Page 112 of Ice Me Out

“You can always fly out.”

“I can’t. I have school shit to do.”

We chatted for a few minutes about the game before I wished him luck and told him I’d be watching him from the stands. We hung up, and I promptly received $250.00 from him to use toward concessions.

“Lord, I’ve seen what you’ve done for others,” Monica prayed.

“Don’t worry, sis. I got you. I plan on scouting the single guys on the team for you when I meet them.”

“You’re a real one. Gimme a mean one, though. Like one I’ll have to block three times a week.”

I rolled my eyes and held up a dress. “Grow up, Monica.” That caught her by surprise, and her playful mood evaporated from the room. “You deserve a nice guy who’ll treat you right. Not some asshole with good dick who will have you stressed six days a week. Because then, when you actually get a decent guy, you’ll treat him like shit because you know nothing else.”

Monica sucked in a breath, and I feared I had gone too far. But I didn’t lie. She was too beautiful and intelligent to be wasting her time on fuck boys who will have her sliding down the walls.

“You know what?” she said, standing up from the bed. “You’re right… and I needed to hear that.”

My shoulders sagged in relief, and we spent the rest of the time finalizing our post-game outfits and plans.

***

I leaned forward in my seat as the clock ticked past the final minute of the second period. The game was intense from the start, with action beginning before the first face-off. Some pre-game shade tweets between the two teams went viral when the Carolina Stryker’s goalie took a cheap shot at our goalie. Christiansen swiftly responded, and the two went back and forth harder than the Real Housewives. You didn’t have to wonder why goalies were crowned the crabs of the boy aquarium.

Hart was fighting for his life on the ice. Carolina’s defense coverage was tight, and they locked on him like a heat-seeking missile. They shut him down at every turn and passing lane, and he lashed out in frustration a few times, earning him a trip to the penalty box late in the first period.

The buzzer blared, and the Cougars led 2-1. Players glided off the ice for intermission, and I didn’t miss how Hart searched for me in the stands. He found me—ten rows back from the glass—and flashed what became his signature “V” before skating towards the tunnel.

Monica nudged me. “Let’s take a pic and then head to concessions. I need two more of these,” she said, lifting her empty beer cup.

“Agreed. I’m coming back with a cup holder.”

We leaned into each other, and Monica snapped the picture. We were giggling over the phone when someone behind us found our joy annoying. “Can you go be the main character somewhere else?” the woman spat.

I swore I heard a record scratch in the background as soon as the words left her mouth. My head turned around like I was possessed to find a trio of fashionably dressed women, who I would’ve complimented on any other day, glaring at us like we’d committed some heinous crime. The ringleader sat in the middle with her glossed lips twisted so tight you would’ve thought she sucked on a lemon.

“Excuse you?” I said, raising a brow.

“I think you heard me.”

“No… no… I don’t think I did. Repeat what you said.”

She smirked. “I said, you need to go be the main character somewhere else. It’s rude to take pictures in the stands. We don’t want to be in your pictures, and I don’t want my child in your pictures either.”

The two women flanking her nodded in agreement.

“You’re not in our picture,” I commented.

“I know we are. Delete it,” she insisted.

“You’re acting like a real Karen right now,” Monica said.

“And you’re acting like ghetto trash right now,” she bit back.

“Girl, fuck you,” Monica responded before turning around and taking another selfie. The women scoffed.

“You just proved my point using that kind of language around children.”

“I’m sure they’ve heard worse,” Monica drawled.