Andrew pulled into to parking lot of the ice arena to take a look at the Zamboni it had ruptured a one of the hydraulic lines by some kid who thought he might make the thing do donuts on the ice. He would be able to het it going but he would have to make a new hydronic line.
His pickup truck looked like it was held together by fence wire and bubble gum. He had a old corvette in the barn for show and dates. The truck worked fine and if he was getting feed or an engine another dent wouldn’t bother it anyway.
He walked through the doors of the arena smelling the familiar smell of sweat and determination. Alexei shot him a dirty look and shouted something in Russian at him. From the tone, he translated it as “Asshole.” He had given up scaring as much because of the coaches attitude as his trying to control Andrews life.
Andrew raised his tool box in a salute. As he walked to the back where the Zamboni was stored dropping bits and pieces of bovine fecal matter from his boots a