It was a difficult night to sleep through with the crazy wedding day we had. Bea is up before me, as usual. She pokes me with a hockey stick to wake me.
“Get out of bed, husband. We’re going to the Ice Arena. I need to blow off some steam.”
“Did you just poke me with a stick?”
She jabs me again.
“Let’s go. Move it!”
“Jesus. Really? And, why do you have a hockey stick with you here in our honeymoon suite?”
“I don’t leave home without it.”
I drag my groggy butt out from under the soft sheets, and slide into board shorts, flip flops, and a T-shirt.
“You’re going to skate in that?”
“It’s all I have. I wasn’t planning on a morning on ice.”
We jump into the Jeep and head to the skating arena. I hate ice skating because I suck at it. In fact, I can’t think of anything I suck at that I enjoy. That’s why I hate golf too: I suck at it, I don’t want to invest the time to suck less, so I don’t golf. Well, this is marriage. A man has to learn to compromise or he’s going to ride a lonely sofa into the sunset.
At the arena, we strap on skates. Yes, I look ridiculous and I’m half asleep so I don’t fucking care.
“Why do we need hockey sticks?” I ask, fearing the worst.
“It’s time for Olympic event number four. Canada needs a boost, and I’m pretty confident we can even the medal count with this event.”
“All right, hoser, bring it! I predict Italy clinches the series this morning.”
We carry our sticks out to the ice. Bea reaches behind the boards, grabs two pucks, and flips them out onto the ice.
“Now what?” I ask while stretching my hamstrings, which ache in anticipation.
“We race around the arena. The first one to skate with the puck around each net three times wins.”
“Can’t we just have sex in the penalty box or something?”
“Yes! I forfeit.”
“Not so fast. If you beat me, we’ll do it in the penalty box.”
“You hear that, Pippino? Daddy’s getting lucky on ice again.”
“Ready? Set? Go!”
She takes off. I manage to fall on my face in two strides. I struggle back to my feet, as I see Bea’s lovely butt wiggle, while she kicks up ice shavings. I’m hosed. Before I make it around the first net, she has already cleared the second and is threatening to lap me. She catches me in no time and knocks my stick from my hands as she passes me. Players make it look so easy: You drop your stick, you bend over, you pick it up, you keep skating. I bend over and fall. I get up on one knee, grab the stick, get up, and fall backward, as she approaches to pass me again.
This time I hold my stick tightly. I make it halfway to the second net as she scoots by, throwing a hip into me, which sends the stick and me flying. She steals my puck and fires it into the net behind me as she whips around the final time. I helplessly sit on my clumsy ass as she finishes the third lap and slides to a halt, spraying me with an ice shower from her skates.
“Canada two, Italy two.”
“Feel better?” I ask, as I crawl to the boards, and pull myself up.
“I do actually.”
“OK. Now let’s get out of here and figure out what we’re going to do about this Chris situation.”
“Not so fast. Get in that penalty box, mister. I’m not done blowing off steam.”
Sometimes the silver isn’t so bad.
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