Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
She will say yes.
I’m sure of it.
I remain sure until Thursday night, when the universe decides to do its fucking best to ensure my fake girlfriend never wants to see my face again.
Eight
CHARLOTTE
I’ve been to exactly one hockey game in my entire life.
My dad thought it would be fun to take Mom and me to a minor league game while we were in Boston visiting family for Christmas break when I was a kid.
Spoiler alert: it was not fun.
I can’t even remember watching the players slap the puck around. We were all too distracted by how freezing cold it was in the arena. We spent the first period shivering in our too-thin-for-a-New-England-winter coats before dashing for the exit at the first break in play.
This is different.
For one, the Voodoo arena isn’t nearly as chilly as that tiny rink in a run-down corner of Massachusetts. There are twenty thousand people here tonight, warming things up. I doubt I’ll need the jacket slung over my purse. I’m perfectly comfortable in my white silk blouse, jeans, and a purple-and-green silk scarf tied at my neck in a nod to the team’s colors.
Secondly, I’m not some random Southerner adrift in a sea of New Englanders with accents so thick, I can barely understand them. This is my hometown. I belong in this crowd. And now, I’m a WAG (Wife or Girlfriend of a player), for goodness’ sake.
Except I’m not. Not really.
I’m a liar, liar with my pants on fire, and that feels scarier now than it did in that field Monday night. I was in my element there. Here, I am…
Well, I’m mostly trying not to throw up.
I’m not a sports girl. Never have been. Proximity to profuse sweating and organized aggression makes me twitchy.
I smooth my hands down the front of my blouse as I make my way down the concourse. My outfit is stuffier than the other fans, but that’s okay. Team jerseys and T-shirts with pictures of menacing-looking Voodoo dolls on skates aren’t my style. But the scarf and my gold Mardi Gras earrings are a strong nod to team solidarity, and I bought a pendant at the merch stand on the way in to hold up when Nix is on the ice.
It reads, “Bad Voodoo = Good Hockey,” which is fun.
I think…
Though a part of me can’t stop thinking about the woman who used to help my mom with her roses when I was in middle school. Elba was half Haitian, half Irish, and practiced an earth-based form of witchcraft. She was sweet, committed to helping plants thrive, and very serious about warning young girls away from black magic.
“Every hex will come back on you tenfold, love,” she told me once, while we were dead-heading the rose bushes. “Steer clear of the dark arts, Charlotte. No matter how tempted you might be, justice isn’t worth the price of bad voodoo.”
Looking back, I suppose it wasn’t really appropriate for her to be discussing black magic with a thirteen-year-old. But Elba had six grown daughters and knew a thing or two about middle-school girls. Namely, that they’re vicious little monsters, subconsciously processing their own anger about how much it sucks to be a teenage girl by tormenting as many other girls as possible.
The memory gives me empathy for the tween rolling her eyes at her mother at the wine cart as I pause to buy a “get ready to socialize” glass of chardonnay.
It’s also a good reminder that I’ve been through tougher times than this. Yes, being cast as the pathetic, unworthy, shallow ex-girlfriend in an article my entire social circle has been gossiping about for days sucks. But being thirteen sucked way worse.
My cell buzzes in my clutch, as if in agreement.
Then buzzes again. And again.
Uh-oh.
This doesn’t bode well…
Dodging a family with four kids wearing matching Voodoo jerseys—the one where Hughey, the Voodoo doll mascot’s eyes are burning in a legitimately eerie way—I down my wine in a gulp, seek shelter against a pillar, and pull out my phone.
Makena: Well, Char, it looks like my terrible luck has fucked me again. Extra hard. With no lube.
Makena: You’ll never guess why Elly and I are going to be late.
Makena: Seriously, you will NEVER guess.
Makena: Because never in your wildest dreams would you believe such a thing that has happened this afternoon would actually happen. To anyone. Ever.
Ifrown as I type back: Oh no, what’s up? Are you okay? Do you want me to grab you guys a glass of wine so it’s waiting when you get here?
Elly is married to the Voodoo’s star forward—I planned the reception, and it was epic, thank you very much—and Makena is obviously dating, now engaged, to a player, too. We’re planning to sit together in the WAG section and gossip during the breaks. Elly got a babysitter for her daughter and everything.