Page 4 of Season's Schemings
“I’m fine, though,” I tell the girl in the mirror, who’s staring back at me with only slightly red-rimmed green eyes. I smooth a strand of my light brown hair back into place and sniffle. “Totally fine.”
Behind me, a toilet flushes.
I spin on my heel to find a man lumbering out of one of the cubicles. He’s wearing the uniformed red polo shirt that all the hotdog and popcorn slingers at the snack kiosks wear. He’s also got on a slightly terrified expression. I blink at him in full confusion for a moment.
“Um, I’m glad to hear you’re fine,” he says meekly. Cautiously. “But… I’m pretty sure this is the men’s restroom?”
“No,” I say staunchly with a shake of my head. “This is definitely the…”
And that’s when I spot the urinals.
Great. So not only was I talking to myself aloud in a public restroom, but I was talking to myself aloud in themen’srestroom. While a man was trying to take a quiet poop in stall three.
The guy follows my eyes towards the urinals, then hops from one foot to the other before appearing to make a split-second decision and bolt for the door.
Without washing his hands.
Ew. That’s got to be a public health violation in the extreme. But I can hardly blame the guy—he was clearly fearing for his life. Still…
Note to self: never buy a hot dog at the RGM arena.
I clearly need to get the hell out of here ASAP, but before I go, I decide to wash my own hands as a gesture of goodwill, hoping to spread the antibacterial vibes in his direction.
As I’m lathering up with soap, the door creaks open, and for a moment, I actually think I’ve voodoo magicked him back in here.
But no, Hot Dog Boy is not back.
Instead, standing in the doorway of the restroom—pretty much entirely filling it with his big, hulking frame—is the Atlanta Cyclones’ new star center. Number 19. Sebastian Slater.
Who might be even hotter in real life than on TV.
And who I’m currently meant to be making lunch for.
Oh, for puck’s sake.
3
SEB
I might look like a dumb jock.
Hell, I might evenbea dumb jock.
But the first thing that springs to mind as I stare at the woman in the men’s bathroom—who’s scrubbing her hands while sporting raw, red, teary eyes—is that scene inMacbethwhere Lady Macbeth goes off the rails. Proof that I did listen in class once in a while. Man, my high school English teacher would be proud.
My second thought is that this will teach me for drinking so much Gatorade on the way to practice that I have to duck into the arena’s public restrooms before I can even get to the locker room. Because here I am, staring at a woman who’s staring back at me with wild eyes as she clearly experiences some sort of a crisis of the highest order.
“Hi!” she squeaks, her eyes roaming over me as her cheeks color scarlet like they’ve been painted. “I’m just finishing up in here, I’ll be right…” She shoves her hands back under the running water a little too fast, and a jet of liquid sprays all over her shirt. “Out,” she finishes dejectedly, staring sadly at her soaked top.
I open my mouth to ask if she’s okay. Ask if I can help. Do something to assist her.
And then, I take in the unique celery-green tint of her eyes. The stick-straight light brown hair. The freckles dancing over the bridge of her button nose… Afamiliarbutton nose.
Frick.
“This is perfect. Absolutely perfect!” The lady sounds a touch hysterical now. She sniffs, then takes a paper towel and dabs at her wet eyes before taking it to her drenched shirt and scrubbing it as roughly as she was her hands. “Of course Sebastian Slater walked in here and this is happening right now!”
My internal panic button starts to flash. Though I’m not one to usually acquaint myself with hysterical women who lurk in men’s restrooms, I have definitely seen this particular woman before… I just can’t rememberwhereI’ve seen her.