“I don’t want you to go faster. Take it slow. There’s a chance you might accidentally over-sand when you use electric tools. If that happens, I’m screwed,” Cal groused, adjusting his goggles.
He bent over the blank piece of foam clamped to a sawhorse and picked up a hand planer to shape the curve of a new board. He’d given me a brief tutorial, but the process was much more involved than I’d realized. I’d really never thought twice about how a surfboard was made. It was one of those things that seemed best to leave to the experts. And in a twist, Cal was an expert.
He’d transformed the original garage of the building into a surfboard workshop. It was lined on two sides with boards in various states of progress and a huge section dedicated to supplies, paints, and tools with names I forgot the moment he uttered them. The space was kind of a mess, but it was a controlled mess. Like an art studio.
And Cal was an artist at work. Which, I think, made me an apprentice. A very lowly one. I’d been tasked with using fine-grit sandpaper to smooth out any bumps or lumps on the underside of a newly crafted board. It looked finished if you asked me, but according to the boss, it wasn’t shiny enough. Yet.
“Did you make all these boards?” I flexed my wrists before returning to my chore. We’d been at this for a while now, and this was harder than it had seemed.
Cal hummed. “Yep. The older ones on the far end are rentals in need of some buffing and the others are commissions.”
“Wow. I can’t believe you’re letting me work on newly commissioned artwork.”
“I’m not. That one belongs to the shop.”
“Oh.”
“The ones I’m selling have to be perfect and…you’re not ready for prime time.”
“Ouch.”
Cal snickered. “Don’t be insulted. You are helping me by doing a chore I’ve been putting off for a while.”
“Happy to be of service. But I’ll be happier when the pizza arrives. I’m fucking starving. I ordered too much of everything. Pepperoni, sausage, mushroom, green peppers, onions. There’s probably more. Oh, and salads. I was going to order drinks or dessert, but you have beer and the dessert menu was lame and—why are you smiling?”
He flashed a grin that made butterflies dance in my stomach. “No reason in particular. You’re just very talkative tonight—like a kid on a sugar high. Is it me or pizza that’s got you excited?”
“Both. Hold that thought. I hear the delivery person.”
“Let me give you some money,” he offered, lifting his goggles.
“Too late. I already took care of it. You can get the next one.”
Cal smiled. “Thanks. Meet me upstairs. I don’t want food around the new boards. I’ll clean up and join you in a sec.”
I balanced the salad containers and paper goods on the large pizza box, then carried it upstairs to Cal’s place. We’d situated our dinner on the large wood coffee table and settled across from each other with our plates piled high. We tucked into the pizza, occasionally commenting on the brilliance of sausage and the importance of crust to sauce ratio in between bites.
He polished off his second piece and flopped against the leather cushion, resting his hands behind his head. He was a picture of cool and content. The way he was on a surfboard.
Don’t get me wrong, Cal wasn’t uptight at all. He was friendly but guarded. I got the impression he didn’t let many people on the inside, and I liked the idea that I’d weaseled my way past his first line of defense. He invited me into his sphere and spoke freely about his work and his plans for the future. He occasionally seemed surprised at his own candor, but the look in his eyes told me he was glad I was here.
That made two of us.
“Something interesting happened today,” I blurted around a mouthful of pizza.
“I figured. Tell me everything.”
I launched into a rundown of Zoe’s suggestion and my brief conversation with Colby. “I’m going to meet with him tomorrow. Nothing may come of it, but I’m ridiculously pumped to be going to an ice rink.”
He widened his gaze. “Did you really just waltz up to a coach and ask for a job?”
“Nah, the coach got away. I asked his assistant. At least, I think Colby’s his assistant. I’m not sure.”
“You’ve got big balls, Luca.” He barked a laugh when I cupped said balls and bucked my hips suggestively. “I didn’t know you wanted to coach.”
“To be perfectly honest, I don’t know what I want. And I’d be volunteering. Not coaching.” I set my plate on the coffee table, hiking my knee on the sofa as I shifted to face him. “I technically graduate in January. This last semester is a gift to me from the universe. A few extra months to get over a career-ending injury and sort out what comes next.”