Ice Hard

by Tracy Goodwin

  “It’s what I call compromise.” He gulps his beer, failing to hide his prominent frown.

  Knowing Serena, she’s doing this deliberately. It’s a prank. I play it up. “They look much better than they did before.”

  “Much.” One strained word. My best friend is almost convincing, if I were to ignore the fact that his knuckles are turning white and I’m afraid his beer bottle might shatter.

  “You know she’s pranking you, right?”

  Nodding, Chris mutters. “I can’t say anything. We’ve got this bet going that her pranks can’t get to me. They didn’t—at first. Then she asked Lucky for help, and our bookshelves were mutilated.”

  Taking a swig of beer to silence my laugh, I make a mental note that Chris found stability with Serena, a home. She’s his home, no question about it. Yet she’s also pranking him, pushing his boundaries. Once their baby is born, theirs will be a happy chaos, but make no mistake, it will be chaos.

  “There are a lot of pink spines.” This can’t be a coincidence.

  Chris takes another swig. He doesn’t see it yet. But I do. “Are you and Serena still waiting to know the sex of your bundle of joy until he or she is born?”

  “We are. The suspense is killing me, though.” He leans against the sofa. “Serena wants to wait, but I don’t. Not anymore.”

  The pink spines make sense. “You sure she doesn’t know?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure—” Chris turns to me. “You don’t think she’d go behind my back?”

  “Look at the shelves, dude. It’s there. Lots of pink.”

  He stares for a long while. “Nope. Serena wouldn’t do that.”

  “Bullshit.” I cough into my hand, struggling to keep my grin in check. That would be one hell of an announcement, in the form of a prank—pranking the king of pranks, Christian Chase. They’re having a girl. I want to say it, I’m itching to say it, but I don’t let on. Instead, I grin. I can’t help it. I’m going to have a goddaughter. How cool is that?

  “I—I don’t know. Maybe you’re right.” Chris stares at the books again. “Damn it. You had to say something. Now that’s all I can think about.”

  “Sorry, bro.” I’m not, though. Not really. Just more surprised that Chris didn’t figure it out. Adding to his confusion, I say, “It could be reverse psychology.”

  “Shit. This is torture.” My best friend turns to me. “It’s your turn in the hot seat. Let’s talk about your date to my wedding. I thought you’d go stag.”

  “I did, too. I mean, I didn’t want to take just anybody—”

  “So, you chose to take someone from Scorcher to my wedding?” Chris arches his brows.

  His skepticism gnaws at me. “I didn’t meet her through Scorcher, we met at your bachelor party. Turns out Camille was never on Scorcher. Her brother and sister set her up. I’m glad they did because I like her a lot.” All of it comes tumbling from my lips. Flowing uncontrollably like lava. I can’t control it. Though I’m not completely honest. To say that I like Camille a lot is an understatement. The truth is that she’s all I think about between games, and practice. Even during games, and practice.

  My cell vibrates, and Chris grabs it from the coffee table, reading a text aloud. “Congrats on the win! ESPN compared you to McSorely. Color me—”

  I lunge at Chris, grabbing my phone in one fluid motion. Before the screen goes blank, I read impressed. Camille is impressed with me. Wondering how soon I can leave so I can call her, I look at my friend who is eying me like I’m an alien.

  “Holy shit, Nick! This isn’t about a date to my wedding. You’re really into her.”

  “Hell yeah, I’m into her. What’s there not to be into? She’s smart, sexy, sarcastic—”

  My best friend gapes at me. “Don’t try to smart-ass your way out of this. You are into her.”

  I throw my hands in the air. “That’s what I’ve been telling you!”

  “No, you’ve been telling me you wanted a wedding date.” Chris’s voice rises an octave. “This is about more than a wedding date. You are serious about this woman. More than sex. It’s an I-want-a-commitment serious.”

  “What’s wrong with wanting more than sex?” I ask.

  “I entered at the wrong time. Sorry guys.” Serena halts halfway down the staircase that leads to the bedrooms upstairs.

