Birthday Girl: A contemporary sports romantic comedy (Minnesota Ice Book 3)

by Lily Kate

“I raised your mother good,” Gran says. “Ellie’s way more of a tightwad than me. Now, spin around, dear. Let me size you up.”

  I give her a twirl, Gran’s eyes scanning me over from top to bottom.

  It’s just me and Gran shopping today. Mostly because my mother swore a long time ago that she’d never accompany either of us to Target again. All because of a single incident with marshmallows and a bottle of bubbles. Let’s just say the fire department was called.

  That’s why she’s getting her nails done next door while Gran and I are on the hunt for a swimsuit that’ll turn Cohen James off me for life. I may not be interested in him, and he might be bound and determined not to get involved with me, but I might as well not take any chances.

  “Let me get this straight.” Gran raises a blood-red fingernail to her lips. “You said this suit is for Cohen James?”

  “Sort of. It’s like a... let’s call it a Cohen James repellent suit.”

  “I thought he was a hottie.”

  “Gran, you’ve got him by fifty years. At least.”

  “My body might be wrinkled, but my eyes can see just fine, honey.”

  “I’m trying to prove a point to him.”

  “Sorry, but I’m missing the point.”

  “He thinks he can get any girl he wants,” I explain, thumbing through the rack of clothes we hauled into the room with us. “But I’m out to prove that he can’t.”

  “Sit down, baby,” Gran says. “Let me explain something to you.”

  I sit, mostly because my grandmother doesn’t give me a choice—she yanks me into the seat and stands over me. All she needs is a ruler to smack against my knuckles to complete the picture.

  “You want to show a man what he’s missing?” She paces back and forth in front of me. “You’re going about it all wrong. The way you’re doing it, you’re hiding everything he’s missing.”

  “But—”

  “Nope,” Gran interrupts. “I take that back. You’re burying it halfway to China. Honey, you shouldn’t care so much. If you’re not interested, just tell him so.”

  “Oh, I think I made that clear,” I tell Gran. “But this is a safeguard. There’s no sense tempting the man if it’s not going to go anywhere. I know what I want, and it’s not him. He’s not my type, so I might as well ward off the trouble. I can’t afford a distraction, not now.”

  “You’re a better woman than I am,” Gran says. “Have it your way. But in the meantime, check this out—what do you think?”

  Gran slithers out of a dress she’d been trying on and stands before me in... what the heck is that? I blink several times, my eyes burning from all that I shouldn’t have seen. “Why Gran?”

  “It’s one of them European suits!” Gran turns around, a thong so far up her cheeks it’s mostly vanished. “Don’t I look edgy?”

  “First of all, you have to buy that now because... you can’t possibly put them back. I can’t even see it anymore.” I shield my eyes with a hand. “Second of all, no. Just... no.”

  “So these won’t work for my synchronized swimming team uniform?”

  I shake my head. “Not unless you feel like asking mom to bail you out of jail for indecent exposure.”

  “That’s just fine, I suppose,” Gran says. “Dolores wants something with a skirt, anyway. Says she has to cover her baby fat.”

  “I think Dolores has a great point.”

  “Well, I think it’s silly. A woman can’t have baby fat after the age of sixty,” Gran says. “That’s just regular fat.”

  “Gran!”

  “What? It’s true. I have fat and skinny days just like anyone else.” Gran swivels toward the door, twists the knob open, and halts abruptly before stepping through. “Oh, that reminds me! I signed you up for our synchronized swimming class.”

  I’m looking in the mirror already, wondering if I could somehow sew a burlap sack together to make an ugly wetsuit. Gran’s comment registers with a thud in the back of my skull. “You did what?”

  “Signed you up for synchronized swim team.”

  I whirl around to face her, my mouth hanging open. “Why would you ever do that? It’s a horrible idea. First, I can’t swim. Second, I’m not retired. Third, I’m not graceful.”

  “Dolores isn’t retired. Well, she says she’s not, but I think she’s a liar. That woman doesn’t work.” Gran shrugs. “Why not join us? We’re all old farts and we need one more woman. We’re looking for a man, too, but those are harder to come by. Any recommendations?”

