Page 18 of Breaking the Ice

“Damn it,” I groan and reach a hand to the sore spot. It then occurs to me that I'm wearing a jacket. “What on earth...?” I throw back the sheet and look down at myself. Beneath the unfamiliar top, I'm still in the shoulder-less white dress from last night. Man, I must have been pretty out of it not to manage taking it off.

On an impulse, I cast a glance back at the bed. I'm alone. Well, at least there's that! But whose jacket is this, and why the hell am I wearing it? Damned Long Island! I have no idea how strong the bartenders at the Brillant mix their drinks, but one thing's for sure: I'm never ordering one there again. I feel utterly wrecked. Out of curiosity, I take a sniff of the unfamiliar piece of clothing. Oh. That scent, that sensually masculine fragrance, I'd recognize it among thousands. Caleb – it's his jacket. A wave of heat washes over me, and I remember dancing with him. But that still doesn't explain why I'm wearing his jacket. I rummage through my memories, but it brings me nothing but more headaches. Alright, I think, I give up. We definitely didn't have sex, because Dad would've personally thrown any guy out. Including Caleb.

Hoping to feel a bit better afterwards, I force myself to get up and head for the shower. Unfortunately, all the warm water in the world doesn't help me get back on my feet. Although my stomach feels queasy, I decide to eat something. Maybe it'll help. I'm just glancing into the fridge when Dad appears in the kitchen doorway.

“Hey, feeling any better?” He looks concerned, hands on hips, bushy brows knitted together. How does he know about my hangover? I look at him, puzzled, and reach for a bottle of water. “Did you have to throw up again?” Wait, what?

“I threw up?” I ask incredulously.

“Yes, four times. Don't tell me you don't remember,” Dad replies. My expression must speak volumes, as Dad's face shifts from worried to angry. “Emma!” he scolds, coming in and leaning on the table opposite me with his fists. “What on earth were you thinking? God only knows what could've happened to you! A pretty girl, drunk in a strange city. Good Lord, I can't even imagine what could've befallen you!” His voice reverberates in my head, almost causing him to explode. I squint my eyes shut and feel for the chair to sit down. Dad sighs resignedly. “How much did you drink yesterday?”

“Not much,” I reply, rubbing my temples.

“But you don't look like you only had one or two drinks.” And I certainly don't feel like I did, I think, taking a sip of water. Maybe it'll help.

“I’m telling you, Dad. I only had two Long Island Iced Teas.” You can't really count that tiny sip of whiskey. “Normally, I can handle two cocktails, but yesterday I hardly ate anything for dinner.”

“Well, there you have it! I've been saying, you're reckless.” His fists thunder on the table. What's wrong with him? Why is he being so harsh? “And I told you to eat more. But no, little Missy here doesn't have to listen to her old man. You should've had something substantial in your stomach before leaving the house. Not that cardboardy slice of pizza. Besides...” The thought of something edible doesn't sit well with my stomach. I feel nausea rising. Shit! Right in the middle of Dad's lecture, I shoot up and sprint to the bathroom. I barely manage to reach the toilet before I vomit up the water I just drank. I retch dryly a couple of times before my stomach realizes there's nothing more to expel. Exhausted, I crouch over the bowl. I feel like a zombie – half-dead.

“Feeling okay?” I hear Dad behind me.

“I feel really terrible,” I confess.

“Alright, come here. Up you go.” His hands slide under my armpits. He helps me to my feet and guides me into the living room, where he settles me into his chair. Then he goes wordlessly into the bedroom, fetches my blanket and pillow, and sets up a makeshift sickbed for me on the couch. I feel like when I was a child. When I felt unwell during the day, I was always allowed to lie in the living room. That way, my parents could keep a better eye on me, and I didn't have to be alone upstairs.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say as he helps me onto the couch and tucks me in. I'm extremely cold, so I pull the blanket up to my chin.

“That's alright. Just do me a favor and drink less next time, alright?”

