Hilariously Ever After

by Box Set

  “Anyway.” Charlene flaps her hand around. “That’s not the point. The point is you’ll be hobnobbing with the players afterward, right? Which means you’ll meet Darren Westinghouse.”

  “Who?”

  Charlene curls her lip and gives me a snooty look. “He plays right wing for Chicago.” She starts listing his stats; it sounds something like blah, blah, blah. I tune most of it out until she asks, “Will you take a picture of him if you get the chance?”

  “First of all, Char, hockey players don’t ‘hobnob,’ they hang out. Second, I plan to skip the after-party crap. I’ll have to catch up on work.” I pat the file folders on my desk.

  “What a load of BS!” She looks around to make sure no one is paying attention. Jimmy, whose cubicle is across from mine, raises an eyebrow and points to the phone at his ear, so Charlene lowers her voice. “Come on, Violet, you have to go. For me, please? Just long enough to snap a pic. Then you can go be boring in your hotel room by yourself.”

  “I’d send you in my place if I could.”

  I have no problem watching hockey, even though the rules evade me for the most part. Some of those boys are hot, but the appeal ends there. Buck is a perfect example, as is the one—and only—hockey player I ever dated. He wasn’t even an NHLer, just some douche in the minors I went out with last year looking for a leg up. Unfortunately, I turned out to be the owner of said leg. Not only was he awful in bed—just because those boys are built doesn’t mean they’ve got the equipment to match—he also humiliated me in a way I’m not likely to forget anytime soon.

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

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

  “Darren’s not a skank.”

  I appease her rather than argue. “I’ll see about the photobomb. No guarantees.” Mostly the after-parties are a food free-for-all for the players, complemented 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 try.”

  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 in the afternoon.

  By nine in the evening 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 fast food is my poison of choice. I scarf down three tiny burgers and a large fries while I drive home. I reluctantly skip the milkshake 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 ass o’clock in morning—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 boxer briefs—they fit so nicely—and channel surf. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know, my mom is standing over me.

  “Violet! Why are you still sleeping? We should’ve 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 throw pillow, but she snatches it away.

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

  Due to my complete lack of preparation, I pack in a rush, tossing clothes into a bag at random while I pull on jeans. 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 usual. I have the foresight to pack my copy of Tom Jones so I can finish it for Tuesday’s book club discussion.

  My mom drags me to the car while I’m zipping up my bag, 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 for boarding.

  Sidney, being the awesome guy he is, books first-class tickets. The seats are roomy and comfortable. This allows me to pass out until the flight attendant comes by to offer drinks. I ask for a mimosa—it’s mostly orange juice—and leaf through the copy of The Hockey News Sidney brought. It’s the same old, same old. Stats and more stats with a few pictures of disheveled, hot hockey players scattered within.

  I abandon the magazine and pull out my copy of Tom Jones. Maybe it’ll bore 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. I might’ve enjoyed this book had it not followed on the heels of the fun, sex-filled stories I’ve partaken of lately.

  After reading the same paragraph twenty times, I give up and play mindless games on my phone for the rest of the flight.

  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 Chicago win.

  However, we run into a bit of an issue with the hotel concierge. They’ve booked us a suite. 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 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 bath, complete with a Jacuzzi tub. I lock myself away and have a two-hour soak, 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 crap job packing. I’m fortunate enough to have a pair of black jeans to wear. Sadly, the only bra I have is the fuchsia one, which worked with the black hoodie I wore on the plane. 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 light 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’ll use all the anti-nerd help I can get.

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

  Armed with my wool coat and my messenger bag, which houses a scarf, mittens, hat, my semidry copy of Tom Jones, and my phone, I’m game ready. As an afterthought, I check for my pack of cigarettes. 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. Luckily, we have great seats, and Sidney knows everyone, so getting to the first row isn’t a problem. I settle in, appreciating the ample legroom and unobstructed view of center ice. Sidney orders a round of beers as Chicago take the ice. 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 ease. I’m petrified of skating, much like some people are afraid of snakes and spiders. Wearing blades on my feet screams of danger. I struggled mastering Downward Facing Dog; I don’t need to slice open an artery in an attempt to expand my sports repertoire.

  Sidney stands and pumps his fist in the air as Buck skates 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 suc
king, not even extremely skilled prostitutes.

  Behind me, a gaggle of girls—whose skirts could double as headbands—giggle obnoxiously about some guy named Alex Waters. The name is vaguely familiar. They mention a hat trick. He must be an awesome player to pull off one of those.

  Their discussion takes an interesting turn when one girl brings up the size of individual team members’ junk. I assume they get their stats from personal experience.

