Page 10 of Hot Mic, Cold Ice

After my self-imposed pity party and takeout, I decide enough is enough. I throw on my favorite party shirt, which is guaranteed to make it a great night. After pulling on a pair of jeans, I call up the boys. Luckily, they are just getting started. It won’t take me long to get there. I get a car and set out on my way to meet up with the team. As I settle into the back of the car, I embrace the shift in my mood. The prospect of a night out with the team, blowing off steam and forgetting about today’s mess, is exactly what I need. With a deep breath, I push all thoughts of the reporter and my dismal performance out of my mind. Tonight, I’ll shake off the funk and let loose.

The city lights blur together as the driver pulls up to the bar where the boys are waiting. He drops me off right at the entrance. I can feel the low hum of nightlife wrapping around me. Once I get inside, I spot some of the boys huddled around a high-top table with an entourage of ladies surrounding them. Laughter echoes through the space.

“Sauce me a beer, eh bud,” I say, sliding into the group and clapping one of the guys on the back. A cold bottle is thrust into my hand, and I take a long, satisfying swig, feeling the tension of everything that happened prior starting to melt away. The company is a welcome distraction, and for the first time in hours, I feel like I can get past what’s dragging me down.

Vlad pops up beside me and says, “You better chug that beer fast, brother. We are about to head to the next spot.”

My boy, Oren, nods, “Yeah, it’s getting way too crowded in here.” I give my beer a once over and start chugging. I hear the people cheering me on, and I drain the last drop from the bottle. I might as well catch up.

We have to fight our way past the mass of people packed into the bar, elbows, and shoulders bumping as we squeeze through the crowd. The air is thick with the mix of sweat and perfume, and the noise is almost deafening. Finally, we break free into the cool night air, a collective sigh of relief escaping us. We start walking through downtown, the neon lights casting colorful reflections on the pavement. The city is alive with energy, and we feed off it, joking and jostling each other as we make our way to the next destination. The streets are busy, but the crowd feels less oppressive out here, giving us room to breathe and enjoy the night.

We stop outside one of the bars as we pass, pausing to debate if we want to go inside. The sign flickers invitingly, but the crowd spilling out onto the sidewalk already looks like a dud.

“Nah, let’s skip it,” someone says, and everyone agrees. The boys move on ahead to the next stop, but just as I’m about to walk off, something catches my eye.

Through the throng of people, I see a woman standing by the bar. She looks familiar. It takes a second, but then it hits me—it’s the Barnacle. Ziggy. My cock jumps with excitement at seeing her. Fuck!

It’s short lived as I observe her. Ziggy’s body language screams discomfort as several men crowd around her. What the hell is she doing here? Before my brain realizes what’s happening, I’m moving, and I quickly approach the bar, determined to intervene. As I approach, I can see her trying and failing to fend off the unwanted attention of the guys surrounding her. I push through the crowd, my irritation growing with each step.

Navigating through the haze of drunken assholes, I zero in on Ziggy. She’s surrounded by a cloud of bad intentions, closing in around her, crowding her space. She looks like a hot mess, stumbling around and trying to push herself away from them. Her eyes dart around, panicked and desperate. It’s obvious she’s in over her head, struggling to break free, and despite everything, seeing her like that makes something stir in me. Frustration, maybe? Definitely the undeniable urge to intervene. What a night this is turning out to be. I definitely didn’t anticipate this turn of events.

I watch as one of the guys gets handsy with Ziggy, his intentions unmistakable. Without thinking, I lunge forward, grabbing the guy by the collar and throwing him to the ground with a force that surprises even me.

“Never touch another woman like that again,” I yell, my voice cutting through the noise. The crowd seems to freeze momentarily, the guy looking up at me with fear. Ignoring him, I turn back to Ziggy, her eyes wide with shock and relief.

“You okay, Barnacle?” I ask, my concern evident in my voice. Sensing my protective presence, the guys back off and disperse into the crowd.

“Don’t call me that again, asshole!” She slurs her words in my direction.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I ask, “What are you doing here?” still trying to comprehend why she would be out like this by herself and, from the look of it, drunk as can be. She sighs, discomfort evident in her voice.

“Forgetting about you.” Her face looks a little too pouty for my comfort. My annoyance with her turns into a dumb sense of responsibility toward her.

“Come on, you need to go home,” I urge, my voice steady but insistent. Ziggy glares at me, her eyes blazing with defiance.

“I’m fine, Elliot. I don’t need you to rescue me,” she snaps, turning away from me. The smell of alcohol is strong on her breath, and I can see she is struggling to stay upright.

“You’re not fine, and this isn’t the place for you right now,” I argue, my patience wearing thin. She stumbles again, and on instinct, I grip her waist and stabilize her.

“Let go of me. I’m staying right here,” she insists, but her voice wavers, betraying her vulnerability.

“Just fucking go back to your hotel to sleep,” I say, my tone softening as I look into her eyes, hoping she’ll see reason.

“You aren’t the boss of me!” Ziggy snaps, tearing out of my grip and darting away like a madwoman. I curse under my breath and take off after her, weaving through the crowd ofdrunks and partiers. She is fast for someone so drunk, but her unsteady gait gives her away. I watch as she stumbles on the sidewalk, her ankle twisting awkwardly. I catch up to her in a few long strides, grabbing her arm just before she hits the ground.

“Ziggy, stop!” I hiss, out of breath and irritated. She struggles against me, her eyes filled with a mix of frustration and exhaustion. “I’m not letting you wander around this city all alone,” I tell her, my grip firm but gentle. “Let me help you get home.”

As Ziggy stops struggling, her defiant glare softens into something else. She slumps against me, her hands resting on my chest as she looks up with a mischievous glint in her eye.

“You know, St. Germain,” she slurs, her voice dripping with drunken flirtation, “you’re kind of cute when you’re all serious and bossy. Almost makes up for your crappy performance on the ice tonight.” I stiffen, caught off guard by the sudden shift. She traces a finger down my chest, giggling.

“Maybe you’re not so bad after all, for a guy with a terrible mustache and an even bigger ego,” she murmurs, leaning in closer. My irritation melts away, replaced by a bewildered amusement. She giggles, clutching my arm.

“You know, for a goalie, I figured you would try a little harder at trying to catch me,” she teases, stumbling a little. “I bet you’d be a really terrible time. You do have good legs, at least. That would make it better.”

I shake my head. Unbelievable; even as I try to be nice, she still tries to roast me. We walk a few blocks forward before stopping again. Ziggy really was leaning hard into me, her mischievous glint now replaced with something far moreinappropriate than anything that would ever happen here. She runs a hand down my chest, her eyes narrowing playfully.

“Maybe if you weren’t so busy being an ass, you’d actually be kind of hot. Pity you’re so terrible at everything else,” she purrs, her breath warm against my neck.

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