  “Why is it so difficult for you to believe that I want something more than sex? You’re my best friend. My brother, for God’s sake.” Though not related by blood, Chris and I are as close as brothers. “If you don’t think it’s possible for me to have something real, who will?”

  “I do think so. I know so, Nick, that’s why I’m concerned.” Chris puts his beer on the coffee table, staring at me. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  Jerking my eyes free of Chris, I study Serena. “He’s one to talk, right? He leapt right in, from what I recall.”

  Serena offers me a grin. “On second thought, this might be the perfect time for me to make an entrance. You need an ear, and I’ve got two.”

  Her attempt at humor falls flat. Not for lack of trying, but because my rage is bubbling beneath the surface. Though Chris and I have had our share of arguments, the only time we’ve truly been at odds was because he was stressed and sabotaging a relationship with Serena. I was trying to help at the time. Chalk this up to our second ugly dustup. “Why aren’t you happy for me? Or supportive? Or, I don’t know…proud that I’ve moved past the I-want-someone-for-sex stage of my life?”

  “That’s a good question, Chris.” Serena proceeds down the stairs. “Why don’t you answer your best friend?”

  “I’m making an ass of myself and Nick needs me. He needs us.” Chris’s tone is much gentler this time. “I’m sorry, bro.”

  Standing, I pace a few steps back and forth to shake off the negative energy that is now eating me up. Serena approaches with a hug.

  “ESPN compared you to McSorely. What is that? The fifth time this season?”

  I nod and smile. She’s trying. So is Chris, as he waits for his fiancée to curl up on the leather sofa beside him. Chris places her bare feet on his lap and massages her toes. She’s starting to show, depending on what she’s wearing—like her current leggings and a tank—and according to Chris, her feet have been swelling.

  “How is it that I know Serena’s feet swell and don’t judge you for massaging them, yet you give me hell for wanting to take someone meaningful to your wedding? Or for hoping it turns into something meaningful. What’s wrong with me wanting something real?” I glare at Chris.

  “Yeah, what’s wrong with that?” Serena yanks her feet away, clearly affronted for me. “Nick, I think it’s great that you met someone. Who is she? When did you meet her? Tell me everything, because Chris hasn’t shared any of this with me.”

  She shoves her blond curls over her right shoulder and shoots Chris a what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you glance. I’ve been at the receiving end of lots of those glances in my lifetime, from a lot of relationships that crashed and burned. By the way Chris winces, he hasn’t experienced them much. At least not from his fiancée.

  “I’m worried about my friend.” He grabs his beer. “I want what’s best for him.”

  I shake my head. “Is pregnancy contagious? Because you sound hormonal. No offense, Serena.”

  “None taken. I was wondering that same thing.” She places her palm on Chris’s cheek. “Have you gone soft?”

  Her tone is already motherly, with a smidge of teasing thrown in for good measure.

  Chris scoffs. “Not that soft. I did get a five-minute major penalty tonight.”

  A five-minute major penalty. He’s serious. “What the hell has happened to my best friend? Get a grip. We’re supposed to be talking about me here.” I glance from one to the other. Serena has changed Chris in a lot of ways. He’s in love. He’s gentl
e, kind, caring. Still hell on ice, but she enhances his good-guy nature. “I want something…”

  This is beyond ridiculous. I won’t even voice what I want. Not again.

  “More. You want more,” Serena prompts me with a reassuring grin. It doesn’t sound silly when she discusses it. Unlike how it sounds coming from me.

  “Yeah. And I’m pretty sure I want it with Camille. At least, I want to see if such a thing is possible. Which is why I did the whole Scorcher thing. Then I met Camille, and I realized that she could be the one. I know most sane people would think I’m rushing things. They’d probably be right. Still, I want to see where this goes. And if not now, when? She’s interviewing for out-of-state jobs, for God’s sake. The clock is ticking. Oh. Speaking of what I want—I want your support. The way I supported you both when your relationship was new, and when it was tested.”

