After the last clinic skater leaves The Boards, the private rink belongs to the man who owns the keys. Rourke Ellison has spent months not touching the trainer who tapes ankles in an emerald zip or the equipment lead who stays late to finish the stones. Thursday night they stop hinting.
Sable and Willa have already said it to each other in the car. They want him. Both of them. On the home bench, in the glass box that faces the lot, in the shower stall that does not lock from the outside. The security walk is at eleven-twenty. The alley door is locked. The glass is not covered. If the new guard is early, he will see shapes. They are choosing that risk with their clothes half off and a word that means stop.
This is a filthy why-choose night on private ice: two curvy women who asked for the mess, one heavy ex-enforcer who means to give it to them, and a building that hums while they take turns. Mouths on the bench. Hands and lubricant from the trainer bag. Come they ask to keep. A flashlight on the fence. A Zamboni driver who almost opens the wrong door. An ugly office couch and a spare cage key.
