Chapter Nine – Fawn
I examine myself in the sun visor mirror, fiddling with my concealer under my eyes, which has creased. Of course, it decided to fail me between the nursing home and the ice rink parking lot.
Typical.
So, my makeup’s shifting; I’m turning oily. Hell, I’m just trying to keep myself together.
Glancing in the right corner of my mirror, beyond my curls, I find . . . the daunting ice rink.
I’ve got a serious case of dry mouth. Swallow, Fawn. Swallow.
The building’s just sitting here, gearing up for round two.
I mean, anything can be better than the last time I was here. Interviewing the players can’t go wrong, right?
My exhale comes in small, uneven ripples. I’ll be okay. This time, I’ve got my trusty iced coffee I picked up on the drive here.
I’ve got this. I psych myself up and quickly turn my attention back to my eyes. They’re not all glassy, which is good. It always hits me hard when I have to leave Grandpa, as if I’m ripping a part of myself out and abandoning it.
I didn’t cry today. Well, I tried not to — especially not in front of Grandpa.
No, today was good. We had lunch outside, a couple of Spam sandwiches, which I dislike, and some iced tea from one of those small plastic cups.
I told him I would be back late tomorrow morning.
He smiled as I explained, though I could tell he didn’t have a clue who I was or what I was going on about.
My palms sweep over my dress, but the knot in my stomach only tightens. “You’re good to go! Watch out for the doorframes, though, and also, remember: NHL, not NFL, okay?”
As I get out and secure the car, there’s something about that loud thump of a steel door that makes everything seem so finalized, like I’m locked in and there’s no going back.
Making my way toward the rink, a lump forms in my throat as I dig my fingers into my bag strap, as if that’ll do any good to calm me down.
As I get closer, cheers come from the inside of the building — absolutely loud, crazy, and completely frenzied.
Great! It’s filled.
Which means crowds. So, loads of people.
My calves feel like they’re knotting up and I’m pretty sure there are a thousand butterflies in my stomach.
I’m about to reach the door when I realize. “Damn! My iced coffee.” I spin around on my heel.
Ugh, I want to go back and get it, I really do, but the sun is absolutely baking my face, and my boob sweat is like “Get real? That walk for an iced coffee? Nah.”
I roll my eyes and look back at the rink, mumbling a quick prayer to the gods of caffeine. I’ll survive without it, like always.
As soon as I enter the rink, I’m hit with déjà vu.
No coffee. Sweaty. Anxious. Classic me, huh?
I don’t let those thoughts trouble me too much; I walk through the double doors like I own the place. No halting. No observing from behind the window like a nervous little meerkat. Walking in, head held high.
Take that, Door of Doom. Not today.
The minute I enter, chaos hits my senses.
It’s deafening in here.
The stands are filled like sardines, with screaming fans wearing Ivywood Wolves jerseys or sporting signs with glitter. Children are screaming, revved up on sugar.
There’s booing and cheering — pure pandemonium, the good kind. You know, that kind that wafts like popcorn, hot dogs, and victory.
Glancing at the ice, I expect to see sticks going airborne, a puck whizzing by, and players body-checking one another. Instead, I see the players all huddled at center ice, arms around shoulders, helmets sort of off, faces beaming with grins.
My eyes lift instinctively to the scoreboard above the rink, and there it is:
Ivywood Wolves – 4
Redwood Rangers – 3
Damn, I didn’t get to watch the game. But they won. Good for them.
Despite not knowing these men and being the awkward, nosy outsider with zero hockey IQ — I feel a weird little swell of pride blooming behind my ribs. I bet they did Ivywood proud.
Coach Richards struts onto the ice with steady steps, his face pasted with a wide, happy smile.
It stops me dead in my tracks. I had pictured him as a cranky, disagreeable man, stiff as a board.
I thought he was all scowls. His kindness makes me feel like I’m intruding on something hallowed.
He purposefully makes a beeline for Dylan, wrapping his arms around him in a firm, confident bear hug.
