the foyer while he hurries away with his rucksack slung over his shoulder. I drop my bag, hang my parka on a stand and pull off my sneakers so I can stash them. Sighing, I pick up my bag again and take my time wandering through the living area and up the stairs, my thoughts tangling with each other.

Concern for Robbie, curiosity over the funny Irish guy, and worry about the free dance if Robbie's head is not in the game and he keeps on missing beats mill around in my heart and mind in a maddening spaghetti of emotions. By the time I reach my bedroom on the top floor, I'm desperate for a warm, stress-relieving shower to clear my mind.

I leave my bag on my bed, grab a fluffy onesie with a rabbit-eared hoodie from my closet, and hurry to the bathroom to wash away my cares.

As always, I feel much better after a hot shower strong enough to flush me down the drain if I don't hold onto the soap dish. Once my hair is blown sufficiently dry, I tie it in a ponytail and leave the bathroom. I pause in my room long enough to drape my new exercise clothes over the chair at my desk and shove my feet into puffy slippers that make it look like I'm wearing teddy bears on my feet.

Pulling the onesie's hood over my head, I descend the steps from the floor I share with my dad, stepping into the second-storey hallway. I can hear a shower running and am surprised that Robbie is not done yet. We don't generally have a hot water problem since Dad installed separate hot water tanks in each bathroom. That is very helpful because there are often many cold, dirty people in dire need of a shower at the same time. Still, Robbie is showering particularly long because he was already in the shower when I passed the bathrooms on my way to my room.

I once again worry that he might not be as alright as he claims to be.

My question about his lengthy shower is answered abruptly and brilliantly when I navigate past bookshelves and display cases, stepping in front of the bathroom doors, and the one to my left bursts open, spitting out a demon, shrieking loud enough to wake the dead.

I'm too startled to react with more than a confused sound when a wet blur of steam and water droplets crashes into me, driving me in front of it until my back smacks into the opposite wall.

At first, I'm terrified, thinking about obvious things like zombie apocalypse and vampires - I was watching a scary movie last night - and then I realise that I am staring into large eyes, and they are definitely not frigid blue. The eyes looking down into mine are the bluest blue I've ever seen, stretched around large black pupils, and they are bright with thousands of dancing sparkles as they reflect the overhead lamp.

Hello?!

Irish Dreamboat's hair is quite dark-looking now that it's wet and not backlit by fluorescent lights. Water gathers at the edges of thick strands, sending droplets crawling over the length of a fine, strong, straight nose to lips that are just too perfect to belong to a human.

My organs are singing again, but this time, it is not the wedding march or anything noble and sweet. Their melody is dark and swirling, making me breathless and lightheaded from a lack of oxygen as I stare into the eyes of the man I've been waiting for my entire life. All 18 years of it.

Wait! What?

If I've learned anything today that is of any use to females (and maybe some males) on this side of the equator, it is that the new guy, Galen McKenna, is disgustingly handsome and inspires normal, garden-variety girls like me to lose their minds. I was hoping that at least his face would be boring, if not downright disastrous, to save my sanity. I need a drop of mercy!

I am so disappointed right now! Sigh.

The fact that he is beyond gorgeous is not even the worst part! My hands are pressed against an expanse of smooth, wet skin, covering delightful muscles, and I can feel his heart beating a mile a minute under all the goosebumps I'm running my fingertips over. I'm trying not to, I swear! My fingers have a will of their own.

Yikes! I'm going to melt into a puddle of happy mush.

How on Earth am I, a mere mortal girl - one with the capacity to appreciate beauty and splendour to an obscene degree - supposed to survive this assault of all 98734 of my senses?

"Oh, bollox!" Galen grunts and I can feel a delirious giggle rising up from my stomach. It bubbles excitedly through my airways until it sparkles happily between us, and then the guy blinks, jumping back. He releases my trapped body as if the sound of my laugh woke him from a long, confusing dream.

He is standing near the bathroom door now, no longer pressing his body into mine. That is such a bad idea because it leaves enough room for me to gorge myself on a joyful visual festival of his full-length glory. My eyes are as willful as my fingers were a second ago, gliding away from those startled, beautiful eyes filled with a million stars to glide all over him.

Oh, my soul! He is delightfully naked, and apparently, I am a total pervert! Who knew?!

I blame the hockey jocks I grew up with. Most of the guys I know have the instincts and manners of rescue shelter dogs when it comes to girls. They've taught me all I know about romantic interactions with boys. Yes, my education might be a bit lacking in that department.

To be fair, I'm not normally all that interested in them in that way, and I absolutely, completely, and totally do not believe in love at first sight... or 'first hear' of snotty things said in an awesome Irish accent.

Not at all. Not even a little. Nope!

Dad says he fell in love with my mother at first sight, but that is surely just something sweet and romantic he says to make their story even more dreamy.

Right? Riiiiiiiiiight?!

I have no idea what is going on with me, but here I am, grinning like the cat who stole the cream while my heart is playing chopsticks on my ribs. I was right; Galen really is yummy; it wasn't an illusion. I'm enjoying a landscape of bronzed skin covering hills and valleys of lovely muscles. He is clearly not a local; we don't get much sun. Everybody in this house - except Jax and Naresh - is as pale as virgin snow.

I have no idea what kind of strange ritual we're taking part in here or why he stormed, screaming, from the bathroom where the shower is still going, to squash me against the wall. So I do the only rational thing I can think of to do in these strange circumstances.

I grin sheepishly, curling one of the onesie's bunny ears around my hand and say: "Thank you."

~~~