Ice Contact (Milwaukee Steel Riders #1)

1. Olivia

1

olivia

“ C hest Bush coming in hot,” my best friend, and co-worker, Maggie says as she leans across our shared workspace. Gazing across the endless sea of cubicles, I notice our account manager, Bill Stansson, heading this way.

Sighing, I let my head fall back to stare at the ceiling. “Kill me. He just sent me an email. I’m sure he’s coming by to ‘explain it to me’ as usual,” I say to Maggie. “Why does he have to send it, then come over to tell me about it?” I grumble as I roll my eyes and Bill continues to walk towards us. “We betting coffee tomorrow morning if I’m right?”

“I’ll take that bet. Last time he asked if I could show him how to save something as a PDF,” Maggie replies with a giant eye roll.

“Olivia,” he says, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his wrinkled nose, “did you get my email?”

“I sure did, Bill. Reading it now.”

“Great. I wanted to stop by and explain it to you, in case you have any questions.” Of course he does. I force a stiff smile. “We need to get the final edits for the Bayview Bourbon campaign over to them by EOD,” he says. My eyes can’t help but stare at the disgusting display of hair pouring out of his polo shirt which always has one too many buttons undone. Bile rises in my throat, and I fight to keep my face neutral enough he doesn’t suspect a thing. I barely want to work with this guy, let alone see his curly bush fully displayed on a daily basis.

“Yep. I see that information right here in your email, Bill. I’m almost done working on it, and I’ll send it over to you in the next hour. You’ll have time to review before we need to get it to them,” I reply with a passive aggressive tone, hoping he won’t pick up on it.

“Great! Glad to have my crack team on it. This is a big account for us, and we need to put our best foot forward,” Bill says with a wink as he walks away.

Maggie waits until he’s out of sight, and we both roll our eyes with a snort. We have nicknames for almost everyone in the office. It’s the only way to keep ourselves sane surrounded by the chaos we deal with on the daily. There’s Cowboy, Turkey, Emo Guy, Coffee Breath, Sausage Fingers, and, of course, Chest Bush. We both work for Lakeshore Creative, a small advertising agency in Milwaukee. I am the copywriter, and Maggie is our graphic designer. We instantly clicked the day I started. We have a lot in common, including parents who are not thrilled with our creative career paths. I haven’t actually talked to my parents in years because of that and other philosophical differences. It was painful at first, but Maggie volunteered to show me around town and introduce me to some of her friends, helping me find my own sort of family here. I’d just moved to the city, so her kindness was a gesture I wasn’t expecting. And now, eight years later, we are still trauma bonding over the ridiculous people we work with.

“I hate being treated like an idiot every time one of these guys talks to me. I know Bill can’t read an email to save his life, but I am quite capable,” I vent. “I’m surprised he even figured out how to send the email in the first place. Earlier this week, he sent one with the entire email in the subject line. Nothing was in the body. It was almost impossible to read, but there’s no way in hell I could ask him for clarification. He thinks because I haven’t been doing advertising for twenty-five years I am a complete moron and he has to mansplain every task to me.”

“Ditto, Liv. If Sausage Fingers bitches me out one more time for not checking with her before I add a new client into the account software, I swear I’m going to walk out. I don’t understand how some people function acting like they own the entire world and we all have to bow to them. Who made her the Pope?” She groans, digging her fingers into her temples. “I walked by her desk yesterday and, despite my literal hate for her, tried to be the bigger person. I said, ‘Hi Angi, how are you?’ That bitch looked up at me, rolled her eyes, and went back to work. What the hell did I ever do to her?” Maggie grumbles with a sigh. “At least it's the weekend, so I can drink my sorrows away.” She moans, draping herself between our desks and pouting with big puppy dog eyes. “Then, in a few short days, Monday will come again, and we'll be back on this never-ending train ride straight to hell.”

I laugh at her and the depressing monotony of our situation.

“You want to come to Walt’s for happy hour tonight?” I ask. “Not that you haven’t heard me sing before, but there is alcohol and cheese curds available for purchase.”

“I wish! I promised my mom I’d go to her cousin’s retirement party tonight. I would much rather go to Walt’s and listen to you belt out some tunes over a drink. But my mom is basically bribing me to attend this party. She said if I go, she’ll pay for my flight to our annual Florida trip, and I love you, but I’m guessing you won’t be paying me $400 in airline gift cards to come see you perform.”

I laugh. “Yeah, if I was making $400 myself I’d gladly help you out. I would go for the free flight, too, if I were you. Besides, Cayden said he might try and come tonight since it’s been raining all day.”

