“I’ll be here. Tomorrow at seven. I’ll be on time! I promise!”
She skated away from him and over to a pile of . . . stuff. She viciously shoved all that stuff into a backpack—without even a modicum of attempting to organize it first—and pulled the straps onto her shoulders. “Thank you . . . uh . . .”
“You don’t know my name?”
“I know your name! I just don’t know what to call you. Do I call you Novikov or Coach or Mr. Novikov or The Marauder?”
“Bo. Call me Bo.”
“I like Novikov.” And he wondered why she’d bothered asking him in the first place. “And you can call me Blayne.”
“Like I’ve been doing?”
“Exactly!”
She headed off for the door.
“Are you skating to work?”
She stopped, looked down at her skates. “Oops,” she said with a laugh. “I guess I am now.” She looked back at him and shrugged. “If I’m late to the office, Gwen’s gonna have my ass. Oh! And I’m not speaking to her today anyway. Ha! Take that, feline who thinks I’m too weak for the Babes!”
Then she was gone and Bo wondered what the hell he’d just gotten himself into.