Fire Down Below

by Debra Anastasia

  “Come on, Vi. You can at least enjoy the man candy, if nothing else.”

  “Yeah, because skanky guys are such a turn on.”

  “Darren’s not a skank.”

  Arguing is useless, so I appease her. “I’ll see about the photobomb. No guarantees, though.” Mostly the after parties are a food free-for-all for the players, complimented by hordes of bunnies looking to be dessert.

  She squeals and claps her hands. “You’re the best!”

  I hold up my hands. “No promises, but I’ll give it my best shot.”

  Charlene convinces me to break for lunch and we gorge at the all-you-can-eat Thai buffet nearby. Fortunately, the amount of food I consume doesn’t slow my roll when I return to work.

  It’s after nine in the evening before I finally come to terms with the fact I can no longer focus on the computer screen. My stomach is growling so loudly I keep checking to make sure a bear hasn’t wandered into the office.

  Drive-thru McDick’s is my poison of choice. I scarf down three tiny burgers and a large fry while I drive home. I skipped the milkshake, though, because indigestion and flying don’t mesh well.

  My mother has left a sticky note on my door to remind me we’re leaving for the airport at the ass-crack of dawn—those are my words, not hers. The logical thing to do would be to pack my stuff and go to bed so I’m not exhausted in the morning. Instead, I change into a T-shirt and my favorite pair of Marvel Comic inspired boy’s underwear—they fit so nice—and channel surf. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, Skye is standing over me.

  “Violet! Why are you still sleeping? We should have left ten minutes ago! We’ll miss the flight.” Her shrill morning voice functions as the worst kind of alarm.

  I try to hide under a pillow, but she snatches it away.

  “Get up, get up, get up!” She grabs my arm and pulls, forcing me to get up.

  Due to my complete lack of preparation, I’m forced to pack in a rush, tossing clothes into a bag at random while I pull on jeans, covering my Captain America underpants. I grab the first bra I find, it’s extra loud, boasting a fuchsia leopard print pattern and black lace accents. I don’t have time to search for something else—not with my mom tapping her talon nails on my door, hovering as per usual. I have the foresight to pack my copy of Tom Jones so I can finish it for Tuesday’s book club discussion.

  I barely get my bag zipped before Skye drags me out to the car, afraid we’ll miss our plane. She’s totally overreacting. We only have to speed-walk through the airport to make it to our gate on time for boarding.

  Sidney, being the awesome guy he is, books us first class tickets. The seats are roomy and comfortable. This allows me to pass out for the first half of the flight. When I can’t sleep any longer, I ask the flight attendant to bring me a mimosa—it’s five o’clock somewhere—and leaf through the copy of The Hockey News Sidney brought along with him. It’s the same old, same old. Stats and more stats with a few pictures of disheveled, hot hockey players scattered within.

  It doesn’t take long before I get bored, so I pull out my copy of Tom Jones. Maybe it will put me back to sleep. I’m annoyed I have to finish this for Tuesday. I like reading, hell, I even took a couple of English lit classes in college purely for enjoyment. This is some dry material for a damn book club, though. Nothing like the fun, sex-filled books I’ve partaken of lately.

  I must read the same paragraph twenty times before I give up and play mindless games on my phone until the plane lands.

  There’s a car waiting for us at the airport—because that’s how Sidney rolls, and we’re whisked away to the hotel. It’s the same one the team is staying at, so it’ll be easy to escape the after celebrations should the Hawks win the game.

  However, we run into a bit of an issue with the hotel concierge. They’ve booked us a suite rather than two separate rooms. This wasn’t part of the deal; I expected to have my own room. I bite my tongue and pretend it’s totally fine, because I don’t want to appear ungrateful—even though I didn’t ask to come along on this impromptu trip in the first place.

  On the upside, the suite is huge. There’s a spacious living room and I have my own bedroom with a private bathroom, complete with a Jacuzzi tub. I lock myself away and have a two hour bath where I once again try to read more of my book. I accidentally get the cover wet and have to lay it on the vent to dry.

