Page 12 of Breaking the Ice

7

Emma

With a sigh, I collapse onto the couch in the living room. It's Saturday afternoon, I've completed my first week of work, and I feel utterly drained. I never thought my new job could be so exhausting. Unlike me, Dad, sitting next to me in his new armchair, seems to be bursting with energy. Well, he's used to massaging for several hours a day, I think. Besides, he didn't have nearly as much to do this week as I did. All 22 players wanted massages from me. At first, I felt honored, I enjoyed getting to know the guys, and flirting with a few of them. But by the third day, I was just completely exhausted. My legs ached from standing all the time, and my fingers were swollen like sausages. No wonder after all those massages. For the past two days, I've been walking around on autopilot due to exhaustion. Yesterday, I fell asleep during the drive home. Dad carried me into the apartment and into my new bed. We had to make do with the folding couch and the squeaky bed until Thursday because the furniture store couldn't deliver sooner. It doesn't matter, as long as the stuff is finally here.

Yawning, I glance at my wristwatch. It's almost three in the afternoon. The frozen pizzas I put in the oven for us still need ten more minutes. An eternity, I think, rubbing my burning eyes.

“Should I make you some coffee?” Dad asks, holding the remote control in his hand, looking over at me. A crease of concern forms between his brows, digging vertically into his forehead.

“No, thanks. I think I'll just go to bed and lie down for an hour,” I reply, swaying as I get up.

“Now? Already?” he asks in surprise as I struggle to stand.

“Yeah, otherwise I'll fall asleep sitting here.”

“And what about the pizza? You didn't have dinner last night, and I think you only had that bagel for breakfast today.”

“And a chocolate bar while I was waiting for Toby after the game,” I concede, giving in to Dad's stern expression. “I'll eat the pizza later when I wake up, okay?”

“But it'll be cold.”

“I don't mind.” When it comes to cold food, he's just like Mom. ‘A warm meal a day is a must for humans,’ is her motto, and Dad is in full agreement. But if I wait for the pizza to finish cooking, I'll get over the tiredness, or worse, feel sick from it. “See you later,” I say, giving my father a kiss on the cheek. Before he starts on the tiresome topic of ‘you're not eating enough’, I make my way to my room. It's still sparsely furnished, housing only a queen-sized bed and a wardrobe. But that doesn't bother me in the slightest. Even if I had just a mattress on the floor, I'd be content. The main thing is having a place to sleep. Rubbing my sore neck, I kick off my sneakers and slip out of my clothes, sliding under the covers. My ears are ringing, as if I've just come home from a nightclub. How can one be so exhausted? I grab my phone to set the alarm when I notice four new WhatsApp messages. All of them are from the ‘Portland Devils’ group. Parker added me earlier this week. He said all the Devils' team members are in it, which isn't true. Besides the players and me, I found only their former masseur, Patrick, and a couple of numbers I don't recognize in the group info. Curious as I am, I open the messages.

Byers writes:

*Hey guys, we really dominated the Iron Hawks today. 5:1! Incredible game!

Toby responds:

*We tore those pussies apart, that's what happened!

Parker:

*This calls for a celebration. Tonight, at the Brillant! Emma, you in?

Even though my eyes are about to close, I can't help but laugh. I can picture Parker right in front of me, his ice-blue eyes focused on his phone screen, waiting for my reply.

Durand:

*Yes, Emma, we insist that you come. After all, you're our new good luck charm.

The good luck charm thing is complete nonsense. But hockey players are superstitious, that's just how they are. In today's game, the Devils were trailing 0-1 until the second period when I showed up to watch. From that point on, as they claimed, the game turned around. Durand, Parker, and Caleb were scoring goal after goal. Anyway, they're a step closer to the playoffs thanks to this victory, and from now on, I'm officially their good luck charm. Another WhatsApp notification vibrates my phone. This time it's a private message from Durand.

*Thanks to you, I scored my tenth goal of the season today. Allow me to invite you for a drink in gratitude. How about tonight around nine at the Brillant?

Well, well, well, I think, feeling a grin tug at my lips. All week, Durand has been flirting with me. Not in the blatant way Parker does, seizing every opportunity to chat me up. No, Durand is more of a guy who flirts with his eyes—from a distance. He intentionally keeps his distance, doesn't reveal much. That's what makes him even more intriguing. And he's well aware of that. It's his style. A style that, I have to admit, I'm liking. I think he's not the unsympathetic show-off I initially thought he was.

Nibbling on my lower lip, I consider how to reply.

*Congratulations on your tenth goal. I'll come by to celebrate the next ten with you.

Even though it's not the most original answer, I send it. My mind is too empty for anything better. After that, I set the alarm on my phone for six o'clock, settle into the pillows, and succumb to sleep.

My father's agitated voice rouses me from a deep slumber. Blinking groggily, it takes me a moment to realize I'm in my bed. Judging by Dad's muffled voice, he must be outside in the hallway. I sit up and see nothing but darkness seeping through the slats of the window blind. Crap, what time is it? I glance at my phone. It's almost half past seven. Damn, I slept through the whole afternoon. And now I see why. What an idiot I am—I set the alarm for Sunday instead of Saturday.

“You should have thought about that sooner,” I hear my father hiss outside in the hallway. I wonder who he's talking to? I narrow my eyes and listen, but I don't hear a second voice. That's odd. Judging by the creaking of the floorboards, he's heading toward the kitchen. If he's wandering around the apartment, he must be on the phone, as he can never sit still during phone calls. But that doesn't explain his tense tone. I need to know what's going on! I quickly put on the clothes I tossed carelessly on the floor and sneak out of my room towards the kitchen.

“I don't know how many times I have to tell you this. I don't care, do you hear me? I don't care at all.” I stop in the doorway, peering into the room. Dad is leaning against the sink, his back turned, squeezing the bridge of his nose, listening to the voice on the other end.

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