Page 3 of Icing the Enemy

After dinner, we head to a dance club and again, I leave alone.

My phone buzzes with Becca’s ringtone. A flurry of pictures and headlines pop up over and over. I don’t do social media, preferring to stay out of prying eyes of the public. Headlines in gossip sites read:

Why is a hot-as-hell hockey player always alone?

Hockey star must not like arm candy!

Becca: You’re going out with me and some of the Fireflies’ dancers tonight.

Me: Nope, Mamaw was wrong. I’m not meeting my IT girl at a bar.

Becca: We’re going to play trivia. You’re coming.

Me: Send me the address and time.

Reluctantly,I agree, and I admit the women are freaking gorgeous and smart. They know how to hold a conversation and are pretty damn good at trivia. I’m on a team with Raquel, my sister’s single best friend, and Brenda, who is a damn genius when it comes to history. A question pops up, asking who the eighteenth president was and damn if she doesn’t know it was Ulysses S. Grant. She was fast on the buzzer too. Between games, we talk, and I figure out quick that I’m not her type—preferring the Wall Street type, not the hillbilly athletic type, but it doesn’t stop her from needing a warm body.

I walk outside with Raquel and offer to give her a ride home. She had come with Becca and her husband Dennis, but now they’re heading to a friend's house.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” she says.

When we get to her small, but probably expensive house in Brentwood, she grabs one of my hands and asks, “Want to come inside for a nightcap?”

I don’t want to offend her because she’s my sister’s best friend, but I have zero feelings for her.

We hear clicks and see flashes of light as some damn paparazzi follow us.

“Sorry, I’m leaving for a wedding tomorrow and need to go home and pack.”

Morning comes, and my phone blows up. The gossip rags are convinced I’m gay.

Can’t a guy just look for the right woman without sleeping with hundreds of them?

CHAPTER TWO

oakley

This is nothow I had my life planned out—rolling perm rods into an old lady’s gray, thinning hair. Momma always said, “You’ll be a stylist to the stars.”

Scoffing under my breath, I mumble, “Maybe theGolden Girls.”

I rotate the chair where Mrs. Pinkston can see her perfectly curled hair.

“Do you like it?” I ask.

Her lips press together in a flat line. “Hmm. Sweetie, my hair has… pink streaks.”

I smile proudly because Mrs. Pinkston looks hip and younger. Did I ask her if I could add a touch of light-pink highlights to her hair? No.

“I know. You look fantastic, and it matches your name.”

Mrs. Pinkston’s eyes narrow. “Take it out. Now. Can you? Oh Lord, what will the ladies at church think?”

Popping my hip out, I look at her in the mirror. “If they judge you for looking fabulous, then they aren’t very good church ladies.”

She shakes her head, and her eyes cloud with tears.

I let out an exasperated sigh. “It washes out immediately. Just wear it one day, and you’ll feel on top of the world.”

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