  Getting dressed is an adventure. I did a seriously crap job packing. I’m fortunate enough to have a pair of black jeans to wear. Sadly, the only bra I have is the one I’m wearing, which was fine when I was sporting a black hoodie. However, I’m clean so I’m not recycling the hoodie, and my options are limited to a pale pink tee or a blue one with stains on the boob. The pink one will have to do. I pull on the shirt and check out my reflection in the mirror. Oh yeah, the leopard print is way obvious through the thin fabric. I cover it up with a sweater and call my outfit a success.

  Glasses fog in arenas, so I jam in my contact lenses. I also look much less nerdy without glasses and considering I have to meet a whole new set of teammates tonight, I can use all the anti-nerd help I can get.

  By the time I finally get my contact lens to stay on my eyeballs—it takes three tries—there isn’t time for Skye to assault me with her pallet of eye shadow. She’s a big fan of blue. I always end up looking like someone from a 70s sitcom when she gets through with my face.

  Armed with my wool coat and my messenger bag which houses a scarf, mitts, hat, my semi-dry copy of Tom Jones and my phone, I’m game ready. As an afterthought, I check for my pack of Marlies. I don’t actually smoke. They’re my crutch when I want to extricate myself from uncomfortable social situations. It happens a lot. I’ve learned to release the smoke slowly so people don’t notice I’m not inhaling.

  The arena is packed. We have great seats, though, and Sidney knows everyone, so getting to the front row isn’t a problem. I settle in, appreciating the ample legroom and unobstructed view of center ice. Sidney has just finished ordering beers when the Hawks skate out onto the rink. Half the crowd explodes into cheers despite it being an away game.

  I’m mesmerized by the way these guys glide over the perilously slick surface with such grace. I’m petrified of skating, much like some people are afraid of snakes and spiders. Wearing blades on my feet screams of danger. I struggle mastering downward facing dog; I don’t need to slice open an artery in an attempt to expand my sports repertoire.

  Sidney stands up and pumps his arm in the air when Buck skates out onto the ice. Buck is mammoth, like a yeti. A huge, perverted, hairy, whore of a yeti. According to the sportscasters, Buck’s an excellent hockey player. I’d agree based on his yearly salary alone. No one gets that much money for sucking, not even extremely skilled prostitutes.

  Behind me, a gaggle of girls—whose skirts could double as a headbands—giggle obnoxiously about some guy named Alex Waters. The name is vaguely familiar for some reason. They mention a hat trick. He must be a seriously awesome player to pull one of those, not that it changes how I feel about the game.

  Their discussion takes an interesting turn when they start discussing the size of individual team members’ junk. I wonder where they get their stats.

  Penis conversations cease when the puck is dropped. The Hawks score a goal in the first three minutes. I’ve never seen anyone move as fast as their center. He’s like a bolt of red lightning shooting across the ice. The Hawks easily maintain the lead through the end of first period. Just before the whistle blows, I bolt up the stairs and find the closest bathroom, hoping to avoid the rush. My bladder is ready to burst thanks to the giant beer I’ve consumed. Unfortunately, there’s an enormous line suffering the same plight, so I have to grit my teeth and do Kegels until a stall opens. The whole pee adventure takes far longer than I anticipate. The game is already into the second period by the time I reenter the arena.

  As I approach my seat, I notice shit going down on the ice. Like, seriously going down right in front
of me. I’m equal parts elated and horrified when one player slams another into the Plexiglas barricade. He smashes into it head first; his helmet and cage saving his face.

  Blue eyes—they’re so damn blue, like neon nightclub lights at night—meet mine. It’s only for a second and then he’s gone again. He and his opposition struggle to pull off their gloves while holding each other’s jerseys. Helmets hit the ice.

  The excitement of the crowd is infectious. Everyone else is screaming, and I’m tempted to join in, but there’s violence, and it seems wrong to enjoy it, so I keep my lips sealed. The concept of mob mentality suddenly makes much more sense, though.

  The guy with the blue eyes has the advantage. The name Waters is written in big, black letters on the back of his jersey. He’s number eleven. This is the magic man, huh? His face is obscured by a flailing fist, but I admire his tenacity. He’s giving as good as he’s getting.

