Page 4 of Thin Ice

When I needed more, I would turn around to hold him closer, pressing my nose to his neck while he inhaled the green apple-and-rose scent of my hair. Back in college, he told me I could never change my shampoo, and I haven’t. I haven’t wanted to…

I pull back from Stevie before tears can breach the confines of my eyes to trail down my face. From the heaviness I feel at my back, I have no doubt we’re already getting stares, and I don’t need to add more weirdness to the show. You don’t cry in your friends’ arms at sports bars.

Besides, I’ve managed to keep myself from crying for, well, a very long time. I’m not going to start now.

Stevie holds my biceps, her eyes concerned as she studies me like cells under a microscope. I put the smile back on my face that appeared when I first saw her.

“I’m fine,” I say.

A brown, perfectly manicured eyebrow quirks, her signature cherry-red lips pressing into a line. “I don’t believe you.”

I could say several things to make her believe I am, like all the shallow words I’ve told Noah over the last couple of years so I didn’t affect his mood or hockey game with mine. Things like: “I’m fine, I’m just tired.” “I’m good, I’m just on my period.” “I’m fine, I just have a lot of photos to edit from tonight’s game.”

But I know none of that will work on Stevie.

She’s been my friend for several years now. A fellow partner of a Stormbreakers player and coworker who doesn’t have kids, she likes to have a cocktail and chips and salsa after work and is so adventurous I find that sometimes I wish I could be her. She’s a woman who knows what she wants, isn’t afraid to say it, and won’t ever let a man change her mind. Even her famous husband, Lucas, who is someone most people have a hard time saying no to.

I look away from her to the booth where said husband should be. “Where’s Lucas?”

Stevie audibly sighs and takes my hand, pulling me to the booth. She slides in first, and I follow after, her hands now on the table where a pitcher of cheap margarita that was for sure made with too much sugar sits. The yellowish-green liquid appears much too thick.

“When you texted that you’d be alone, I sent him home.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Are you kidding?” She grins as she takes the empty glass next to her half-full one, pouring me a drink. Some of the ice plunks unceremoniously inside, splashing the liquid onto the table. She slides it to me and wiggles her eyebrows. “It’s girls’ night now.”

I take the drink from her and sip it. My eyes widen, and I cough, making Stevie laugh. There is a lot of sugar in it, but it’s not just that.

“Is a whole bottle of tequila in there?”

“I may have asked the bartender to go heavy on the fun.”

I blink away the sting of the liquor and swallow. “He followed your direction.”

“Like every good boy should.”

I bark a laugh and take another heavy swallow and then another. By the fourth one, my tongue has numbed, and I feel a bit more at ease, no sign of possible tears in sight.

Stevie takes a swig of hers, not batting an eye at the taste as we both settle in to our surroundings.

The music over the speakers along with the talking of the crowd and TVs should be annoying, but I find it comforting. It’s better than the quiet of the house over the last week, only broken up by Noah’s endless rewatch of his missed shot, the pfft of a new beer being opened, or the thud of his feet on the treadmill followed by the rain of the shower hitting the expensive Italian tile of our too-big shower.

“So,” Stevie says after a minute, “want to talk about it?”

I run my nail, desperately in need of a manicure, over the rim of my glass. “Talk about what?”

Stevie cocks her head slightly as she stares at me. “Why when you first came into the bar you looked like you were about to murder someone.”

“I did not!”

She clicks her tongue against the back of her teeth. “You did.”

“I didn’t.”

Stevie pauses before she says, “Then tell me why you almost cried when I hugged you.”

“Something got caught in my eye.”