Page 12 of Hot Mic, Cold Ice

Ziggy’s shrieks of protest continue, and the officer’s brow furrows. “Ma’am, are you okay?” he calls into the room.

“He’s a nuisance!” she screams back. “Get him out of here!”

I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Look, officer, I promise I’m leaving. I don’t want to be here any longer than I already have. No harm done, just a rough night.”

The officer glances at me, still skeptical. “You sure everything’s alright? Can I see some ID?”

With a resigned smile, I pull out my wallet and hand over my license. “Sure thing. And, uh, if it helps smooth things over, I can sign an autograph for you,” I add, trying to lighten the mood.

The officer’s stern expression doesn’t waver, but he nods, taking my ID and glancing at it before handing it back. “Just make sure she stays safe, and don’t cause any more trouble,” he warns.

“Will do,” I assure him, backing away. “Have a good night, officer.”

As I finally make my way down the hall and out of the hotel, Ziggy’s voice still echoes in my ears. How the hell did I end up in this mess? Tonight was an absolute disaster; I am covered in the she-devil’s vomit, but at least she’s safe. And I’mnot in jail. A silver lining, I guess. Dealing with Ziggy is like handling a gremlin that someone fed after midnight. Hopefully, an experience I will never have to endure again.

Chapter 11

I wake up the next morning still feeling the effects of the alcohol. My head throbs. My mouth feels as dry as the Arizona desert I want to be buried in. It takes a few moments for the fog to clear, and when it does, I groan. My body feels like it has been hit by a freight train. I’m pretty sure I’m still drunk…the room spins as I try to sit up, and I immediately regret the movement.

Bits and pieces of memories start to float back, each one more chaotic and mortifying than the last. I remember the bar. I went there to drown my embarrassment and sorrows, determined to forget about the disaster of a day and everything that happened with Elliot. I certainly succeeded in that goal. The music was so loud. It’s like I can still feel it. The memory of the guys flocking to me comes back. At first, it felt good—like I was in control, the center of attention. But then things started to blur. There were flashes of men getting closer, their hands wandering, and I remember feeling trapped.

Elliot. I remember seeing Elliot at the bar. He looked so serious, almost angry, as I struggled to fend off the drunken idiots surrounding me. I remember his strong, tattooed hand grabbing one guy by the collar and throwing him to the ground, shouting something about not touching another woman like that. My heart races as the memory replays in my head. His protective gesture was unexpected, but it didn't make me feel any less embarrassed.

And then, there was the flirting. Holy shit, the terrible, terrible flirting. Did I try to sleep with him? I cringe as I recall the words that came out of my mouth—slurred insults mixed with pathetic attempts at seduction. I made an absolute fool of myself.

A new wave of nausea hits me as I remember throwing up all over him. I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could erase that part entirely. But it is burned into my memory now, a moment of ultimate humiliation.

I force myself to get out of bed, the room tilting dangerously as I stumble toward the bathroom. Splashing cold water on my face helps clear some of the haze, but it does nothing for the shame. I look at myself in the mirror, seeing the smudged makeup and disheveled hair, a physical reminder of my disastrous night.

“Get it together, Ziggy,” I mutter into my reflection. More fragments of the night continue to surface. Elliot carrying me, despite my protests, through the crowded streets. His grip was firm but not rough. The feeling was a mix between anger and something else—something I don’t want to admit.

The memories are all hazy, but he got me back to the hotel safely and soundly. Instead of being grateful, I was pissed and tried to wrestle the key back. Oh my god. My drunken state made me clumsy and belligerent. Screaming at him in my hotel room, demanding he leave. Did I call him names?

Then there was the knock on the door—the police. The image of a cop standing there, looking between me and Elliot with a questioning eyebrow, came back clearly. But the yelling hadn’t stopped. I continued screaming at Elliot to get out over and over again. He tried to calm me down, but I was beyond reason. Elliot explained the situation, his face the definition of exhaustion. He offered the cop an autograph, which now seemed incredibly stupid, but it must have worked. There was a strange pang of guilt even in my drunken state. That, I will never be able to forget. The last thing I remember before everything went dark was collapsing onto the bed in a haze of tears.

I find my phone on the nightstand full of several missed calls and texts from my boss. Great. I take a deep breath and dial his number, bracing myself for the scolding I know is coming.

“Ziggy! What the hell happened last night?” He snaps, angrily.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice shaking. “I... I don’t know what came over me. I had too much to drink, and things just spiraled out of control.”

“You think? The hotel called me this morning. They weren’t happy about the scene you caused.” He takes a deep, frustrated breath. “And Elliot St. Germain? You two had some kind of altercation?”

I close my eyes, rubbing my temples. “Yeah, we had a bit of an encounter. Nothing as bad as I’m sure it sounds. Look, I know I messed up, but I promise something like this will never happen again.”

There is a long pause on the other end of the line. “Fine. But this is your last chance, Ziggy. No more screw-ups. Get yourself together and do your job.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Understood. I’ll handle it.”

I hang up and sit down on the edge of the bed, trying to steady my nerves. I have a lot of damage control to do, but first, I need another nap.

I try to push the memories of the previous night to the back of my mind. The emotional and physical exhaustion weighs heavily on me. I desperately need a break from the chaos in my head. I crawl back into bed, pulling the covers over my head as if they can shield me from my own thoughts. I close my eyes, willing myself to drift off and leave the embarrassment behind. Slowly, the comfort of sleep begins to wrap around me, and I let myself be carried away into a dreamless slumber, hoping to wake up feeling more like myself and ready to face whatever is next.

When I finally wake up, the world’s worst hangover anxiety hits me like a freight train. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing the dread of facing the consequences of last night’s disaster. My head throbs. I am so thirsty. But the thought of drinking anything else, even water, feels impossible. I can barely breathe as the full weight of my actions settles over me. How am I going to face everyone? How am I going to salvagemy career after such an unprofessional display? The room seems to spin as my anxiety tightens its grip, making me feel utterly trapped by my own reckless behavior.

I suffer alone in the dark hotel room for a few more agonizing hours, the walls closing in around me as I continue to spiral. Every noise from the hallway makes me jump, and I can’t shake the feeling that everyone knows what has happened. The weight of my shame presses down on me, making it impossible to find any relief. By the time the first light of dawn begins to creep through the heavy curtains, I know I can’t stay here any longer. I hastily pack my bags, avoiding my reflection in the mirror, and make it to my red-eye flight back to Atlanta. As I board the plane, exhausted, still grappling with the remnants of last night’s chaos, I try to muster the strength to prepare for Sunday’s game. I have to pull myself together—failure isn’t an option.

Chapter 12

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