  The refs get involved, breaking the fight up, and ramping up the crowd by calling out penalties. Waters looks pissed. Not mildly so, either; he’s raging like a lunatic pissed. He glides across the ice, hurtling himself into the time out box. He throws his helmet across the small space, picking it up just to do it again. A ref cautions him, so he drops on the bench in a snit.

  Waters is far from calm while the ref chews him out. His face is red and his lips mash into a thin line. He’s vaguely familiar. Even sweaty and angry he’s rather attractive. I can see why the women behind me are dressed for their shift on the corner.

  Sidney was kind enough to get another round of beers, so I sip mine while observing Waters. He’s watching the seconds drop off his five minute penalty. He surveys the arena, his gaze coming to rest on me, or at least I think it does. My contact lenses make my eyes dry, so I can’t be positive. I blink several times to pull him into focus. The girls behind assume he’s looking their way and twitter like twelve-year-olds. I roll my eyes. Waters cocks a brow. Oh no, he must think it’s directed at him. On the plus side, my eye roll has helped bring him into focus. Sort of.

  I make a real show of digging around in my bag for my eye drops. By the time I finally find them; he’s no longer looking in my direction, his focus back on the game.

  The excitement seems to be finished for now, so I take out my book and give reading go. Two paragraphs in, the buzzer sounds, drawing my attention away from the story I’m half-heartedly reading. Waters hurdles out of the penalty box, helmet and gloves back on. I’m rather impressed with this move of his. I couldn’t do it in a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, let alone a whole ensemble of body armor.

  A blur of black comes to a halt at center ice as Waters’ stick smashes into the ice. He pivots in a move that is both graceful and aggressive, barreling toward the opposition’s goalie, dancing with the puck as he goes. He pulls back his stick and slaps the puck across the ice like a rubber meteor. It goes right between the legs of the goalie, ricocheting off the back of the net.

  Waters’ has been on the ice for all of fifteen seconds.

  The hockey hookers behind me lose their shit, screaming their annoying banshee heads off. The rest of the crowd gets to their feet and yells right along with them. As do I. It seems appropriate, more so than my excitement over face bashing. The game is fast paced and the bodies rush by in a blur. I’m like a cat following one of those laser lights around. Suddenly an arm smashes into the Plexiglas in front of me. I startle, spilling beer on my coat.

  At first I’m inappropriately excited at the possibility of another fight. Instead, I’m met once again with electric blue eyes. I swear Waters smirks as I wipe beer off my chest. I frown and give my boob a squeeze, for what purpose I’m unsure. I doubt he catches it, though, he’s off like a sling shot, barreling across the ice after the puck.

  The Hawks crushes their opponent 6-1. I clap and cheer, my enthusiasm authentic. I attribute it partially to the amount of beer I’ve consumed. Once the players leave the ice, we file out of the arena. Crowds make me nervous, so I want to wait until most of the people have cleared out, but Sidney is anxious to Buck.

  “Come on Vi.” He slings an arm around my shoulder, protecting me from the masses.

  Skye hooks her arm with mine, sandwiching me between them. “Did you have fun?”

  “It was okay.” I say as Sidney maneuvers his way through the crowd.

  “Just okay? You were cheering right along with the rest of them.” Sidney gives my shoulder a squeeze.

  “I think she liked the fight,” Skye yells above the noise.

  Sidney grinned. “It sure made the game more interesting,” I say.

  “Now you’re sounding like a true hockey fan.” As an NHL scout and coach for one of the best minor league teams out there, he’s highly respected in the hockey community. It affords him major privileges and some cool perks, such as front row seats at games.

  The hallway to the locker room smells like perspiration and stale equipment. I imagine inside smells infinitely worse with all the naked, sweaty guys milling around, snapping at each other’s ass with wet towels.

  Photographers are at the ready when Buck comes out with a towel draped across his bare shoulders and his hockey pants still on, thank the Lord. The amount of fur he sports makes him resemble a matted yeti.