  A fleeting thought crosses my brain—Cohen James—and I can hardly hold back a smile. The image of him and all his tattoos and tough-as-nails attitude floating around with a bunch of old ladies makes me nearly giddy with glee.

  Unfortunately, my sail deflates the second I realize that would mean we’d just have to spend more time together if he agreed to help. Nix on that idea.

  “Nope,” I say. “Can’t think of anyone.”

  “Well keep your ears peeled because we could really use that masculine touch,” Gran says, disappearing from the stall. Now you hold tight dear, and I’ll make you the ugliest spinster you’ve ever seen.”

  Chapter 9

  ANNIE

  “Please drop me off at home,” I say. “It’d be easier for everyone.”

  My mother glances into the backseat of the car at me. Gran is sitting next to her up front, busy playing with her new Target earrings.

  “It’s not my fault you scheduled dinner with your father tonight.” My mother sniffs, her nose in the air as it always is with any talk of my dad. “I’ll drop you off and he can give you a ride back.”

  “He won’t care if I’m twenty minutes late. I don’t want to make him go out of his way to bring me back.”

  “Would it kill him to take a second out of his busy, busy, busy work day to drop his daughter off at home? I don’t think so.”

  “Mom—”

  “I’m serious, Annie.”

  My car is at my apartment, which is the first problem. All because my mother insisted on picking me up this morning to deliver my bathing suit. Never in a million years had I thought that swimming lessons would turn into an all day extravaganza—I’d planned to be back at my apartment hours ago.

  My mom’s nail appointment had run late, then we’d grabbed lunch, and now there’s not enough time for me to stop by my apartment before heading to my dad’s place. According to my mom, she’s now got dinner plans with Claude, so she doesn’t have time to bring me all the way to my college housing before she’s meeting him.

  Apparently, I’m just one huge inconvenience.

  I’d considered rescheduling after the day I’d had, but that’s also not a great option. My father is a busy man, and we usually schedule our dinner dates weeks in advance around his work schedule.

  My mother does have a point—I never ask my dad for anything. I don’t expect anything, either. Hopefully, he won’t mind giving me a ride home later as a one-time deal.

  “Tell your father hello,” my mother says, the familiar stiffness creeping into her voice. “If he can’t possibly find a way to bring you to your apartment tonight, have him call me, and I’ll come get you.”

  “Thanks, mom.”

  “Don’t forget this.” My grandmother shoves a Target bag into my hands. “Your suit. It’s so freaking horrible that Cohen James won’t know what to do with himself.”

  “Mother, watch your language,” Ellie says with a frown.

  I shut the door on my mother and grandmother as they argue about whether or not the word ‘freaking’ should be allowed when I’m in the car. I wave, jog up the front steps, and curl the collar of my coat against the chilling wind. It’s almost March but we’re in a horrible cold spell—there was a storm last weekend that left enough snow to go sledding.

  “Dad!” I pound on the door again. I have my gloves in my bag, but I was too lazy to put them on—I hadn’t expected to stand in the cold for so long. “Open up, dad. It’s me!”

  My
phone rings, and I look down. Oddly enough, it’s my father’s name popping up on the screen.

  “Hey, kid, sorry I’m running late at the office,” he says in a rush once I’ve fumbled to answer it. “I completely forgot Maria changed the code to the garage door. Do you mind letting yourself in? It’s 4-2-1-1. I’ll be home in twenty minutes.”

  He forgot all about dinner. I exhale a breath that forms a cloud in the crisp night air. “Did mom just call you?”

  There’s a pause that follows from his end. “She said she’s waiting in the driveway until you get inside. Please don’t leave, cupcake, I want to see you—I really do. It’s just this last proposal I’m about to send off, it’s almost finished...”

  I debate running back to my mom’s car. She’d be more than happy to bring me home because that would make my dad look bad. She’d gloat silently the entire trip and hold my dad’s lackluster parenting skills over his head. They don’t have the healthiest of relationships. From what I can tell, mom was still very much in love when they separated. Dad was, too, he just wasn’t around to show it.

