Page 50 of From Ice to Home (The Heart of a Ranger #1)
Liz and Mona are standing in the doorway.
Mona’s hands are in the air as she lets out a shriek.
“It’s Mrs. Lucas Walker!” She throws her arms around me in a dramatic hug before letting herself in.
“I can’t believe you got yourself a house and a husband since we left you in Vegas. You move fast Han, I’ll give you that.”
Shock and excitement mingles through me as I give Liz a hug.“I thought you weren’t coming back to New York for another week?” I ask, her familiar frame and warm smile sends a wave of comfort through me.
“We changed our plans,” she says, hugging me extra hard. “Plus we brought more of your stuff.”
Over her shoulder, I spot two bags standing in the driveway. I’m so grateful that they thought to bring me more of my clothes, but I also know that it could’ve waited for another week.
“You saw the article,” I deadpan, dragging the bags inside before closing the door behind them.
“We did and we brought reinforcements.” Mona digs inside her giant designer handbag before pulling out my favourite box of chocolates and a bottle of champagne.
“Now you see this box is small,” she waves the chocolates in front of me. “Because we’re not going to wallow in things we can actually change. I told you to get that man to buy you a ring. This could all have been avoided if you followed my advice.”
Walking back toward the living room, I ignore the comment. I have a ring, and even if it had a six-carat diamond, it would probably still be buried in my bag upstairs.
Both of them follow me as I change the subject. “How did you find me?”
“Well, the friend tracker is still kind of running,” Mona says. “Good thing too. Who knew we’d have to look for you in a whole different state after a night in Vegas.”
“Who’s at the door?” Avah’s voice comes from the living room before she steps into view, horns blaring in the background. “The Canucks scored again, the guys aren’t doing so good.”
My heart sinks as I walk toward the couch, my eyes glued on the screen where they’re showing a replay of the Canucks player intercepting the puck in the Rangers zone and making his way down the ice, going up against Nikolai alone.
Nikolai splits, blocking the entire net, leaving the Canucks wing to lift the puck over his pads and into the net.
“This is Liz and Mona,” I say, waving to my friends behind me, watching the second replay in slow motion to make sure that really was a goal. “They’re from New York, but study with me in Durham. What’s happening out there? Who was on the ice when that happened?”
“That was on the penalty kill,” Avah says, motioning for Liz and Mona to take a seat. “Nice to meet you. Make yourselves comfortable, there’s pizza, ice-cream and lots of drama.”
I keep watching the television, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lucas. The camera shifts to the Rangers bench where the coach is talking to the guys while they’re chewing on their mouth guards. Lucas looks distracted, nodding along, but his gaze is fixed on the players skating in front of him.
“I wish I was there,” I murmur, hating that I can’t be there for him after the game.
Mona moves to the kitchen, no doubt in search of glasses for the champagne.
If it were anyone else, I’d jump up and play the perfect hostess, but with Liz and Mona it’s never been necessary.
They’ve always been comfortable enough to make themselves at home, because my place is theirs and vice versa.
“So, how did you two meet?” Liz asks, grabbing a slice of pizza. Her dark hair falls across her shoulder as she studies Avah a bit more intently. “You look familiar,” she adds, her brows furrowing.
“She’s EJ’s sister,” I turn to Liz, an idea forming in my head. One that’s sparking loads of excitement. “You remember EJ, right? You spent some time with him in Vegas.”
Liz takes a bite, catching a strand of cheese with her finger. “More like he rescued me from that other guy—what’s his name? The one who seemed to be on a mission?” Liz asks me. “He had zero quit in him.”
Avah’s face drops a little. “Yeah, that’s probably Declan. ”
Liz taps her nose, her mouth too busy chewing a big bite of pizza.
Mona comes back into the room, holding four glasses in one hand, and the bottle of champagne with the other.
“We specifically asked for tickets to the game, with VIP locker room passes,” Mona says, placing the glasses on the table. “But I guess this will have to do. For now,” she adds, tossing a scorching glare in my direction.
She champagne popping sounds through the room, along with another blare of a horn on the television.
“This doesn’t feel like a champagne moment,” I mutter, dragging my fingers through my hair as I watch my now angry and frustrated husband skate off the ice. He hops the boards and snaps his stick clean in half across it. “They’re getting killed out there.”
Mona turns toward the screen, the score now 4-0 for the Canucks. “Listen, there’s always a reason to celebrate.” She pours a glass and hands it to each of us. “First, we have to drink to your marriage.”
We all take our glasses, holding it up with a bit of apprehension, not feeling the celebratory mood she’s clearly in right now.
“And second?” I ask, watching as Declan Murphy cross-checks a player across the ice, earning him a penalty.
He skates toward the penalty box as they show the Rangers’ Head Coach chewing his gum like his life depended on it.
The Canucks have the advantage of a powerplay right now, and the Rangers are down one of their best defensemen.
Mona’s mouth is open as she watches the replay.
“This game is brutal,” she says before smiling. “I like it.” She lifts her hand with the champagne glass. “Let’s toast to hockey. Because isn’t that just a metaphor for life if I ever saw one.”
We all drink to that. It’s already a struggle to swallow down the champagne, and to make matters worse, the commentators’ voices echo through the room.
“ Another turnover in the neutral zone from Lucas Walker,” the commentator says, his voice low and even. “That’s the third in this period alone.”
The other announcer responds without holding back, “He’s not skating with the same confidence. Whether it’s pressure, fatigue, or the Vegas headlines. He just doesn’t look like himself.”
Lowering my glass, the bubbles feel flat on my tongue. Worry digs into my chest, a blooming ache turning into guilt as I watch Lucas unravel on national television. I don’t know if I’m the one who’s supposed to hold him together, or if I’m the reason he’s falling apart.