Page 33

by TL Hamilton

Blair

“Come on, Viggy. I know you gave me a smile in there somewhere—There it is. Good.”

I paused the footage and took a screenshot of the captain of the Austin Aces hockey team, smirking. Fans would love it.

Backing the footage up a couple of seconds, I isolated the moment and spliced it into a teaser trailer of this season’s lineup. Some of the content had been recycled from previous years, while other files were footage I’d filmed during the development camp in July.

“Now, let’s see if I can find when Oscar…” I grinned as I clicked into the video of the giant winger striking a flamenco pose and cha-cha-ing in full gear. He’d told me that he and his wife regularly took dance classes together, and the way he said it felt like he was giving me TMI, but I had to admit that he could move both on and off the ice.

Pausing on a close up of his goofy grin, I took my glasses off and stretched, wincing as my spine snapped, crackled, and popped—a reminder to move that was more effective than my fitness watch’s hourly beep to the tune of move your ass . The glow of my laptop was the only source of light in the room, and after God knew how long in front of the computer, my dry eyes were screaming for a break. Huh. Five hours. My stomach rumbled, and I reached for the melted iced latte I’d bought at Starbucks on my way home from the rink.

I really should eat something healthy .

The idea of cooking any of the wilted vegetables I’d bought during a wave of health-related inspiration felt like too much work, so with a half-hearted promise to cook the following night, I opened my browser. A burger with tomato on it was almost the same as eating a salad. Right? As the website thanked me for my order and estimated delivery time at forty minutes, my cell rang.

Fishing through my drink collection—mango boba, ‘hot’ coffee, iced latte, and a Stanley cup full of untouched, room temperature water—and casting aside yesterday’s T-shirt that hadn’t made it to the hamper, I groaned as I caught sight of who was reaching out to touch me and seriously considered letting the thing ring out. The problem was that the caller was a level of tenacious that she could choose to turn up on my doorstep in less time than my burger and fries.

I pushed the bulk of my curls away from my ear and prayed for patience as I accepted the call.

“Hey, Mom. How are you?”

“Duckie. I didn't expect you to answer your phone. You can be so difficult to contact.”

I cringed at the old nickname and mentally tallied the first criticism of the phone call. First sentence. She was off to a solid start.

“Well, work keeps me busy. I can’t always answer.”

“When are you getting a real job? Instead of being an instafluencer, or whatever it is, you should be doing something with that brain of yours. Such a waste, especially when… you know.” I considered reminding her that Social Media Manager for the Austin Aces was a respectable job, especially at twenty-three, but she was already onto her next favorite topic.

“Georgia has a very promising audition coming up next week. She could be on the television soon. She’ll be famous. She’s grown into such a beautiful woman.”

In the space of thirty seconds she had insulted my job, reminded me of how superior my sister was to me, and alluded to my unfortunate looks.

Bravo, Mom. New record.

I considered knocking myself out on my desk to avoid the need to engage in the rest of this conversation. Unfortunately, I was chicken shit when it came to pain, so I’d just have to grit and bear it for at least another… The minute hand clicked over on my wall clock. Two minutes before I could beg off and end the conversation.

“...you really should take what you can get, so I told him you were free this Friday.”

“What?” I cut in on my mother’s insult-riddled monologue.

The long-suffering sigh told me I was a disappointment and a lost cause all rolled up in one difficult-to-accept package.

“The Ronson boy. He always liked you when you were young. He has an overnight stopover in Austin on Friday night and has agreed to take you out.”

An image came to mind of a ten-year-old boy whose hair had been thinning even then. His dark eyes, small and shifty, had always been too close together, and his forefinger on an eternal journey between his nostril and his mouth. He had somehow always smelled of wet dog, despite having had a severe allergy to the species; the musty, earthy, slightly fecal odor a constant mystery to every kid unfortunate enough to be forced into a play date with the guy.

“Not Snot Ronson. Seriously, Mom? I’m not going out with that guy.” The clock ticked over another minute, and I watched with rapt attention, wondering if I needed to just bite the bullet and go into hiding. I could change my name and become a circus performer… Except I was scared of heights. And was about as flexible as a loaf of bread. I could bend, but there was a good chance I’d just break in two.

“He’s grown up so much since you last saw him.”

“Wasn’t he arrested last year for stalking?”

“The allegations were unfounded. It was all a misunderstanding. His poor mother had to have a word with that wicked woman… Anyway. Enough of that. You’re lucky he’s available and willing to spend time with you. You don’t want to end up a spinster, stuck at home with her cats.”

Aaannnd I was done. Knocking on the underside of my desk, I feigned an approximation of upset.

“I’m so sorry, Mom. Someone’s at the door. I’m going to have to go.”

“I just want what’s best for you, Duckie. I can’t stand the idea of having a daughter who ends up alone because she left it too late. You don’t have options like your sister does.”

“Love you too, Mom. Bye.”

Ending the call, I dropped my head onto the desk and winced at the impact. Worth it.

Maybe if I killed enough brain cells, I could forget the conversation and pretend my mother didn’t think I was so hideous that I needed to be set up with a nose picking stalker to get laid.

Making a note in my calendar to ensure I would be indisposed on Friday, I turned back to my laptop, determined to finish my work. At least there was one area of my life where I was valued.

My hand knocked against the boba cup and, without shifting my eyes from the computer screen, I lifted the straw to my lips. Peach green tea shot into my mouth in a fresh rush, my body relaxing in sugary contentment as I burst the mango popping balls against the back of my teeth.

As my family-induced poor self-image took a backseat, I refocused on the still of Oscar Cavanaugh aka Caveman. The third line winger was a PR dream. A goofy, good-looking guy who was respectful to everyone and utterly devoted to his wife.

He was good people.

Unwittingly, my eyes shifted to the other person in the still. Dark brown hair cascaded from his head in an artfully styled wave that rested at his collar. That head was tilted back, straight, white teeth visible as he laughed at his friend’s antics. Even his freaking laugh lines were beautiful, and despite them being crinkled with mirth, I knew the exact shade of olive green his eyes were when he was in that mood. Mindlessly, I traced the perfectly groomed scruff of beard on his jaw and wondered—not for the first time—if those lips were as soft as they looked.

A knock at my door pulled me from my musings, and as the smell of greasy fries and melted cheese hit my nose, I cursed myself.

He may be beautiful, but Cian O’Leary was an asshole.

I might have had a moment of weakness in the privacy of my own home, but there was no way that I would ever consider him anything more than the self-involved, better-than-everyone type of character that all people blessed with good genetics were.

He’d end up with some supermodel in the near future who could sit with him during their boring, beautiful dinners and trade compliments about their appearance until they went to their beds.

For beauty sleep, naturally.

Those type of people ran the world.

Just ask my sister.