Just Add Ice, page 5
When Rayne had questions about the drills, or needed checks on how he was doing, or a refresh on what do to, he sought Nick out. Even when there was another instructor closer. And every time Nick’s cheeks pinked, Rayne went out of his way to find reasons to make him blush again and again.
Friday afternoon, when classes wrapped up, Rayne walked over to where Nick was locking up the apparatus truck.
“Thank you for everything this week, Lieutenant,” he said.
“Sure, of course.” Nick replied with a flash of a smile.
Rayne stepped closer and lowered his voice. “See you next week.”
Rayne winked at him, taking the image of those blushing cheeks home with him to replay over and over all weekend long.
Rayne was up before dawn Saturday morning and headed over to the rink at the UC-Boulder campus to practice drills. It had only been two weeks since he’d been on his blades, but he’d been missing that free feeling of flying across fresh ice.
The rink didn’t officially open until 8:30am, but a guy who worked there used to play for the Blitz and would let Rayne come in early, so he had the whole arena to himself for an hour.
He stepped out onto pristine ice and warmed up with some stick handling drills up and down the rink, kicking the puck off his skate and chipping it against the wall. Then he did some end-to-end sprints before resting his legs as he set up a pile of pucks to practice shooting from the faceoff circles, the slot, and the blue line—aiming for all four corners of the net. After a quick break to chug some water, he did edge drills, quick crossovers and cross behinds, power turns, and quick starts. The ripping sound of his sharp blades cutting grooves into the smooth surface echoed throughout the empty building. He loved that sound almost more than he loved the sound of the horn going off when his team scored a goal.
He was doing speed drills when movement caught his attention. Two men wearing matching jackets stopped on the other side of the dasher boards, and one of them waved at him.
He skated over, digging his edges in and shaving surface ice off in a fan as he came to a stop.
“I’m just finishing up,” he said by way of greeting, puffing from exertion.
“Don’t rush,” the older of the two men said. “We’re early. The kids won’t be here for another half hour.”
“Okay, good.” Rayne nodded as he pulled off a glove and wiped sweat from his forehead. “Sorry I cut up the ice already. I don’t know the Zamboni schedule here.”
The guy Rayne guessed was the head coach since he was doing all the talking and had that “boss” air about him, glanced at his watch.
“Not until after we’re done, but it’ll be fine,” he said with a smile.
“Hey,” said the younger man, who’d been quietly watching Rayne. “You’re Rayne Hamilton, from the Bolder Blitz.”
“In the flesh,” Rayne grinned, leaning on his stick.
“I’m Mark.” The guy held his hand out for Rayne to shake. “Assistant coach with the Flatirons Youth Hockey Club.”
“And I’m Brock Silcox.” The other man stretched over the boards to shake hands. “Head coach.”
“Nice to meet you both.” Rayne put his glove back on. “I’ll just gather up my pucks and the ice is all yours.”
“Actually.” Brock glanced at Mark, who was grinning at him with an expectant look on his face. He turned back to Rayne. “Would you be interested in sticking around? I’m sure the kids would have a blast with a pro hockey player to practice with them.”
“I would love to.” A thrill of excitement zinged through Rayne. He’d already been practicing for an hour, but time dragged doing drills alone. Since the off season started and his teammates all left town, Rayne’s life had been sadly hockey-free—even though his new crush had been filling most of his thoughts. Hanging out with the hockey club could be fun. “But you know I’m only a minor league player, right?”
“You’re still a pro.” Brock’s smile widened. “And any day now you’ll get called up to the Denver Mustangs.”
“Sure,” Rayne said, forcing more confidence into his voice than he felt.
After eight years in the minors, and a veteran now, he’d never once had the call up. Not even for dress practice on game day. His chances were getting slimmer by the day, and not only that, but he was a free agent currently without a contract, he could get an offer anywhere—and there were rumblings that the Blitz might not sign him again come next season. For the first time since he turned pro, he hoped those rumors didn’t amount to anything. He was beginning to dread not knowing where he’d be in a few months.