  The thought of my mother and father arguing is exhausting, and I don’t want to fuel their feud. So instead of slinking back to the car, I give my mom and Gran a cheery wave and let myself in through the garage.

  I’m not a complete martyr, though, let’s be honest. My dad has a nice place. A really nice place, and my apartment on campus has been experiencing faulty internet and cable. I’m sort of looking forward to a half hour of peace and quiet with the remote all to myself.

  No roommates, no mom or grandmother preaching at me, no Claude walking around without a shirt on, his mouth half-open in a state of perma-confusion. A piece of quiet sanctuary sounds like heaven.

  I plop the Target bag on the counter. Inside, there’s not one swimsuit, but two. Gran made me buy the second one. It’s black, sleek, and beautiful. I’m a bit curvy, so those tiny little triangles never sit right on me. This one, however, fits like a glove.

  I’m saving it to wear aboard the cruise. Who knows? Maybe I’ll meet the man of my dreams there. It’ll be summer break, just after I’ve graduated college. I don’t want a horrible swimsuit on when I meet the man I might eventually marry.

  Tottering into the living room, tired from the cold, exhausted from swimming, dead on my feet after shopping with Gran, I settle onto my dad’s luxurious couch. It’s cushy, and I sink into it as I wrap myself in a blanket. Next up, I flick on some horrible reality show and snuggle down for the wait.

  My eyes are closed before the credits roll.

  Chapter 10

  ANNIE

  When I wake, it’s dark.

  “Dad?” It feels like I’m home alone, but I call out again just in case. “Dad, are you home?”

  No answer. I turn the TV down and call a few more times in case he’s wrapped up in his work. I listen for the shower. The garage door opening. Nothing.

  Sliding the plush blanket around my shoulders, I cinch it tight and tiptoe through the house. It’s too big for my dad by himself, and the modern feel is a little too fake. I don’t know why he bought this place when he was trying to downsize.

  But that’s not my problem. I head into the kitchen and make one last sweep, but my dad’s not hunched over the laptop he keeps at the small, built-in desk. My dad works everywhere, even the kitchen.

  Tonight, however, it’s just me.

  I sink into the desk chair as a flash of annoyance ripples through my body. I’m not hurt. No, this has happened far too many times for me to feel upset. I’m focused instead on the minor inconvenience of being stuck here without a car. I have to get back to school, homework, real life—and who knows how long my dad’ll be stuck at the office?

  I pop a Nespresso capsule into his shiny new machine and press the button, watching as it whirs to life. Once my cup is ready, I plop back into the chair and check my phone—no messages.

  I debate texting him, but decide against it. If he doesn’t care enough to see me, I’m certainly not going to force him—not at this point in my life. I’m a full grown adult. I don’t need him for anything; I never have. I’ve made it a point to pay for my own college, even though he’s offered. I don’t want to owe him a thing.

  But I will borrow his internet to stall as I debate my car situation. Flicking on the computer, I debate getting started on some homework. I could just work here all night until my dad gets home, but that’s just depressing. I don’t feel like working alone on Saturday night because my dad forgot me at home.

  Instead, I find myself typing a familiar name into the browser: Cohen James.

  The results list is quite lengthy. Even more so when I click onto the Image tab. There he is, those green eyes glinting off the screen as he’s captured in various stages of post-game smiles, candid shots of him on the ice, and a few photos of him out to eat or sharing a drink with friends.

  I scroll further. There are a few photos of him with a girl on his arm, but I find myself oddly pleased that it’s never the same one twice. Nowhere in the search results is a snapshot of the woman who picked him up from the YMCA today.

  A sinking feeling follows. It’s just as I suspected—he has a different woman waiting for him every night of the week. I glance toward the Target bag on the counter, thankful for my newest suit. It makes me look like a dinosaur. No way will I let him make me a member of his revolving harem.

