Chapter 8
Eight
CHARLOTTE
I’ve been to exactly one hockey game in my entire life.
My dad thought it would be fun to take Mom and me to a minor league game while we were in Boston visiting family for Christmas break when I was a kid.
Spoiler alert: it was not fun.
I can’t even remember watching the players slap the puck around. We were all too distracted by how freezing cold it was in the arena. We spent the first period shivering in our too-thin-for-a-New-England-winter coats before dashing for the exit at the first break in play.
This is different.
For one, the Voodoo arena isn’t nearly as chilly as that tiny rink in a run-down corner of Massachusetts.
There are twenty thousand people here tonight, warming things up.
I doubt I’ll need the jacket slung over my purse.
I’m perfectly comfortable in my white silk blouse, jeans, and a purple-and-green silk scarf tied at my neck in a nod to the team’s colors.
Secondly, I’m not some random Southerner adrift in a sea of New Englanders with accents so thick, I can barely understand them. This is my hometown. I belong in this crowd. And now, I’m a WAG (Wife or Girlfriend of a player), for goodness’ sake.
Except I’m not. Not really.
I’m a liar, liar with my pants on fire, and that feels scarier now than it did in that field Monday night. I was in my element there. Here, I am…
Well, I’m mostly trying not to throw up.
I’m not a sports girl. Never have been. Proximity to profuse sweating and organized aggression makes me twitchy.
I smooth my hands down the front of my blouse as I make my way down the concourse.
My outfit is stuffier than the other fans, but that’s okay.
Team jerseys and T-shirts with pictures of menacing-looking Voodoo dolls on skates aren’t my style.
But the scarf and my gold Mardi Gras earrings are a strong nod to team solidarity, and I bought a pendant at the merch stand on the way in to hold up when Nix is on the ice.
It reads, “Bad Voodoo = Good Hockey,” which is fun.
I think…
Though a part of me can’t stop thinking about the woman who used to help my mom with her roses when I was in middle school.
Elba was half Haitian, half Irish, and practiced an earth-based form of witchcraft.
She was sweet, committed to helping plants thrive, and very serious about warning young girls away from black magic.
“Every hex will come back on you tenfold, love,” she told me once, while we were dead-heading the rose bushes. “Steer clear of the dark arts, Charlotte. No matter how tempted you might be, justice isn’t worth the price of bad voodoo.”
Looking back, I suppose it wasn’t really appropriate for her to be discussing black magic with a thirteen-year-old.
But Elba had six grown daughters and knew a thing or two about middle-school girls.
Namely, that they’re vicious little monsters, subconsciously processing their own anger about how much it sucks to be a teenage girl by tormenting as many other girls as possible.
The memory gives me empathy for the tween rolling her eyes at her mother at the wine cart as I pause to buy a “get ready to socialize” glass of chardonnay.
It’s also a good reminder that I’ve been through tougher times than this. Yes, being cast as the pathetic, unworthy, shallow ex-girlfriend in an article my entire social circle has been gossiping about for days sucks. But being thirteen sucked way worse.
My cell buzzes in my clutch, as if in agreement.
Then buzzes again. And again.
Uh-oh.
This doesn’t bode well…
Dodging a family with four kids wearing matching Voodoo jerseys—the one where Hughey, the Voodoo doll mascot’s eyes are burning in a legitimately eerie way—I down my wine in a gulp, seek shelter against a pillar, and pull out my phone.
Makena: Well, Char, it looks like my terrible luck has fucked me again. Extra hard. With no lube.
Makena: You’ll never guess why Elly and I are going to be late.
Makena: Seriously, you will NEVER guess.
Makena: Because never in your wildest dreams would you believe such a thing that has happened this afternoon would actually happen. To anyone. Ever.
Ifrown as I type back: Oh no, what’s up? Are you okay? Do you want me to grab you guys a glass of wine so it’s waiting when you get here?
Elly is married to the Voodoo’s star forward—I planned the reception, and it was epic, thank you very much—and Makena is obviously dating, now engaged, to a player, too.
We’re planning to sit together in the WAG section and gossip during the breaks.
Elly got a babysitter for her daughter and everything.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Then Makena launches into her usual rapid-fire onslaught, leaving me scrambling to get a text in edgewise.
Makena: Sadly, no. I have no idea how long it’s going to take us to get there.
Makena: Honestly, we might not make it all.
Makena: I’m SO SORRY to leave you to navigate the WAG watering hole alone at your very first game. But so far, the raccoon does NOT seem inclined to cooperate. At all!