Rayne shoved thoughts of his hockey career aside and skated around the rink to gather up his pucks. Once he’d put those away, he helped Brock and Mark set up for the kids’ practice.
Commotion echoed down the hall and into the small arena—high-pitched laughter, the slam of locker doors, and the unmistakable thud of skates on rubber flooring. The young hockey players filed into the rink one by one, the soft ripping sound of blade edges on ice soothing to Rayne’s ears, as they started warming up. They were younger than Rayne had been when he’d started playing hockey, maybe eight or nine years old, and their infectious exuberance had Rayne forgetting all about the state of his career and the sexy firefighter he pined for.
The kids skated around in wide circles on awkward legs before coming to a stop in front of the coaches. Rayne stood off to the side as they welcomed the boys and a couple of girls, who kept throwing covert glances at Rayne. One of the boys gasped.
“No way!” He pointed at Rayne.
Both coaches chuckled, and Brock tipped his head toward Rayne.
“Do you know who that is, Brian?”
“Yeah,” Brian replied, his brown eyes wide and awe in his voice. “That’s Rayne ‘the pain’ Hamilton from the Blitz.”
A murmur of excitement rippled through the kids.
“Can I get your autograph?” another boy asked, and a collection of “me too” followed.
Coach Brock held up a hand, and when that didn’t work, he blew his whistle, drawing instant silence.
“Let’s save the autographs and selfies for after practice, okay?” he said when he had their full attention. “Rayne is going to skate with us today, and if we’re lucky, he might show us a few tricks.”
The kids shouted out hoots and hollers of joy that Rayne felt right down to his toes.
He spent the next hour and a half skating with a bunch of enthusiastic baby players who barely reached his waist, and he had the most fun on the ice that he could remember in a long time. He loved hockey, but here with these youngsters, there was no pressure to be the best twenty-four-seven. No anxiety about trades or contracts. No second-guessing, wondering if he had done enough to be noticed. No disappointment at not getting called up. This was hockey for the sheer joy of the sport. A sport he loved, he realized, whether it was for the big leagues or just knocking pucks around a frozen pond. But more than that, he’d had a surprisingly good time sharing a little of his knowledge with the next generation of players. Who knew, one of those kids could be the next Wayne Gretzky.
When practice was over, Rayne spent another half hour autographing helmets and sticks and pucks and taking selfies as the kids made their way back to the locker room one by one.
Mark followed the last youngster out, but Brock held back, smiling when it was just the two of them.
“Tell me how much fun you just had?”
“So much.” Rayne laughed as he gathered the gear he’d taken off after practice. “I loved every second of it.”
“Thank you for sticking around. You were good out there with those kids,” Brock said. He tilted his head in thought. “Actually. Have you ever thought about coaching after pro hockey?”
“Not even once,” Rayne replied honestly. He didn’t see himself in that role. Too much responsibility on the coach’s shoulders when teams weren’t performing to potential.
“Think about it,” Brock said. “There’s not a lot of money in it. Most of us do it for a case of beer and love of the game, but it’s a great way to give back and still enjoy the sport.”
“I’ll give it some thought,” Rayne said. Way down the road.
“Good enough.” Brock clapped him on the shoulder and added, “And you’re always welcome to join our practices.”
Rayne nodded, hanging back as Brock stepped off the ice and headed for the locker rooms. There were more possibilities for life after hockey, and the first person he wanted to call and hash them out with was Lieutenant Nick Seavers.
Except he didn’t have his phone number . . .
THERE WAS SOMETHING DIFFERENT about Rayne when he arrived at the training center for week three, but Nick couldn’t put his finger on what, exactly. There was the “it” factor that made him stand out and had first drawn Nick’s eye. Then there was the time he’d spent with Rayne in the booth at the Boulder Creek Festival that showed Nick a glimpse of the man inside—who’d drawn him in even more. But there was something extra in Rayne’s step today, a brighter sparkle in his eyes, and try as he might, Nick hadn’t been able to look away. Even when he’d been helping another trainee or chatting with his coworkers, he’d been hyperaware of Rayne, knowing where he was at all times in the training yard.
