The Arena Laughed at My Milk, So Four Hockey Men Kept Me novel · Chapter 10 of 24

Chapter 10: The Machine

At three in the morning on Tuesday the Westmount Arena was dark except for the exit signs and the lights over the ice.

I was the only one on the machine.

I still had a key.

The night man had pressed it into my hand on Sunday and said, "Don't tell me what you do with it."

What I did with it was run the Zamboni for the 1 a.m. skate, as I had since October.

I did it for the only four men in the building who paid me in coffee.

They had skated for an hour.

They had gone off to shower, whooping, and Taras was singing something in Ukrainian down in the dressing room.

I took the last lap alone, with the blade down and the water laying a clean sheet behind me.

I drove it into the garage and shut it off.

The seat was still warm.

I sat there in the quiet, with my hands on the wheel, and the cubby under the dash was empty now.

The hat was in my duffel at the house.

Boots came across the concrete.

I knew whose they were by the length of the stride, and I did not turn my head.

Abram stopped beside the machine, in his team sweatshirt, with his hair wet from the shower.

"You didn't have to do the ice," he said. "You're not on the schedule."

"I know," I said.

"Brent will hear," he said.

"Brent can do what he wants," I said.

He looked up at me.

His eyes were very pale in the shadow.

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