  “We do support you, Nick.” Serena pats her belly. “All of us do. We love you and you deserve to love and be loved. You’re a good man. That’s why we chose you to be our little one’s godfather. Relationships happen how they happen. You can’t really put a timeline on them. Sometimes, when it’s right, you feel it. So you met Camille through Scorcher?”

  I plop into the vacant oversized leather chair facing the glass door to the deck. It’s dark out, and our reflections bounce off the glass. Two…Serena and Chris, while baby makes three. And me—alone. “I met Camille at Chris’s bachelor party.”

  Serena blinks. “Not a stripper.”

  “No. God, no!” My voice is a little louder than I intended. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with the profession of stripping. But Cami isn’t one. Her family owns Benetti’s. She graduated from Syracuse. Business major, psychology minor.”

  “You know a lot about her background. That must have been one hell of a first date.” Chris swallows hard. “Lots of talking, I mean.”

  “It’s been more than one date. We’ve been talking and texting. Plus, Camille has a LinkedIn profile, which I checked out. Her brains impress me.” I find her hot and it’s more than just physical, though I omit that from my friends. They know how much I love research, usually reconnaissance on rival teams and players. Or reading about insects and gemstones. Anything, really.

  Serena’s smiling like her living room is full of rainbows and unicorns. She’s itching to laugh. That much is obvious.

  “I know a lot about Camille, actually,” I admit, against my better judgment. “I know that her mother died, and she left a corporate job to help her family. I know that Benetti’s is where she feels closest to her mom. I also know that Camille loves to sing, and is a glitter enthusiast, at least when it comes to her nails.”

  “Wow.” Serena points at me. “You’ve gone soft. And by you, I mean both of you—the two rugged hockey players who just won a home game against Cleveland.”

  Chris opens his mouth to object, but Serena silences her husband with a shush. “I don’t care how many penalties you get, my love. You and Nick are quite the pair.”

  Well, I’m not alone in that at least.

  “I can’t wait to meet Camille,” Serena says with sincerity, a sincerity that makes me feel almost giddy. Because I can’t wait to see Camille with my friends, my family.

  “Thanks, Serena.” It’s all I can manage as she stands.

  “I’ll meet you upstairs.” She smiles at her husband. “Good night, Nick.”

  Chris and I remain silent until Serena is out of earshot.

  “We need to do something masculine. Like now!” Chris crosses his arms over his chest. “PlayStation?”

  “Sure.” I shrug, texting Camille as we head down the hall. “Why not.”

  “Soft.” Chris scowls. “We’re not soft.”

  As we head to his media room, I remind him, “I’m not soft. You, on the other hand, are softer than a fucking marshmallow.”

  “Who’s texting their girlfriend?”

  Rolling my eyes, I promise to call Camille later. She’s good with it. For some reason I can’t fathom, I like saying good night to her. On the phone. It’s become our thing. “I’m texting my date to your wedding while your fiancée and unborn child are upstairs. You’re the softest, bro. No contest.”

  “Shut up.” Shoving me, Chris mumbles, “I hate you.”

  I laugh. “Nice try but I know you love me. Your wife said so.”

  “Motherfucker.” At least Chris’s vocabulary hasn’t evolved with his newfound feelings.

  Chapter 7

  Camille

  “What does one wear to the wedding of the year?” Sally asks in a fake British accent as she removes a crimson dress from the rack. It matches her hair. She’s got to-die-for curly red hair, and her rocker style is heavy on the retro glam. She resembles a pinup model. Sexy, vivacious, and someone you can’t take your eyes off of. That’s my cousin. A fashionista. The total opposite of me, which is why I brought her on this shopping excursion. That, and the fact that it is the wedding of the year and I have no clue what to wear, with one exception.

  “There’s a rule—don’t wear red to a wedding. I read that on the internet.”

  The salesperson staring at us scoffs. We’re at some haughty Manhattan boutique I’ve never been to before, and it must be obvious by my appearance that I don’t fit in. I’m wearing my usual black turtleneck and trousers, and my hair is tied in a sleek low ponytail while my makeup is more glam than I usually wear with a wine-colored lip, and cat-eye eyeliner in black. Though my clothes may not be super expensive, I present myself well. Come to think of it, I belong here as much as anyone.