It’s not just a squeeze interrupted by a victory slap on the upper back; instead, it’s a father-son bear hug that screams pride, a voiceless nod of hard work.
I would have bet money I saw Dylan tear up.
In a quick blink, it looks like he dismisses it, quickly wiping the cuff of his glove over his eyes like it was just sweat.
Out of nowhere, another player crashes directly into Coach and Dylan, joining in on the hug.
The embrace is quick, and then the heartfelt moment is broken. The coach lifts his hand to his mouth like he is clearing his throat — all business again. Dylan blinks a few times, gives a subtle sniff and then — poof — his cocky grin returns like it never left.
He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear his mind then waves toward the older women in the crowd as he skates toward the exit.
I creep nearer to the gate, blending in, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. My mission is to absorb the dialogue, body language, mood of a group just having won. I don’t plan on rocking the boat; my goal is merely information-collecting and to interview some players.
However, I have apparently landed myself in the center of Mean Girls on Ice.
The figure skating squad huddles tightly by the boards.
Their hair is neatly pulled into high buns, their rhinestone coats half-undone, a sparkling group.
Their eyes are glued on the hockey players, blushing like fans at a BTS concert.
Inevitably, one catches my eye — sheer beauty, bleach-blonde hair, eyebrows sharp enough to slice a puck mid-air. However, she looks at me like I’m a piece of dirt on her shoe, cold and disapproving. She keeps steady eye contact as she leans in to whisper to someone.
Wait, I know that auburn-haired girl standing next to her — the girl who glided out of the rink the other day, her perfect skin and supermodel stride making a permanent mark.
She snickers back to the blonde girl with a stupid vocal fry, her voice rising high enough that the whisper hits like a slap.
“Harper, you’re so right. Her hair does look like an old woolly dryer ball. ”
Hang on . . .
Did she just say that about me? Or am I just hearing things? I know the rink is loud and all.
My gut drops as I glance downward at my curls, extra frizzy because I forgot to run product through them this morning. But still, a dryer ball? Come on.
Truth be told, I’m floored.
How old are they, like thirteen? No, they’re adults, early twenties. God, this is not high school. I came here to write a book, not to get dragged.
I want to confront them, but I wouldn’t know what to say.
Instead, I cross my arms, biting my cheek, and mutter under my breath, “Ouch.”
They catch on that they’ve been caught. Does it bother them? No.
Still, they give me fake smiles that carry a silent meaning: you’re below us.
Slowly, they move their eyes from my face to my hair, as if it has personally insulted them.
And, as if on cue, both fake a snarky smile and then turn their heads toward Dylan.
Of course they do. Golden Boy Dylan stands there, savoring the glow of his game win.
A heat prickles against my neck, creeping upward as I clamp my mouth shut. Shuffling my feet, I hold my notebook tight, as if it’s a shield.
Damn, if Delilah were here, she would not tolerate their fakeness, silent scorn, or negativity.
She’d probably stand between me and the Mean Girls of Figure Skating, with one perfectly sculpted brow raised and her head moving torturously — the female equivalent of flexing muscles and letting out a threatening growl.
There’s no question Delilah has a talent for comebacks, one that’s been refined through years around raucous drunks who feel that sitting on a bar stool entitles them to act like clowns.
She has thrown fully grown men out of bars like someone throws away trash — unperturbed, firm, and laced with a dash of sarcasm that severely damages their big egos.
But underneath all that intense energy is the girl who lets me steal her fluffy socks when my feet get cold and cries at dogs dying on screen.
Still, today, I could really use her don’t fuck with me energy.
A blur of excited shouts and piercing voices dispels my churning thoughts.
The figure skaters stand eagerly at the gate, fluttering eyelashes of enthusiastic anticipation.
Actually, if there wasn’t Plexiglas around the edge, they’d probably fall onto the ice in a cloud of perfume and glitter.
Their eyes are fixed on Dylan. Of course, they are. I wonder if one of them is his girlfriend.
I know his socials said single, but he seems like the kind of guy not to update things.
Shit, for a moment, I totally forgot I internet stalked him last night.