“Don't worry, I won't touch alcohol for ages.” Or maybe never again. Considering my condition, I think that's the more sensible option.

“Now, just rest up.” He still seems angry, which I can't blame him for. While Dad settles into his chair and watches a sports show, I vegetate until my eyes eventually droop shut. When I wake up again, it's already late afternoon. Again, I feel somewhat okay initially, but as soon as I'm on my feet and I have some chamomile tea, it comes right back up. My circulation is in the pits. I constantly switch between shivering and hot flashes. In the evening, Dad makes me one of those packet soups. For his sake, I take two spoonsful, which are returned directly. It's not until the next morning that I feel better. I'm still a bit wobbly on my feet, but I manage to keep down my coffee and even dare a bite of bagel. Around ten o'clock, I get ready for work. Dad is against me going to the ice rink today. He says I should stay home and recover. But that's out of the question for me. I definitely don't want to sit around here and waste away. Plus, I want to know what's new with Toby, and I need to give Caleb’s jacket back. The thought of the forward gives me a strange feeling in my stomach. Hopefully, I didn't embarrass myself in my stupor. After a lot of hassle, I manage to convince my father to take me. In my online schedule, where the players can sign up, there are only two massages. Parker at eleven and Toby at twelve.

At the ice rink, I head straight to my massage room. Promptly at eleven, Parker shows up. He's in a great mood and raves about Saturday night. If you were to believe his words, the guys have never partied so hard as they did with me. While he talks about Mandy's friends who couldn't get enough of him and Durand, I remember a dark-skinned girl. She clearly had her eye on Parker. I bet he took her home and had a hot night with her. That would certainly explain his good mood. Toby, who doesn't show up until twenty past twelve, is on cloud nine. He's head over heels. With a perpetual grin, he tells me about Mandy. She spent the entire weekend with him and completely captivated him. I'm happy that things worked out for them, and I make a mental note to interrogate Mandy a bit the next time I see her, to find out if she's serious about the goalie.

After the two massages, I'm pretty beat. I actually want to go home and lie down, but Dad isn't finished yet. So, I use the time to look for Caleb and return his jacket. My first stop is the weight room. But it's deserted, and on the ice, I only find Durand and a few of the defensemen working on their stick skills. I'm sure Caleb is somewhere around because Parker was supposed to lift weights with him. So, I head to the locker room. Just like last time, a misty cloud greets me as I enter. The front area with the lockers and benches is empty. However, I hear voices coming from the hallway that leads to the showers. I bite my lip because I'm tempted to go back there. A few naked hockey player butts would probably be a nice sight. But that's definitely not an option. Maybe I should just leave the jacket here. My gaze lands on one of the rows of lockers. As far as I can tell, they don't have name tags. It's hard to say which one belongs to Caleb.

“Emma, what are you doing here?” a voice that pierces my defense startles me. Caleb comes through the hallway towards me with a towel around his hips and a bottle of shower gel in his hand. Wow! Okay, girl, get yourself together. You know the guy is ridiculously well-built. You've seen him half-naked plenty of times. But why does he stir up this nervous flutter in my chest? I lick my lips. There's something in my memories that's trying to surface. Because I don't want to stand there and stare at him like an idiot, I focus on giving an answer.

“I'm here to return your jacket,” I say, watching as he, without taking his eyes off me, goes to the third locker from the left. He opens it and puts the shower gel inside. Then he comes over to me and stands about two steps in front of me with his arms crossed.

“Hey, Emma,” Byers greets me from behind the forward, emerging and going to the right side to his locker. “Hey, party animal, have you recovered from the weekend? You sure had a blast, huh?” the defenseman remarks.

“Yeah, it was a great night, wasn't it?” I reply, hoping I didn't embarrass myself.

“Hell yeah! That calls for a repeat.”

I force a smile and nod before turning back to Caleb.

“So, feeling better?” he asks quietly, so Byers can't overhear.

“Better?”

“Well, you weren't in great shape when I brought you home on Saturday.”

“You brought me home?”

“Yeah, don't you remember?”

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