  Sally halts, the crimson dress swaying in the air, its hanger looped around her finger. “You researched what to wear to a wedding.” Her tone is brimming with shock. Lots of it. “You’ve been to tons of weddings.”

  True enough, we come from a large family and many of my siblings and cousins are married. I clarify, “I googled what to wear to a celebrity wedding. This wedding isn’t your average wedding, and I’m out of my element. Besides, have you met me? I plan everything.”

  Sally sighs. “If you ask me, that’s the problem.”

  I’m itching to retort that I didn’t ask her, but I refuse to be so snarky. At least to my cousin, who is probably right. “I plan everything and where has that gotten me other than alone? Admit it: that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Yeah, but I never expected you to admit it. What’s up?” Sally places the dress on a different rack, and the saleswoman gasps. I don’t bother to hide my smirk.

  Taking my cousin’s arm, I lead her out of the store with a “There’s nothing I’m crazy about here. Let’s go.”

  The salesperson watches us leaving without so much as a Have a great day.

  “Merci beaucoup pour l’aide que vous avez donnée.” My tone is sugary sweet, though the salesperson has been anything but. What’s the saying? Kill them with kindness?

  The salesperson perks up at my knowledge of French, as minor as it may be. It’s just the response I wanted. Sally notices, too, because she starts laughing once we reach the sidewalk and I join in. Walking down the crowded street in Manhattan, I feel much better. “I’ll take traffic and crowds over one pretentious salesperson any day of the week.”

  “Though I admire your attempt at changing the subject, I see through you. Spill it.” Sally loops her arm through mine. I wear my gray wool coat, while she rocks a leopard faux-fur jacket. Men and women stare because Sally stands out. Everywhere. She’s a knockout. Men have always been interested in Sally, in spite of the fact that she’s not interested in them. Her recent breakup was amicable and she and her ex-girlfriend are still close.

  “I’ve spent my life being practical. I got engaged in college and look where that led…to my fiancé cheating on me.”

  “Douche.” Sally coughs the word.

  Yeah, he was. Still is. Some things never
change. “Too bad I didn’t come to that realization before I fell in love with him.” Instead, I learned the hard way. Then I kept myself busy. Throwing myself into work at a Manhattan corporation. I liked it there, didn’t love it, but liked it. “I enjoyed being on my own, establishing my own identity away from my family. No offense.”

  Sally shrugs it off with a bright smile. “None taken. We’re besties.”

  Ain’t that the truth. Sally knows everything about me and accepts it. She understands how returning home when my mom was sick changed me. How I put everyone else first at my own expense. How I’ve taken on that mom role ever since she passed. “It’s suffocating me, Sal. All of it—especially Beth. She keeps dredging up my past every damn time I see her, while needing my comfort and support. Even after she has morning quickies with Scott. You know how she gets. Damn it! I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t judge my sister.”

  My cousin ushers me away from the sidewalk traffic and over to the front of another boutique as guilt begins to gnaw at me from within. “You can say anything to me. No shame.” Sally holds my arms, giving them a gentle squeeze. “In truth, you should have admitted that a long time ago. You’ve allowed your family to define you based upon something you can’t control, Cami. You miscarried. You can’t have children. It shouldn’t be some dirty little family secret, but your sister thinks it defines you. The fact that you can’t have kids shouldn’t define you, but your sister is all about bloodlines, like adoption isn’t acceptable, and your dad is all about grandbabies. Give me a break.”

  Sally’s the only person I can discuss this with. The only one who understands the full magnitude of what I lost. The day I miscarried and the day I discovered I would never be able to carry a child to term were the most difficult days of my life. Before that, I was married with the promise of a future. I made my father proud. Until I disappointed him. Until he realized that I couldn’t conform to his strict beliefs. Or, in his mind, wouldn’t. Either way, having children should have been my choice, but that choice was taken from me by a medical condition, by a surgery, by internal scarring.