  At the drop of the puck, penis conversations cease. Buck’s team scores 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. Chicago easily maintain the lead through the end of the first period. Seconds before the buzzer goes, 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 a line of women 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 anticipated, and the game is already into the second period by the time I re-enter 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 plexiglass barricade. He smashes into it headfirst, his helmet and cage saving his face.

  Vibrant hazel eyes—the color of moss cut with a shot of bourbon—meet mine. It’s only for a second and then he’s gone again. He and the Atlanta guy struggle to pull off their gloves while holding each other’s jersey. 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 makes much more sense now.

  The guy with the nice eyes has the advantage. The name Waters is written in big, black letters across his shoulders. 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 up the fight and inciting the crowd by calling 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 only to pick it up and do it again. A ref cautions him, so he drops to 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, looking in my direction, or at least I think he does. My contact lenses make my eyes dry, so I can’t be positive. The girls behind me assume he’s looking at them 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 clear my vision. Sort of.

  I make a real show of digging around in my bag for my eye drops. By the time I finally find them, his focus is on the game again.

  The excitement seems to be finished for now, so I take out my book. Two paragraphs in, the buzzer sounds, drawing my attention away from the story I’m half-heartedly reading. Waters hurdles out of the time-out box, helmet and gloves on. I’m rather impressed with this move. 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 as Waters’ stick smashes into the ice. He pivots in a move that’s both graceful and aggressive and barrels toward Atlanta’s goalie, dancing with the puck as he goes. He pulls back his stick and slaps the puck across the ice like it’s a rubber meteor. It goes right between the legs of the goalie and ricochets off the net.

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

  The hockey hookers behind me lose their minds, screaming their annoying banshee heads off. The rest of the crowd get to their feet and yell with them. As do I. It seems reasonable, more so than my enjoyment over face bashing. The game is fast paced and the bodies rush by. I’m like a cat following one of those laser lights around. Suddenly an arm smashes into the plexiglass 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 the same stunning 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. He’s off like a slingshot, skating after the puck.

  Buck’s team crush Atlanta 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 the stadium, but Sidney is anxious to find Buck.

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

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

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

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

  “I think she liked the fight!” my mom yells above the noise.

  “It wasn’t just the fight,” I reply.

  Sidney chuckles. “We’re finally turning you into a hockey fan.” As a 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 of perspiration and stale equipment. I imagine the odor inside is infinitely worse with all the naked, sweaty guys milling around, snapping at each other’s asses with wet towels.

  Buck ambles out of the locker room with a towel draped across his bare shoulders and his hockey pants 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 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 from the stadium to the hotel is horrendous. Sidney orders a round of beers as soon as we get to the bar. I gladly accept the drink, my mild buzz having worn off during the lengthy drive.

  The team’s arrival is closely followed by a stampede of puck bunnies. 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.

  “Where you going?” Buck shouts.

  I hold up the pack of smokes; 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 the attention he’s drawing to us and my fake bad habit, so I fire off 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 team’s table. It’s covered in heaping plates of food, which the guys inhale at an unprecedented rate. Half-dressed 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 Westi
ng-what’s-his-face is so I can snap a pic, feign a headache, and get out of here.

  I find an empty seat; 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 enjoy his growing frustration as she snaps selfie after selfie. When she grabs his junk, I take pity on him.

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

  Both his head and the girl’s snap in my direction, as well as those of half the team. I may have raised my voice 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 awkwardness is worth it. The slut-bag mumbles something, and Buck grows grim. “That’s my sister.”

  Her expression turns from irritation to discomfort; she apologizes and teeters off on her outrageous heels.

  Buck drops into the seat beside mine, throwing his arm across my chair. “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 whine 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 hope he didn’t hear me slagging Buck’s doodle.

  I glance at him in time for a set of boobs to practically smack me in the face as a waitress places a drink in front of him. It looks like milk. I give him the side-eye as she moves away. The guy sitting to his right asks him a question, drawing his attention away from me.

  I recognize him from the time-out box: Waters. Holy shitballs, is he ever hot. His dark hair is cut short, and he’s got some wicked scruff going on. Even with the beard growth, I can tell he’s been blessed with one of those rugged jawlines.

  Nerves, embarrassment, and Waters’ hotness have a cumulative effect, making me sweaty. I pull my sweater over my head, not accounting for static, and my T-shirt sticks to the woolly outer-layer. Face covered with fabric, I scramble to pull the shirt 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 visible through the pale pink cotton, and now everyone at this table, including Buck, has seen it unfiltered by the shirt.