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)
Nix is going to wonder what the hell happened. We were supposed to meet up in the family area by the locker room after the game to canoodle for the cameras.
I’ll have to text him. Hopefully, he checks his phone between periods.
Or maybe I should wait until after? So, I don’t stress him out?
Fuck. I wish I’d never spoken to those girls. I should have just grabbed a seat alone and scrolled on my phone until the game started. A voice in my head insists I should mop up my face in the restroom and head back to the box, just to prove I’m made of tougher stuff, but I can’t.
I’m not tough right now.
I’ve already had way too much public humiliation for one week.
Swiping at my cheeks, I look for an exit sign, but the concourse is chaos.
Herds of late-comers swarm toward their seats, while a nearly equal number of people swarm for the restrooms, creating a pedestrian traffic clusterfuck. Voices echo off the concrete, mixing with the booming of the announcer behind me in the arena, and the smell of fried food is so thick, it’s starting to make me sick.
Finally, I find a hole in the press of bodies and dart through, only to step straight into the path of a man who apparently had the same idea.
A man carrying a tray of very full, very cold beers…
By the time I see what’s coming, it’s too late to stop it. We crash into each other, the tray exploding between us. Liquid leaps out of the glasses, seeming to hover in the air for a gut-clutching moment before it sprays all over me.
I gasp as cold beer drenches my entire front, wetting my hair and face before sliding down to give my shirt a thorough drenching. Soon, my silk blouse is glued to my skin as beer trickles down my pants, pooling in my heels before spreading out to soak the concrete.
“What the hell, lady?” The man in a Voodoo jersey glares at me, beer dripping from his face and sleeves, too. “Slow down, why don’t you?”
“I didn’t see you,” I choke out, blinking as I swipe beer from my lashes.
“Fuck you, guys! My new bag is ruined! One of you is paying for this.” A woman appears at the edge of the beer puddle, wiping beer off her purse with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.
“I ain’t paying for shit,” the man says, jabbing a hand my way. “She’s the one who ran into me.”
I know I should defend myself, but I’m too busy having a heart attack as I realize that, thanks to the drenching, my blouse has grown dangerously transparent. My nipples are practically out for show-and-tell, a fact that has my pulse rushing so loudly in my ears that for a moment, I think the collective gasp is a mental sound effect, courtesy of my own mortified brain.
But then the gasp is followed by a wave of laughter and male voices carrying that “amused predator” edge that always means trouble.
I glance up, gaze instinctively locking on the closest screen to the left of the beer stands. What I see makes my stomach drop into my feet and begin burrowing through the concrete.
Because there I am.
On the Jumbotron.
My image fills the massive screen, showcasing the hair hanging in wet clumps around my face, the running mascara, and the nipples poking through my white silk shirt. A “wow” emoji pops up beside me, followed by pulsing text, announcing a “Party Foul” on level four.
The camera holds for a beat—an endless beat, in which the laughter and male murmuring rise in a terrible crescendo—before cutting away.
The camera returns to the ice, to the players, and the sound recedes, but it’s too late. I’m shaking from the adrenaline rush, fighting an ugly cry as I cross my arms over my chest and run.
I push past the woman with the cheap leather purse she’s insisting I replace and the beer guy, racing as fast as my beer-soaked heels can carry me toward the closest staircase.
I pound down the stairs, through the now nearly empty entrance, and out into the warm night, grateful for the light rain that begins to fall as I reach the main drag. Now, if anyone sees the tears on my face, they’ll assume it’s just the rain, not fallout from The Autumn of My Discontent: Revenge of the Beer Apocalypse.
I instantly decide I will never drink beer again.
Not ever.
Not even with extra spicy gumbo.
Nine
NIX
The puck drops, and I’m where I need to be.
The stress of everything going on behind the scenes fades into the background as I lock in—no distractions, no anxiety, no wondering if I’m one fuck up from being traded to a frozen hellscape. On the ice, the rules are clear, and my role is straightforward. Here, I don’t have to worry about social norms or walking to the beat of a different drummer.