Page 6 of Bad Wolf
I’m preparing for a slightly risqué dance show, he was preparing for his future, but the same applies. And for the record, I don’t flash the goods. A couple of the other girls do every so often, if you can even call it that, because all the best bits are tastefully covered up.
Bathroom, boobs, and butt check, chomp through a packet of Skittles, drink a shot of tequila that’s waiting for me next to my makeup case—a gift from Mikey the bar manager, and a peek out into the house.
Having successfully completed the first four things on my list, I make my way across the wooden stage to do a little curtain-twitching. I like to know what I’m dealing with, like what sort of crowd we’re in for and…
“No!” I gasp aloud. My head starts to spin, and the world starts to tip on its axis, the curtained walls of the stage begin to close in. I struggle to breathe air into my lungs and my pulse becomes erratic.
Because sitting there, in front of me, is none other than the star of my dreams. And nightmares.
Just sitting there, with a bejeweled, golden, plastic crown jauntily placed on his perfect head. Laughing his bite-able hockey butt off, with his equally gorgeous and adorable family.
‘Cos yep, they’re all here. Well, the guys are anyway. His three brothers, two cousins, dad, a couple, nofourteammates, and some other men I don’t know.
I search the recesses of my mind and find that all signs point to the All-Star weekend. For a smart girl, I haven’t been paying much attention.
Now it all starts to make sense. Of course, they’re all here! I mean why wouldn’t they be? Casey is the captain of the NHL team Knox and the youngest Madden, Jason, play for. The Wolves.
And last year, Knox would have been a shoo-in for the highest scoring rookie in the league and probably the Calder Memorial Trophy, except he was only called up for the last half of the season. This year his stats are off the charts. He’d be a fan pick for sure.
Holy. Shit.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Panic. Panic starts to eat its way through to my very soul. Cold and icy, it sticks to every fiber of my being until I can’t take the sight anymore, but my shaky fingers won’t drop the fucking curtain.
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world,hewalks into mine.
No. No. This definitely is not happening. It’s a sugar high from the candy I just inhaled or the tequila has gone straight to my head.
Yes, that’s it, because there’s no way this is happening.
No way this can be how low my life has finally gotten.
No way I haven’t already been punished enough.
Fine, I can’t lie.Dramaticshould be my middle name, but let me ask you this, have you ever met someone who seems to burn a little brighter than everybody else? Whose energy crackles like lightning personified? Like they vibrate at a higher frequency?
Someone that people are drawn to, as if they’re a magnet and you can’t help but be pulled into their space.
Someone for whom the sun rises and sets. Has a laugh that’s infectious, whose smile lights up a room.
Someone who makes you feel special because they graced you with their time, or affection, or humor.
Someone who manages to be so infuriatingly cocky, that it becomes endearing, because they’re so confident in their own skin that they don’t bother trying to hide who they are and what they want.
Well, I have, and I was the lucky girl they decided to love. Out of everyone in the whole world,okay school, I got to be their number one. The one that got a different smile, one that was only reserved for me.
I was the girl that got to go home with him at the end of every day. The one invited to the raucous family dinners. The one in on the jokes. The one that got all his firsts.
That is, until I didn’t.
I wasn’t there to see him live his dream come true. Couldn’t celebrate with him when he made history by scoring a hat trick the first game his skates touched NHL ice. And that, my loves, is a sad, sad thing.
The broken and battered heart in my chest practically burst when I saw it live in the sports bar down the block. I cried so damn hard I couldn’t stop.
I started telling Vinnie, the owner and sole bartender of the dingy and outdated yet welcoming bar, “I know him! That’s my boy, that’s my Ace.” He had smiled a pitiful smile and placed another beer on the soggy mat in front of me.
Elated and bursting at the seams with pride, I ran to the phone booth at the back of the bar, lifted the receiver, and then realized that not only would the number I was about to dial no longer work, but he wouldn’t want to hear from me even if it did.