Last Change

The ice I paid for is already cut.

I know it from the lot. The Zamboni door is open and the small sheet has a hockey scrape down the far side, a gray bite where edges should still be clean for a three-turn. The clock over the glass says 4:58. My slot is 5:00. I have six girls in running cars because I told their parents the Barn would be ours.

It is not ours.

Lev Morin is still on it. Rust practice jersey. No letter. A body the Pike claimed so a fading winger could go somewhere else and a two-way could sleep. He is doing last-change work Cal likes: wall, man, dump, again. Ugly. On time. Eating minutes that have a number on an invoice I have not printed yet.

I put the skate bag down on the rubber. I do not go on the ice in street shoes. I do not yell across a sheet at a man I have not billed. I look at the clock. I look at the tape Bo left on the glass last month: KADE 5:00–6:00 GIRLS FIGURE. The tape is still there. The ice under it is not.

My name is Anja Kade. I rent leftover minutes in a warehouse that learned hockey. I am not a pixie. I am not a student. I am thirty-one and I coach girls who get one hour if the club can read a clock. Time is money. Ice is a number. A last change is a hockey word I did not ask to learn.

I go to the glass. I knock once with a knuckle. He does not look up. He takes a man who is not there. He stops. He looks at the clock like the clock is Cal. The clock is mine.

"You're in my slot," I say.

He skates over. He is taller on blades than the rumor was on a memo. Sweat. Tape on a wrist. A face that has been in three towns this year and has not learned this building's door.

"Cal said extra," he says.

"Cal does not pay this sheet. I do. Five is girls. You can read the tape or you can read the invoice I am going to tape to Ruthie's door. Those are your choices. Get off."

He looks at the lot through the glass. The running cars. A parent who has already decided I am late. He looks at me like I am a delay he can wait out. I do not wait out. I hold up the phone with the clock. 5:03.

"I need ten," he says.

"You needed to leave at 4:55. You took eight already. I have a three-turn that requires an edge you chewed. Get off or I bill the club for the hour and the resurface and the parent who is going to text me a paragraph I will not answer."

He gets off. He does not apologize. Apologies are speeches. He is not a speech man. He walks past me in the corridor with the guards still in his hand, not on the blades, which is how you ruin a floor and a morning. I point at the rubber.

"Guards," I say.

He puts them on. He looks at my bag. He looks at the clock. He goes toward the tunnel like a man who still thinks extra is a compliment.

I do not watch him leave. Watching him leave is a minute I already lost. I go to the Zamboni door. The driver is a kid Bo trusts with a machine and not with a schedule. I say I need a fast cut. He says Cal already used the fast cut. I say I will invoice the cut. He does a pass that is not enough and is all I am going to get.

The girls come in. Nia first, because Nia is always first and her mother is a nurse who understands a clock. Bess. Yana. Mira. Colette. Inez last, because Inez's father works a lift and the lot is a fight. They look at the scrape. They look at me. I do not lie to girls about ice.

"We have fifty-two minutes and a bad edge," I say. "We do what we can on the clean side. We do not cry about a winger. We skate."

We skate. I put cones on the part he did not murder. I run the three-turn on a strip that still has a bite. Yana lands it. Mira does not. I do not make Mira's miss a story about a man. I make it a count. Again. Again. The clock eats. At 5:41 I can feel the next thing coming: optional, census, Cal's mouth, a last change that will want the sheet at 6:00 if I am kind.

I am not kind about ice.

At 5:52 I pull them. I should have them until 6:00. I pull them because I have seen Cal's extras start early when a body is new and useful. I will not have six girls in the door when a drill arrives. I will have an invoice.

"Cars," I say. "Same time tomorrow. If the ice is chewed I will text at 4:30 and we will use the parking lot for off-ice and I will still bill the club. That is not your problem."

Nia's mother looks at the scrape and at my face. "Do I call someone."

"I call. You drive. That's the split."

They go. The lot fills with exhaust and a town that starts early because the lake does not care. I stand on the rubber in the guards I put on after I took the skates off. I write the times in the book I use for ice, not for feelings. 4:58 chewed. 5:03 off. 5:52 pull. Resurface incomplete. Slot paid through 6:00. I photograph the tape on the glass and the scrape. I photograph the clock. I do not photograph him. He is not the file. The minutes are the file.

Pia is in the lobby with the key ring when I walk out. She is on a phone. A man talks about a building. She holds up a finger. I wait because a finger is a slot. She ends it.

"Buyer," she says. "He asked if youth is a real slot or a story we tell lenders. I said I invoice youth. Don't make me a liar at five."

"I'm invoicing. Cal ate eight and a cut. Lev was the body. I'm taping it to Ruthie."

"Tape it. If you tape it to my door I will move it to hers. I have a lease. I do not have a morning to be your receptionist." She looks at my book. "Anja. If you eat him in a hallway Rhea will spell it. Spell the invoice. Don't spell a mouth."

"I don't do mouths. I do numbers."

"Good. Get out of my lobby before the optional thinks the far sheet is a warmup."

I go to the dock because Ruthie smokes there and GMs do not like invoices in a lobby first. She is not there. A cigarette she has not lit is not there either. The lot is dirty ice. A plow that has given up. I do not go to the diner. The diner is a table other women in this building use for files I do not carry. I sit in my car. The heater is a fact at 6:04. I open the laptop on the passenger seat. I make the invoice.

Fenwick Pike Hockey Club. Attention Ruthie Falco / Pia Holberg. Ice rental 5:00–6:00, Harbor Barn far sheet, youth figure. Encroachment: 4:58–5:03, extra session, L. Morin. Incomplete resurface. Shortened lesson. Amount: the hour, the cut, the parent-text I will not answer. Due on receipt. I put my address. I put the photograph numbers. I do not put a feeling. I save it as a PDF with a case number that is a date, not a last name.

I look at the Barn roof. Too low. I look at the tape in my head. I look at the scrape. I drive home because staying in a lot to be angry is a minute I bill only once.

My kitchen is a kitchen. The counter has last month's request form under a magnet that is a pike with a scar through the gill, which I did not buy. A girl gave it to me. I leave it. I print the invoice. I put it in a folder that says ICE and not MEN. I eat toast standing at the sink because I have a second job at nine that is not a barn and is a studio with a floor that does not get chewed by a last change. I do not call it a feeling. I call it calories I will skate off at 5:00 tomorrow if the sheet is mine.

I text Ruthie: invoice on your door by 7:30. far sheet. 5am. Morin. I will not move the girls again without money.

She sends a period. A period is a received. A received is not a paid.

I tape a paper copy to a clipboard I will walk back to the Barn because paper on a door is how this building learns. I put the skate bag by the door. I put the guards on top so I cannot leave without them. I look at the request form under the magnet. March is almost a month. April's ice is not promised. I have not initialed a stay. I have initialed a slot. Those are different.

I do not think about his face. I think about a three-turn on a chewed edge. I think about Inez last in the lot. I think about a buyer who asked if youth is a story. I think about a winger who said he needed ten as if ten were a thing I keep in a pocket for men who are useful to Cal.

I set the alarm for 4:20. I put the invoice clipboard on the table. I sleep like a person who has already decided she will not be charming at a door.