  I flip back to the results listing and find an article near the bottom of the first page that announces Stars Starting Forward Leaves Little to the Imagination. My finger presses down on the link, even though I know it’s clickbait.

  Inside, I don’t find naked pictures of Cohen James like the article’s title insinuates. Sure, there’s one blurry image from a cell phone, but it’s impossible to even tell whether or not it’s really Cohen.

  I’ve almost hit back to return to the homepage when a line at the bottom catches my attention. More specifically, a pair of words. Indecent exposure.

  Apparently my swim instructor had been hazed by some of the older members of the Stars team. Cohen’s a new trade this year, fresh from the LA Lightening, and apparently the captains thought it’d be funny to introduce Cohen to MN with a bang.

  Unfortunately, he’d been caught standing outside his teammates’ home, serenading the captain with no clothes on. Some poor older woman walking her dog had been scared stiff, called the cops, and Cohen had been slapped with an indecent exposure fine, and another tick against him in the troublemaking column.

  It’s funny, sort of, the image of Cohen singing at the top of his lungs without pants. For some reason, I can picture it clearly. I can also picture him not snitching on his teammates.

  As the article suggests, it was all Cohen’s fault. I hardly doubt that’s true, but he didn’t correct anyone, and I give him some grudging points for that. Even more than a jerk, I can’t stand a tattletale jerk.

  This is where my research must end. Before I feel any more sympathy for the guy. Standing, I rinse my coffee cup, dry it, replace it in the cupboard, and then wipe the browser history clear.

  Then, I fork out my phone and make a call to Sarah, my best friend and roommate.

  “Hey, how’d it go today?” she asks when she picks up. “I thought you’d be home sooner—oh, are you at dinner with your dad, already?”

  “What are the chances you’ll let me buy you a bottle of wine tonight?”

  “What do you need?”

  “My car.”

  She sighs. “He didn’t show?”

  I nod, realize she can’t see me, and murmur an affirmative answer. “I don’t want to call my mom and get him in trouble. It’s probably best if I just find my own way home.”

  “I’m sorry, Annie.”

  “Hey, don’t be—you know how this goes. If you’re too busy to come get me though, I’ll suck it up and phone her—I know she’s just waiting for the call.”

  “You said wine?”

  “I’ll splurge and buy you the eight do
llar bottle.”

  “I’m a poor college student. How about two of the four dollar bottles?”

  “I like that math,” I agree. “Two bottles it is.”

  “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  Ten minutes into my wait, I text my dad and tell him I have to get going, but thanks for the coffee. He doesn’t respond right away. In fact, it’s not until I’m with Sarah and chowing on a Chipotle burrito—apparently swimming makes me ravenous—that he texts me to apologize.

  I turn my phone off, and instead focus on showing off my Target score.

  “What do you think?” I hold the horrid suit up for Sarah to see. “Do you think this will get Cohen’s attention?”

  Sarah wrinkles her nose, her fingers reaching out for the coarse fabric that, in all seriousness, feels like dragon scales. “Why are you doing this again? He seems funny. I liked that article about him serenading his team captain.”

  “Because,” I say cheerily. “I want to drive him crazy.”

  “Crazy? Then you should really go with the black one. It looks great with your boobs.” She looks at her own, smaller ones. “I could never wear it, that’s for sure.”

  “Oh, not sexually crazy,” I tell her. “Just regular crazy.”

  “Well, then you’ve nailed it.” She picks at the fabric, unconvinced. “It’s horrible.”

  Chapter 11

  ANNIE

  One week later, and I’m right back to where this whole mess started: swim lessons.

  At least I drove myself today, so Gran’s not marching around in her Go! Annie! socks. I’m waiting outside the pool five minutes before class when my phone rings. My mom’s picture flashes on the screen, and I can’t help but roll my eyes.

  “Are you at the Y?” she asks when I answer. “I’m not being nosy, I’m just wondering.”

  “You are being nosy, mom.”

  “Well, are you there? I paid good money for these lessons. I don’t want you to die at my wedding.”

  “I’m not going to die at your wedding!”

  “Well, good. That means you showed up to class?”