And when did he start thinking of him as Rayne and not simply Hamilton, using surnames like all the rest of the trainees and most of his coworkers?
He sighed and refocused on Captain Poverly as he addressed the trainees and outlined what they’d be doing today.
“Live fire training starts now, with the burn box,” Poverly was saying. “But we won’t be doing drills. Today all you’re going to do is fully suit up in your PPE gear and crouch down in the back of the box. That’s it.”
“Doesn’t seem like much,” Thatcher mumbled to Garcia, who stood beside him along with Hamilton and Wash.
“It may not seem like much,” Nick interjected, smiling to himself when a light blush crested Thatcher’s cheeks and he bowed his head. Nick knew he wasn’t supposed to have heard the comment, but he’d found himself so unconsciously tuned into Rayne that he picked up anything in his orbit, including comments he wasn’t meant to hear. “But I guarantee, after a few minutes in there, it will feel like you ran a marathon all out in full turnout gear with a stampeding herd of buffalo bearing down on you.”
“Agreed,” Poverly said. “Today is all about observing smoke behavior and fire dynamics, and getting a taste of what it feels like to be inside a burning building.”
Once the trainees were fully suited up, Nick and the other FTOs double-checked that they were properly set to go. His pulse quickened when Rayne sauntered over for a check, the light in his eyes dancing and his lips tipped into an enticing grin. He didn’t say anything, but his stare was steady and all-consuming, and Nick’s hands trembled as he tested the hoses on Rayne’s SCBA. He placed a hand on Rayne’s shoulder, meaning only to give him a quick pat, but for a second he couldn’t move. Even through layers of thick protective gear, Nick’s skin sizzled at the connection.
“Am I good to go?” Rayne’s voice was low and there was a seductive edge to it that had Nick locking gazes with him.
Words fled. He swallowed through a thick throat and nodded.
“Mask up,” he croaked.
Rayne’s grin widened. He winked before fitting his mask into place and joining the rest of the trainees as they lined up to enter the box. The excitement in the air, and on their faces, was palpable.
Nick hung back for a few seconds to collect himself. Whatever the hell had just happened couldn’t happen again. Especially when they were dealing with live fire.
He followed everyone into the burn box—which was two large sea-cans modified to create one large room, and an eight-by-eight-foot “crib” at one end where they’d set the fire. He stood off to the side as the trainees crowded toward the back wall. Poverly explained where the exits were, how the windows opened, and where the fire would be.
“Do not stand up until we tell you it’s okay,” Poverly reiterated. “The floor of this burn pan will get up around five- to six-hundred-degrees Fahrenheit. You all know heat rises.” He pointed to the low ceiling. “In the event of a flashover, that heat is immediate and intense, with temperatures reaching upwards of twelve-hundred-plus degrees. Even with your full PPE and SCBA, you won’t survive more than a few seconds.”
“Will we be experiencing a flashover?” one trainee asked, his voice muffled by his mask.
Poverly shook his head. “Not today. We’ll let the fire lick along the ceiling a little, but a full flashover is too dangerous for training.”
Nick’s heart pounded in his chest, remembering the first time he’d experienced a flashover. For a split second, he had thought that was it. His ticket was up. Fortunately, his training had kicked in and he and his team had the fire out quickly.
“Okay, everyone down,” Poverly’s voice boomed as Sabrina started the ignition. “Here we go.”
Once the flames caught, Sabrina stepped back and picked up a safety line, crouching low with the hose aimed at the barrel, to keep the fire under control. Outside, two safety officers were on standby in case anything went sideways.
Heat ratcheted up quickly as the particle boards on the sides and the roof above the barrel caught fire. Flame roiled along the ceiling, stretching toward them as smoke filled the air, obscuring visibility. Over the cacophony of hissing and popping flames were the beeps of personal alarms and the trainees’ Darth Vader-like breathing sounds through their SCBAs.