Charlotte: The raccoon?
Makena: YES! There’s a raccoon in my food truck!
Makena: A RACCOON IS LOOSE IN MY BABY, RUBBING ITS BIG HAIRY BALLS ALL OVER MY APPLIANCES AND DEVOURING EVERYTHING IT CAN GET ITS PAWS ON, CHARLOTTE!!
Makena: And it’s HUGE.
Makena: Like the size of a small sheep. And it’s not all fur. It is GIRTHY under there. Elly tried to shoo it out with a broom, but it jumped on the end, and the entire straw part broke off.
Makena: Then it ate all the sliders I was going to bring to the game as secret purse snacks.
Makena: Then it washed its hands in my glass of lemonade!
Makena: Now it’s on top of the fryer.
Makena: Sitting there with a bag of chips, it somehow managed to open.
Makena: JUST SITTING AND TALKING SHIT AND EATING CHIPS LIKE IT’S PLANNING TO STAY THERE FOREVER.
Charlotte: Oh my God, honey. Have you called someone? Animal control? The police? Both?
Makena: Animal control is on the way, but they said it could be an hour or more.
Apparently, there’s a possum situation in the park near the playground that takes precedence because of the children nearby and all.
But possums are NICE, Charlotte. This raccoon is NOT nice.
Seriously, I may have to rethink my favorite drink at the dive bar.
I don’t know if I can support the trash panda beverage now that I have been treated so poorly by an actual trash panda.
Charlotte: Understandable. Just hang in there, okay? And don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.
Makena: Of course, you will! Just don’t talk to Dierdre, she’s an asshole.
Charlotte: How will I know which one is Dierdre?
Makena: The asshole glint in her eye, of course. One look at her, and you’ll clock that she’s the kind of wretched beast who takes pleasure in other people’s pain. Also, she’s the only WAG with blond hair down to her butt. If she tries to fuck with you, ask her if it’s a wig. She hates that.
Charlotte: I’ll just avoid her.
Makena: Good plan. I like the way you choose peace instead of violence. But I have to choose violence sometimes, Charlotte. I really do. I can’t help it. I think I should go in there and face this critter down, mono a mono, but Elly keeps pulling me away from the door.
Charlotte: Listen to Elly! Do not, I repeat DO NOT go in there. It could be rabid.
Makena: Ugh. Fine. I think it’s just a shit weasel who enjoys senseless acts of destruction, but…I’ll be good. I promise.
Charlotte: Good. Keep me updated, and I’ll cheer extra loud when Parker’s on the ice for you.
Makena: Great! Thank you. He probably won’t see much ice time since he’s just coming off the injured list. Still, I really wanted to be there to support him during his first game back. But he understands this is out of my control. Humans make plans; giant trash pandas laugh.
Charlotte: So true. Hang in there, babes.
Islide my phone back into my purse, pulling in a breath that does nothing to ease the anxiety clutching at my ribs. I’m going to have to face the wives and girlfriends alone.
That’s fine.
I’m a grown woman. I run a successful business. I’ve thrown parties for hundreds of people and celebrities without breaking a sweat.
I can handle sitting with a bunch of strangers for a few hours.
Even though Makena has gone out of her way to warn me that most of these strangers are not nice or friendly. According to her, in fact, many of them are petty mean girls and old Dierdre is a flat-out “asshole.”
My stomach twists.
Stop it. You’re excited, not nervous. Remember? You’ve got this. Just linger at the edge and be friendly, but chill. Do not engage or attract too much attention, and everything will be fine.
I roll my shoulders back, lift my chin, and make my way to the private entrance to the WAG box, where a bored-looking security guard checks my name against his list, gives me a lanyard with “VIP ACCESS” printed in bold letters, and directs me down a tunnel that’s quieter than the main concourse.
My heels click against the concrete. The sound echoes, making me hyperaware of how alone I am.
Soon, the tunnel opens into a private box with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ice.
Plush stadium-style seats fill the front of the space, with couches and small café tables arranged behind them.
There’s a bar in the corner next to a small buffet, and flat screens mounted on the walls play the pre-game coverage.
The WAGs are already here in force. A gaggle of women laugh and gossip by the bar, several more are gathered in the middle of the seating area, whispering furtively behind their hands, and two leggy women in tiny miniskirts pick at carrot sticks at one of the café tables.
I spot three older women seated to my far left—mothers of the players, maybe?
I decide they’re the least intimidating clique and start that way, only to be intercepted by the carrot stick duo.