Dylan leans on the gate, sweeping aside his hair clinging to his forehead. A pink glow adorns his cheeks due to the game, his jersey sticking close to his chest, but that relentless, perfect smile persists.
Without hesitation, Miss Blonde leans forward, speaking in an obviously false voice. “Dylan, you played beautifully.”
It’s so sweet, I can almost feel a toothache developing.
He gazes down at her with a closed-lip smile. There’s no gleam of welcome when he answers. “Thanks, Harper.” His tone is flat.
Then, in a swift movement, he turns his gaze to his teammates skating toward the gate.
Harper’s lower lip shakes as she tries to hold back a sulk, and the girl to her right looks like a lost child trying to find someone. I wonder who she’s scouting out.
I mean, I guess that settles that. Harper is not Dylan’s girlfriend.
One by one, the team starts peeling off the ice — taking off their helmets, sweating hard, and riding high on the waves of their success earned.
Dylan, true to his character, showcases his trademark gesture: the butt slap parade.
Every player gets a robust, celebratory slap, and some of them prepare for it as if it’s a part of a well-practiced routine.
This time, a genuine laugh breaks free from my lips. It rumbles, lingering just a moment.
Dylan hears it.
He straightens, unruly hair spilling into his eyes, a smirk contorting his lips as if he just stumbled upon a tempting proposition. His forest green eyes are fixed upon mine — sharp, mischievous, remarkably alert.
I feel like a deer in headlights.
It’s my lower lip that initially betrays me. I bite it automatically, trying to hold back the smirk that wants to escape. A flush spreads over my cheeks, deepening with every passing second. It’s only natural. I’ve probably gone full tomato mode.
Just when I dared hope it couldn’t possibly be more evident, the figure skaters notice.
The cold stares burn my skin. Like a repentant schoolgirl, I look down, head in my notebook, pretending I have some sort of hockey research I have to write down immediately.
Scribble, scribble. Serious business here!
By no means are my cheeks flushing, of course — a lie I tell myself.
My eyes are still locked on my notebook as if it contains all the secrets of the universe or something, but I find myself glancing up periodically.
Dylan’s left the ice now and walks off onto the rubber flooring. Does he actually do everything flawlessly? Of course he does.
I know if I fully look up, he’ll be all smug and smiling because he caught me biting my bottom lip.
No, I wasn’t flirting. It was . . . a nervous habit — a muscle spasm.
Before I can spiral further, a deep, low voice cuts in from above. “Here’s your chance to interview the players.”
Coach Richards.
I peer up at him, expecting a smile after the win, but no. I’m met with crossed arms and a stern face. I pull my lips into a stiff, uncertain grin. “Oh, yeah. Okay.”
I didn’t expect to be interviewing them so soon.
A sudden urge makes me peep over the coach’s shoulder, and yup — the figure skaters are still giving me evil eyes. Perhaps they’re jealous I get to interview their favorite people. Damn, do I sound like a high schooler.
Shaking off the thought, I assume the players are behind me or sitting on a bench somewhere. I look around quickly — nothing.
The coach catches my attention and tips his head toward the locker room hallway.
Confused, I blink and stutter, “Yo-you want me to head into the locker room?”
Is this a joke? Maybe a test? Because if I walk through those doors and I’m met by a crowd of naked, towel-clad hockey players just out of their game, I swear, I will die on the spot.
The coach shrugs. “Well, it’s the only chance I’m giving you. You interview them now while they’re sober, or on a bar crawl later when they’re not.” His lips don’t smile, but his eyes do. He’s definitely getting a sick thrill out of this.
Shit. I don’t fancy interviewing them while they’re drunk, but do I really want to head into a room full of half-naked men?
“Uhh,” I sound, trying to think of something to say.
Coach Richards doesn’t hesitate; he places a firm hand on my back and pushes me forward.
Without another word, I’m heading toward the locker room door like I’ve been drafted into battle — no weapon, no plan, just a rapidly beating heart and a notepad.
“Good luck,” Coach chuckles, sounding condescending and way too much like a villain pushing someone into a haunted house.