Through it all, Poverly peppered questions at them.
Nick hadn’t realized Rayne had crouched next to him until he shouted out the correct answers. His voice was strong and sure even through his mask and breathing apparatus.
Sabrina doused the flames a minute later, and the fire recoiled as though it were a living thing. Smoke thickened and embers fluttered around them.
With the fire safely out, Sabrina and Poverly swung the windows and vents open to clear the air before ordering everyone to exit the box.
“Wow, you weren’t kidding, Lieutenant,” Thatcher said as the trainees gathered around outside the building, pulling their masks off. “My heart is pounding so hard I think it’s bruising my ribs.”
Nick glanced at Rayne, who had also taken his helmet off and was rubbing his hand over his head.
“Now imagine if you were a regular citizen,” Nick said. “Without training and all that protective gear, they don’t have as much time as you just had in there for survival. Everything we’re teaching you here is so can do your job not only safe, but quickly. Any questions?”
Rayne raised his hand. “Can we go back in?”
Everyone chuckled, and Nick nodded. “Let’s go.”
After two more turns in the burn room, Nick, Sabrina, and Capmany observed as the trainees hosed off all their turnout gear to ensure proper cleaning and wash away carcinogens from the fire and smoke. They tossed questions at the trainees, pop quiz style, as they worked.
But Nick’s attention kept getting pulled back to Rayne. He watched as Wash hosed his back and a little green ember of jealousy sparked to life in his chest. He wanted to be the one hosing Rayne down. The thought sending images cascading through his mind of water sluicing down Rayne’s bare back in a hot, steamy shower.
Rayne pulled off his wet T-shirt, and Nick’s breath caught in his throat. His imagination coming to life. He knew Rayne had a beautiful body, that his muscles were fine-tuned and hard-earned from his career in hockey, but to see all that bare skin flexing over solid, defined muscle made every nerve ending inside of him go haywire.
He cleared his throat and looked away to find Sabrina watching him with a contemplative expression on her face. Guilt flashed through him as though he’d cheated on Geoff by ogling another man. But it was more than just ogling. Rayne featured in too many of his dreams and fantasies over the last few weeks. He wanted to spend time with Rayne, to know him—the feel of his skin, the taste of mouth, the desires of his heart. To maybe go on that date Rayne kept hinting at. But could he? The last date he’d been on was with Geoff, when they’d been in high school. Sure, they’d had date nights throughout the years, but having already been in a steady relationship, there was an easiness to those dates. With someone new, with Rayne, he didn’t know what to do or how to act.
He cleared his throat and returned his attention to the trainees—and, because he couldn’t help himself, Rayne. This time, the hitching of his breath had nothing to do with longing.
There was a massive purple-black bruise on Rayne’s shoulder blade.
“What is this?” Nick demanded, not aware that he’d even moved, let alone now stood directly beside Rayne, pointing at his back.
“What?” Rayne tried to look at himself, twisting around like a dog chasing its tail.
“You have an enormous bruise on your back,” Nick barked, wincing at himself for the sharpness of his words. “Surely you would have felt that. It’s the full span of my hand.”
“Oh, that.” Rayne shrugged. Shrugged. “It’s nothing. I landed hard during the floor collapse session in the training tower.”
“That is not nothing.” Nick growled.
He knew he was overreacting. Any other trainee, he’d have simply told them to keep an eye on it. But Rayne Hamilton wasn’t any other trainee, and Nick did not want to see him injured—even if only bruised.
Rayne tipped his head to the side, and a grin tugged at his lips. “Are you worried about me, Lieutenant?”
Nick stepped back. It was that or drag Rayne behind the building to kiss that smirk off his face.
“You need to inform me right away if you have any kind of injury. No matter how minor you think it is.” Nick took a breath and added, “You could have a deep hematoma or hemorrhage under the skin that could become more serious if not immediately addressed.”
Rayne closed the distance Nick had just opened. “You mean . . . I should tell the safety officer?”