  I stay close to the fringe of the crowd to avoid appearing in any photos. The paps snap pics of Buck in his hair shirt while Sidney looks all proud and manly off to the right. They ask Buck a few poignant questions. His answers are stock; likely something his agent coached him on. That guy gets paid well with all the fuckery Buck gets into.

  When Buck goes to the locker room to shower, we head out. Traffic out of the stadium is horrendous, and it takes ages to get back to the hotel bar. Sidney orders a round of beers as soon as we get there. I gladly accept the drink, my buzz having worn off.

  We’re practically trampled by puck bunnies when the team arrives. I’m surrounded by scantily clad, too-warm bodies and high-pitched chatter. While Buck regales Sidney with the finer details of the game—as if he wasn’t there—I seek out the red EXIT sign. Rooting around in my bag, I find my smokes and make my move toward the beacon of temporary freedom, excited for my reprieve from social discomfort. Buck notices my attempted escape and grabs my arm before I can get far.

  “Where you going?” Buck shouts.

  I hold up the pack of smokes, because I’d have to yell in order for him to hear me otherwise.

  He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “You really shouldn’t smoke. It’s bad for your health.”

  I’m irritated by all the unnecessary attention he’s drawing to us, and my fake bad habit, so I fire back an insult. “So are venereal diseases. You don’t hear me lecturing you on your whoriness.”

  He ignores the comment and drags me to his teams’ table. It covered in heaping plates of food, which the guys are inhaling at an unprecedented rate. Scantily clad women flit around like fruit flies near wine.

  Seeing as I’m here, I’ll try and make good on Charlene’s request. All I need to do is figure out who Westing-what’s-his-face is so I can snap a pic, feign a headache, and get out of here.

  I drop into an empty seat and take the fresh beer that’s handed to me. The chairs on either side of me are vacant, aside from a jacket carelessly tossed across the one on my right.

  A random chick snags Buck before I can ask after Charlene’s crush. The smile slapped across his face might look friendly, but I’ve been around him long enough to know better. I grin into my beer, enjoying his growing discomfort as she snaps selfie after selfie. When she grabs his junk, I take pity on him.

  “Hey, Beefcake, enough with soft-porn photo shoot. Grab a chair!”

  Both his head and the girl’s snap in my direction, as well as half the team. I may have raised my voice a little too much. With the way Buck is smiling, I must be the color of a tomato. His relief and the girl’s incredulity are rather satisfying, so the embarrassment is worth it. The slutbag mutters something and Buck’s smile drops. “That’s my sister.�
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  Her expression turns from irritation to shocked embarrassment, she apologizes and teeters off on her ridiculous heels.

  Buck drops into the chair beside mine, throwing his arm across the back. “Thanks for the save. I thought she was gonna whip my dick out right there.”

  I scoff. “Whatever. Your micro-wang is barely visible to the naked eye. Besides, I didn’t want to listen to you moan about a herpes flare-up.”

  Movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention as one of Buck’s teammates takes the seat beside me. I really hope he didn’t hear me slagging Buck’s doodle.

  I glance at him just as a servers boobs practically smack me in face when she places what looks like a White Russian in front of him. I give him the side-eye when the waitress moves. The guy on his opposite side asks a question, drawing his attention away from me.

  I recognize his face immediately, it’s Alex Waters and holy shitballs is he hot. His dark hair is cut short and he’s got some serious scruff going on. Even with the beard growth, I can tell he’s been blessed with one of those rugged jawlines. And those eyes are something else, even if he’s sporting the makings of a black eye.

  Nerves, embarrassment, and Alex’s hotness have a cumulative effect, making me sweaty. I pull my sweater over my head, not accounting for static. My T-shirt sticks to the woolly outer-layer. Face covered with fabric, I scramble to pull the shirt back into place. The silence at the table is telling. Once I wrestle free of the sweater, I’m met with a number of wide eyes focused on my chest. I look down. Right. My bra is still visible through the pale pink shirt, and now everyone at this table, including Buck, has seen it unfiltered by the shirt.