“Cayden Banks doing something unselfish? I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“I know, I know. At least he’s making an effort. I’m honestly surprised he hasn’t already made plans with his buddies since his softball game got rained out.”

“Liv, I really hope he shows up for you,” Maggie says with a pitying smile. “I would hope your boyfriend would want to spend time supporting your passion when his beer league softball game gets rained out. Then again, I don’t even have a boyfriend, so you’ve got me beat there. Sadly, I’ll be at a retirement party with my mom and a bunch of older ladies trying to set me up with their weird grandsons. I certainly hope your night is more exciting than mine.”

“Can I get a little more piano in my monitor?” I ask Walt, the owner of Walt’s on Water. He flashes me a quick thumbs up, and I hit a few keys on my piano as I test the level. “Thanks Walt. Everyone, give it up for Walt, the best bar owner and sound engineer this side of Lake Michigan!” The crowd hoots and hollers as he shakes his head and rolls his eyes. Walt does not like to be the center of attention, and flips me off every time I give him a shout out.

Walt’s on Water is an old-school bar in the Third Ward neighborhood of Milwaukee. As with any bar in the city, the decor is part of what makes it great. Between the dark wood paneling lining the walls, the ancient brown leather bar stools, and the multi-colored Christmas lights providing a soft glow throughout the space, it looks like my grandparent’s basement. Some may think it’s too kitschy, but it’s one of the most popular bars downtown and has been for decades. I personally think it is perfect for a true Milwaukee bar experience. Add in some good music from yours truly, and you’ve got the makings of a perfect night.

Walt has been gracious enough to let me perform here every Friday for happy hour the last year. It’s honestly beneficial to both of us. It’s good exposure for my music, and he says my set draws in a good crowd for his happy hour specials.

I’m not sure I believe him. I’m just a local singer-songwriter looking to perform my own music. I’m sure the bar crowd won’t be into my moody piano ballads, so I mostly sing cover songs. You’ve never seen a crowd go wild during happy hour until you bust into an acoustic version of Journey’s ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ or Toto’s ‘Africa’. People can’t help but sing along to those songs, they’re classics for a reason, but my original songs? I’ve always longed for an outlet where my music can reach those who truly appreciate the art of songwriting, but it’s not Walt’s. I weave them into my set list as I can, but no one knows the words. No one knows the melody. No one really pays attention to be honest. A deep ache forms in my creative heart when my songs go unheard. These customers are here to enjoy a drink, and maybe a bite to eat, after a long week of work. Similar to how my life feels most of the time, I’m nothing more than background noise.

The only nights I’m not here are when the Milwaukee Steel Riders are playing. As the NHL team’s national anthem singer, and a huge hockey fan, I wouldn’t miss those games for the world. Even if I wasn’t there for a purpose every game, I’d still be there to cheer on my boys.

Hockey is the best sport. I will never comprehend how there are not more hockey fans. It’s fast paced, high-energy, and they get to fight . And the punishment for fighting? They get to take a break. Sit in a little box all by themselves for a few minutes, grab some water, and chill.

Why can’t office jobs be like that? What if I could punch Coffee Breath from sales? She always drinks the last of the coffee, then saunters back to her desk without making another pot. What I wouldn’t give to throat punch her when she forces me to be un-caffeinated longer than necessary, painfully waiting for the empty pot to fill back up. She makes my blood boil hotter than the drink brewing in the machine. Going by hockey rules, I would smile at her with an evil grin, punch her, then sit in a little penalty box to take a rest while the coffee refilled. Instead, I’d be sent to HR and be packing up my desk before the pot finished. Most days, I slump my shoulders, begrudgingly brew another pot, and sigh…a girl can dream. And for God’s sake, Brenda, just make another damn pot of coffee - it takes two freaking seconds!

I know hockey players don’t see it my way. They are frustrated when they get their little time out, desperate to be back on the ice. But as a fan? I love the fights. I’m not a violent person by any means, with the exception of serial empty coffee pot assholes, but watching hockey players go at it and get roughed up on the ice is one of the best parts of the game. Just the thought of them getting all riled up with their sweaty, ripped muscles under their jerseys gets blood pumping to intimate places in my body.

But today it’s a rainy Friday night in early September, and hockey season doesn’t start for a few weeks. Even then, there will be pre-season games where one of my fill-in singers will perform the anthem. I won’t make my big debut until the home opener when the arena will be packed with anticipations high for a new season.

So, for tonight, I’ll play songs for the fifty or so people at Walt’s and serve as their soundtrack for the end of the workweek. I’ll enjoy performing, soaking in the thrill coming with it, eager to sing with the chill of icy air on my face.