Page 50 of Melt the Ice

Damn, Knight. This is the best idea you’ve ever had.

Abby: You owe me, Monroe. They’ve had way too many margaritas.

Pictures or it didn’t happen.

Scarlett:

Mrs. Friggen Wilder: Did you know Scarlett is the queen of making margaritas?

Mrs. Friggen Wilder: We’re never watching a game without her again. But, we had to teach her what a puck was… A PUCK, MONROE.

I catch up to Wilder, who’s looking at his phone with a frown on his face. “What's that look for?” I take in his shoulders, they’re pulled up to his ears, a sign that he’s starting to panic. I put my hand on the top of them and push down until they relax.

“I called Hannah, and she didn’t answer…” I hand him my phone, and he scrolls to the top of the group chat Abby just started and starts to read. His head shakes, but a smile grows across his face. “You know, she’s been trying to figure out how to get Scarlett to be her friend for months now. Almost brought her a dog after she and Wilson spent the day at the animal shelter.”

My phone vibrates in Wilder’s Hand,

Mrs. Friggen Wilder: She’s ours now. You’ll have to fight me for her, pendejo.

Mrs. Friggen Wilder: She says that means “Asshole.”

Mrs. Friggen Wilder: Don't hate me, I didn’t mean it.

Scarlett: Jesus, you can’t cuss at him, then take it back.

Wilder groans, “Damn it, my wife is drunk.” But the texts keep coming.

Abby: I did not sign up for this cruel and unusual punishment.

Scarlett: Oh, quit your bitchin’. I offered you some, too, but you decided to be holier than thou.

A laugh bursts from my teammate and me as we step onto the bus, taking our usual seats in the fourth row on the right side. Yeah, Hannah’s going to have one hell of a hangover. But I can’t even hide how happy I am that they took the time to get to know her while I’m not around.

Those two are worse than I am when they get their hooks into someone. She and Abby are going to bump heads a bit. They’re both the most stubborn women I’ve ever known. Luckily, both Abby and Hannah know how much Scarlett means to me. And I don’t think they’d do anything to make her go running for the hills.

Wilder’s hand lands on my shoulder, wrapping around the top of it, “Ready for spa day? I could use a little hydration. My face is feeling a bit dry from this dry air.” I’d take a hundred degrees and ninety percent humidity over this every day of my life. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I stand and follow him off the bus. Pocketing my phone, but not before I send one last text to the text thread between me, Abby, and Hannah.

Lucas: You have no idea how happy I am that all my favorite women are together. Thank you for not writing her off.

Heavy footsteps echo through the stairwell as Wilder and I climb to our room. Why we take the stairs to the twelfth floor, after we played an entire hockey game, I don’t know. But we did it once during the playoffs last year and have done it every away game since. “This is stupid,” I murmur.

His chuckle sounds from in front of me.

“No, my legs freaking hurt. I need a massage.” I whine. The superstitions us hockey players develop could be studied in some college class on ridiculousness. Alas, we probably won’t stop, but right now, I wish we would.

“Quit moaning, Monroe. It’s only two more flights. You climb more stairs on the stairmaster, multiple times a week.” He’s not wrong.

The door creaks as it’s pulled open, and we step into the air-conditioned hallway. “Ahh, I can breathe again,” I say as I’m met with a swat to the shoulder.

“Anyone ever tell you, you’re dramatic?” he chides as we push into our hotel room. He’s been my travel buddy for the last two years, ever since he got traded to the team. I honestly couldn’t have picked a better roommate. He suffers with his own demons. The darkness of depression weighs on him, much like I assume loneliness weighs on me, or at least it did. It’s kind of dissipated since Scarlett showed back up.

“Only all the time,” I mutter as we get to our room.

We drop our bags on the floor, then immediately get out of our game-day suits and into our boxers, thankful that we showered before leaving the arena as we slide into our robes. Once the ridiculous green goo has hardened on our faces, I pull out my phone and snap a picture of the two of us.

I feel like the meme of the lizard with its mouth open, laughing, but looking like it has a double chin. We look ridiculous, always do, but I swear that’s half the fun. Hanging out somewhere between an ogre and old Greg. My cheeks are stiff, my forehead refusing to wiggle in the slightest, and I’m pretty sure my eyebrows are currently out of commission on showing any type of emotion. Is this how people with Botox feel?

Lucas: