72. Natalie

Chapter 72

Natalie

I shakehands with the owner of the Minnesota Sleet. “Nice to meet you. I’m Natalie.”

“Of course, of course!” The man who looks like Santa clasps my hand between both of his. “I was so thrilled when I heard you married one of our own.”

My smile slips a bit before I’m able to catch it. “He’s a special guy.”

Oh. My. God. A special guy?

Is Luke my grandson?

Santa doesn’t seem to see anything wrong with my statement because he nods. “He really is. We’re lucky to have him. This season is gonna be something exceptional.” He finally drops my hands.

“Oh yeah?” Dad chimes in. “I haven’t had time to follow them much.”

The other man beams. “We have a great group of guys. A number of them have been playing together for years, so they just instinctually know where to go, how to find the openings. Really mature lineups.”

As my dad replies, I look out onto the ice below, wondering where Luke is right now.

I feel like a total fraud, even as I’m dressed for the occasion, wearing an oversized Anders jersey.

Since I knew we were going to be watching from the owner’s box, I classed it up with a bright white turtleneck underneath and a pair of dark-wash jeans with ankle boots.

At least I look the part of a player’s wife, even if I don’t feel it.

I tap my fingers against my thigh, wondering if Luke will find out I’m up here.

They usually show shots of the expensive box seats during breaks, so he’ll probably figure it out.

And he probably won’t be happy about it.

A hand lands on my shoulder. “Sorry, Dear. I wasn’t thinking,” Santa tells me. “My crew up here can get you downstairs so you can say hi to your husband before the game. Maybe see some of the underbelly of the arena.”

“Oh, um, okay.” I answer the only way I can. Because Oh god, please, no would raise some questions.

My dad gestures for me to go ahead, so, against every wish inside my body, I walk out of the suite and follow one of the arena employees to a private elevator.

We ride down in silence, and when the doors open, I put a hand up to stop the employee from following me. “I know the way.”

They nod and stay put when I step out.

I know I’m being rude, and what I said was a complete lie, but I’d rather be lost down here by myself than escorted to the husband who can’t be bothered to acknowledge my existence.

As I walk through the empty concrete hallway, a little of that pain I’ve been working to bury for the past several days starts to push back up.

I just want this nightmare to be over.

I don’t want to keep lying to people.

A single tear breaks through my defenses, and I wipe it away as the hallway intersects with a wider, busier one.

I should just find a place to sit for a few minutes, then I can go back upstairs and pretend to enjoy myself.

There’s another turn ahead of me. I’ll round the corner and lean against the wall there, act like I’m waiting for someone.

The noise level increases as movement echoes through the hall. And that should’ve been my warning.

As soon as I turn the corner, I know I made a mistake.

Hockey players.

I almost walk right into the moving mass of Sleet players, decked out in all their gear, larger than life walking on their skates.

I jump back.

I literally jump back around the corner and backpedal as fast as I can.

Straight into a body.

We both go down.

My elbow bangs against the wall, but I manage to land on my butt. While it sends a jolting sting up my tailbone, it prevents me from cracking a joint on the unforgiving floor.

But the sound of pain from the man who went down with me says his fate is different.

“I’m so sorry,” I say as I shift to look at whoever I crashed into.

And then I pause, because I’m staring into a giant, grinning yeti face.

It’s Blizz, the Sleet mascot.

It’s Blizz.

I knocked over Blizz, and he’s gripping his ankle with both hands.

This isn’t good.

“Oh no,” I whisper as he groans. “Oh fuck.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say again. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I can hear the wince in his voice. “Just gotta walk it off.”

“Alright. Okay.” I use the wall to get to my feet, then I hold out my hands to help him up.

Big furry paws grip my hands, and the man gingerly gets to his feet.

Then he crumples against the wall, lifting one foot off the ground.

“I can’t—Fuck.” Still leaning against the wall, he yanks his head off, revealing the face of a pained man in his twenties. “I think it’s sprained.”

“I’m sorry,” I squeak, my fingertips pressing against my cheeks.

“What do I do?” His eyes are wide.

“I don’t know.”

We’re both starting to panic.

“It’s only my second game.” He glances around like he’s worried someone will see him.

“I’m sorry!”

“They’ll fire me if I don’t go out there.” He shifts his weight and winces again.

I want to tell him I can talk to the owner, but I don’t actually want to do that.

“Can we call someone?” I worry my hands together. “There has to be someone.”

He shakes his head. “It’s too late. The game⁠—”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. Because we both hear it.

The thundering music.

We look at each other in horror.

There are only minutes left before the announcer introduces the starting lineup.

Then the game starts.

“Can you skate?” the man asks me.

“Me? Kinda.” My breath starts coming in faster pants.

“Kinda will work,” he replies as he grips my shoulder. “Help me over there.” He gestures to a door across the hall.

“Works for what?” I ask with dread in my voice.

We hobble together the handful of feet, and he pushes the door open, revealing a large storage closet.

The music changes.

He hops through the doorway. “We have two minutes.”

The door shuts behind me. “Two minutes for what?”

“Before you need to be on the ice.” He reaches behind his back and starts to pull down a zipper. “You’re Blizz tonight.”

My brain blanks for a long second.

You’re Blizz tonight.

I start to shake my head. “No. I can’t.”

“You have to. Or I’m gonna lose my job.” The yeti suit pools around his ankles, and he sits on a crate. “Help me with these laces.”

I drop into a crouch to help him remove his skates even as I keep shaking my head. “Seriously, I can’t do this. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

I could still run upstairs and talk to the owner, but it’s not like I have any actual sway around here. And a whole lot of people will notice Blizz is missing. And an angry crowd is never a good thing.

We get the skates off, and he kicks the suit the rest of the way down his legs.

He holds my wide-eyed stare. “You said you can skate.”

“Not well!” I screech.

“You’ll be fine.” He throws the suit at me. “Hurry up.”

My heart is pounding in my chest as I shove off my shoes and start to pull the suit on.

We both see the problem at the same time.

My hips.

The suit catches at the widest part of my hips.

I tug, but it’s stuck.

The man clears his throat. “I’m not saying this to be a pervert, but you gotta take your pants off.”

My eyes snap up to his. “You can’t⁠—”

The music changes again.

“One minute! Just hurry!” He waves his hands.

“Cover your eyes!”

We’re both shouting, but he slaps his hands over his eyeballs.

I drop the suit and shimmy out of my jeans.

When I get them off, I kick them across the closet and yank the suit back up. It’s still tight around the hips and ass, but I get it up.

“Okay,” I breathe.

He opens his eyes and holds one of the skates steady for me.

I jam my foot into it as I pull off my bulky jersey and turtleneck, positive I’ll die of heat stroke if I leave it on, meaning I’m left in nothing but my underwear and my bra.

This is why you always wear a comfort tank top under your shirt.

The man works on my laces, and I pull the zipper up as far as I can reach.

Thirty seconds later, the slightly too-large skates are tied tightly onto my feet, I’m zipped the rest of the way up, and the Blizz head is securely on my head.

The man opens the closet door and points to the left.

“There will be someone dressed in all black, and they’ll tell you when to go out. When they do, you just gotta carry the Sleet flag to center ice. Then stand there and wave it around while they introduce the players. When the anthem starts, rest the bottom of the flagpole on the ice and stand still. Then when it’s done, come back here.”

“I’m gonna throw up,” I tell him.

He snorts. “You’re gonna be fine. Now hurry!”

Holding my arms out at my sides, I shuffle-run down the hall in the direction he pointed.

My balance is questionable, and I can already tell wearing the wrong size skates is going to be a problem. But when I reach the turn, I find myself in a wide opening right at the end of the ice rink.

“There you are!” A woman in black rushes to me, a giant Minnesota Sleet flag in hand.

“S—” I swallow and deepen my voice. “Sorry.”

She shoves the flag into my hand, then crouches down.

I just look at her until she slaps my leg. “Lift your foot.”

I teeter as I do what she says, but she’s quick to take off the blade guards.

Oh, right.

A second later, she gestures for me to go through the open section of the rink wall. And onto the ice.

“Fuck me so much,” I whisper.

I haven’t ice-skated in a dozen years.

I close my eyes and say a quick prayer to the goddess of humiliation.

Please let me get through tonight without ripping the ass of this suit open.

Of all the days to wear a thong.

Someone hisses at me to go, so I go.