Overnight Sensation(41)
My reply to him is terse. Thank you, Daddy. I don’t want to speak to that man, so I’m not calling him back. And I will not beg him to do the right thing.
Mama gets a phone call, though. My parents live apart for much of the year. When Daddy got the commissioner’s job, he bought a condo in New York and stays here most of the time. My mother doesn’t seem to mind, so long as she has the country club to keep her company.
“Hi, honey,” my mother greets me. “I hope you’re having a lovely spa treatment on your birthday.”
“Oh, I am,” I assure her. And it’s almost true. In the other room, I already have the hot water running into Jason’s kickass tub. I’m going to take the world’s longest bubble bath.
“Did you open my present?”
“Not yet! But I will. Can’t wait.” Mama loves wildly impractical gifts. The old Heidi wouldn’t have minded, but the new Heidi would just as soon have some birthday cash.
“You take care of yourself,” she tells me. “Get a deep-cleansing facial. Keep that New York smog out of your pores.”
“Absolutely.” Mama is easier to handle if you just agree with her all the time.
We chat for a few minutes, but I don’t tell her that I’m not staying in Daddy’s condo, and she doesn’t seem to know. My father probably assumes that my departure is like a temper tantrum—if he ignores me, it will blow over.
“Love you lots,” we tell each other before signing off. Then I run into Jason’s luxury bathroom, shed my clothes, and slip into the steaming water. His tub is the kind that’s separate from the glassed-in shower stall and sized for two people.
I’m couch surfing at the equivalent of a luxury hotel. This bath is my birthday gift to myself. I should probably feel guiltier for staying here. But they’re heading out on another road trip tomorrow, and they won’t give me another thought.
After a good soak, I straighten my hair the way Eric likes it. That takes forever, because my hair is a lot like me—it wants to take a walk on the wild side. But since Eric is going to treat his ex-girlfriend—the one who dumped him and moved away—to a dinner she can’t afford, I’ll show up with hair that’s straight and tame.
I carefully pack my favorite little black dress and heels in my bag and then put on jeans and a regulation Bruisers sweatshirt and jacket. Working in a different department every week means I have more costume changes than a showgirl in Vegas.
Today I’m part of the ice-maintenance team. But since this is a practice day and not a game, I’m half of the ice-maintenance crew. And when I show up at the rink, it’s clear to me that the guy in charge of the practice-facility ice is pretty happy to have a minion for the day.
“Here’s the ice drill,” he says, smiling at me from underneath a walrus-style mustache. “You know how to use it?”
“Of course,” I say, because a girl has her pride. I can already tell that he’s going to make me do all the work while he sits around eating some of the donuts they’ve brought in for the fans. But I won’t play stupid just because he’s lazy.
“Cleats are over there,” he says, pointing lazily at a table full of supplies.
I pull on a pair of ice claws over my boots—they’re metal spikes that will keep me from slipping on the rink. Cleats are for losers, but I’d rather wear them than face plant in front of the team and the crowd.
My hair is perfect, too. Can’t mess with that.
Walrus Mustache doesn’t even get up to see how I’m doing as I walk out onto the ice with the drill. He’s probably on donut number three as I kneel down in the goal crease and drill into the fresh sheet of ice where the net’s anchors will rest.
“Hot Pepper!” Silas exclaims from the patch of ice where he’s stretching his hamstrings. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? Getting my nails done, obvs.”
A bunch of the men roar, like I’ve said something funny. Whatever. When I have four perfectly placed holes, I set the drill aside and fetch the net from the edge of the rink.
The gathering crowd is watching me as carefully as if I were performing surgery in front of them. Honestly I don’t even understand why people are spending a perfectly good Saturday afternoon watching our boys run drills. I’ve been dragged to hockey practices since before I could walk.
Maybe it’s the free donuts.
I slide the net into position, which is a little cumbersome. Silas skates up to help me, and I let him because he’s a goalie and he’s probably set up nets his whole life. “Ice crew, huh?” he asks, dropping the pin into the hole I’ve made.
“Yeah. Could be worse, I guess.”
“True,” he says. “Better than cleaning more toilets.”
Knowing my dad, I’m not sure that’s off the table. “Have a good practice,” I tell him.
“Thanks, Hot Pepper.”
The other goalie—Beacon—helps me with the other side. And then practice begins. I think about having a donut and then think better of the idea. And then I wait. And wait.
Holy cow, practices are long.
“Kinda rough out there,” Walrus Mustache says at one point. “Better get a shovel.” He takes another sip of his coffee and just waits.