I nodded. “Tubs and other stuff. Water. Sports drinks. Towels.” I indicated the spot behind him. “He wants a table set up there with all of that, and a second one outside. And he wants ice for the tubs.”

“Oh. That doesn’t sound so bad.” He had twisted around, probably gauging what size table he’d need to get.

“No, no.” I leaned forward and tugged on his sleeve.

He looked back.

I knew what he was thinking. “He doesn’t want the tubs for drinks or food.” Because that was a normal thing here. “He wants the tubs for the guys, for ice baths.”

And now I waited.

“Are you kidding?” His eyebrows pulled together, matching the sides of his mouth. “Fucking ice baths?”

I smiled. “Keith told him we could do that.”

He swore under his breath. “Goddamn fucking Keith. Where the hell are we going to find tubs that size? We’ve never offered that service before.”

I had a feeling it was going to be a regular thing now. I said as much. “You know Keith will want to get more pro teams. He’ll put images of them on the website.”

Grant went back to growling because he knew I was right, and that meant it’d be on him to get it done. Finding tubs wouldn’t really be a problem. Grant hated ice. His only use for ice was making drinks colder, but because winter retreats were offered here during the off-season, that meant he had a large hockey rink to maintain. Then there were polar bear plunges. Igloo making. Ice carving. And I got the newsletter—they were boasting a brand new ice carnival. All of those jobs fell on Grant’s shoulders to maintain, and during a time when staff was cut in half and sometimes to a third of what he had during the summer.

He pulled his radio from his back and pressed the button. “Owen, you there?”

A crackle, then, “Owen here. What’s up?”

“We got enough ice to fill up a couple of tubs for ice baths?”

More crackling.

Owen said, “For what?”

“Ice baths.”

Crackle.

Crackle.

“Did you say ice paths?”

Grant swore.

The crackling intensified, and he swore some more.

He almost yelled into the radio, “Ice baths. B. B as in boy. Baths!”

“Psychopaths?”

“Goddamn!”

He wound up, ready to throw the radio over my head, but I lunged forward and grabbed it from him. He didn’t even resist. He walked in a tight circle, his arms tucked across his chest and his head down.

I pressed the button. “Owen, ice soaks.”

“Ooh! Yeah. We have enough. The machine is working fine.”

I pressed it again. “Thank you.” Let it go, then pressed it again. “Psychopath.” I said to Grant, “He was messing with you.”

Crackle.