The Night Rink – Part 1: Zamboni

At midnight, the rink at Parc La Fontaine belonged to Étienne and the Zamboni.

He drove it in slow, humming loops, laying down a mirror of fresh water, the cold stinging his cheeks. He was twenty-nine, a student by day and rink attendant by night, with a wool toque pulled low and a steaming thermos in the cupholder.

"Excuse me," said a voice from the barrier.

A man stood in the glare of the floodlights, skates slung over his shoulder. He was thirty-two, tall and solid, with a short beard frosted white at the edges. "I know it's closed. Could I skate? Just ten minutes. I can't sleep."

"The ice is wet."

"I'll wait."

Étienne studied him. The man had the careful, held-in stance of an athlete who had stopped being one. "You played," he said.

"Hockey. Eight years, pro. A knee, and then nothing." A small, wry smile. "I haven't been on the ice since."

"Why now?"

"Because it's two a.m. and nobody's looking."

Étienne cut the engine. "I am looking."

"Then I'll be bad in front of a witness."

He wasn't bad. The ice set, glassy and perfect, and Marcus stepped onto it hesitantly, then pushed off, and suddenly he was flying. A long clean stride, a turn, a spray of white. Étienne forgot his thermos.

"Can I ask you something?" said Marcus, gliding back, breathless.

"Yes."

"Do you skate?"

"Badly."

"Come on. I'll hold you up."

Étienne laced on rental skates with numb fingers. Marcus took both his hands and skated backwards, guiding, steady as a pier.

"Green?" said Étienne, surprised at his own boldness.

"Green," said Marcus, and his face lit. "Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Hot Chocolate.