Melting the Ice

One.

~Lynlee~

“I can’t believe you’re going to be working with the Hogs. Eeeek!” one of my best friend’s voices carried through the speaker on the phone as I attempted to put on makeup.

“I wouldn’t know any of these people from the cashier at the grocery store,” I deadpanned.

“Oh, shut up. You’d totally know them. And you get to spend the next few weeks cozying up to all of them, you lucky b***h,” Penelope, or Popps, drooled. She was the sports fan among us, and when she heard what my next best seller was supposed to be, she lost her mind.

“Until inspiration strikes,” I lamented. Deeming my eyeliner even enough between both eyes, I moved on to mascara. Lotti was always on me about dressing up in public. I couldn’t ask for a better agent and friend, but she seriously overestimated my star power sometimes.

“I’m going to have to get tickets. We can go to a game together, and I can give you a fan’s perspective. Did you read any of the books I sent over?” she continued. I peeked over at my nightstand where not one, not two, but eight hockey romance best sellers sat collecting dust. It was the hottest trope to hit the genre since brother’s best friend.

“I’ve told you I can’t do that,” I reminded her.

“Oh my gosh, this again. You aren’t going to plagiarize another author!” I rolled my eyes, grateful for the safety of a phone call. “Plus, you said it yourself, a lot of these stories share certain story elements. You’re too squeaky clean to do that to someone.”

“And I don’t want to do it by accident,” I said, ditching the mascara for some lip balm. I sat back, checking my appearance. I didn’t need to stand out or impress anyone- the contract was already signed. I simply needed them to cooperate with me long enough that I could find this best-selling story on the hockey field.

I stood and posed in front of Mr. Muffins, who was curled up in my fuzzy blanket, head resting on my pillow. “What do you think, furball?” He opened one eye and closed it. I did not impress him. “Spoiled brat,” I muttered.

“Coffee!” I heard Charlotte calling as my front door banged open. I flinched, hearing it hit the wall.

“That is Lotti trying to put holes in my entryway again,” I sighed.

“Call me after and tell me everything. Better yet, take pictures. Oh my goshhhhh!” she squealed.

“Why would I take pictures? Can’t you just look these people up online? They are professional athletes, after all,” I reasoned.

“You’ll need inspo for all that spice. And you’d be a truly great friend if you were to send some to me,” she offered.

“Go cuddle your BOB,” I grumbled before hanging up. Popps was perpetually single. She was genuinely one of the best people I knew, but somehow she just attracted these duds who didn’t deserve her or were too intimidated by her independence and competence.

I grabbed my phone off the vanity and headed to my kitchen, where Lotti stood in her power skirt and sky-high heels. “Caffeinate,” she demanded, shoving a coffee into my hands.

I frowned. “This is hot,” I stated.

“Yes, Lyn, hot. Get used to it. I need you not to succumb to your precarious immune system over the next few months while you spend chunks of time in a literal ice arena. Hot coffee, warm body. Tea, too,” she explained.

“Hot coffee is for snow,” I sighed, missing my frozen, sugary happiness. I sipped the offering and had to admit my surprise. “Peppermint?”

“Do you truly doubt me?” she smiled.

Lotti was a force to be reckoned with. Total Boss Babe from the moment she was born. She fell into her career, but she was made for it. And before we started working together, she sat me down on the couch with the biggest bottle of liquor and made sure we put every dirty little secret and annoyance out in the air. There was nothing that was going to stop her from being my best friend and my agent.

“I really shouldn’t,” I laughed, taking another swig. Iced or frozen coffee with lots of sweet flavors and a healthy swirl of whipped cream was my preference. Hot coffee was tolerable in artic conditions, but it was October, and we still had a few more weeks of temperate weather before we started seeing flurries. Even further, my favorite peppermint flavoring wouldn’t be available until after Thanksgiving, thanks to the basic pumpkin spice lovers. Lotti bringing me peppermint coffee was just her magic.

“Go get changed. We need to hit the road,” she said, sipping her latte as her thumb swiped furiously over her phone. She personally represented only three ‘talents’, but I knew she favored (and possibly babied) me most.

“I am changed,” I said in confusion, looking down. I added some nude tights under my grey skirt to ward off the cold of the ice and dug out one of my warmer cardigans to go with my outfit in a light pink to compliment the flower pattern on my top. Gray ankle boots with a soft lining for utility and comfort completed my cozy but semi-professional ensemble.

Lotti sighed, pinching her nose.

“What?” I asked, moving around the counter to my bread box. Hot coffee always ruffled my stomach without food. I snatched a bagel and turned back around to face her, chewing on a large bite.

“I’m just trying to decide if it’s worth it to wrestle you into something a little more…”

“Not me? Lotti, I’m an author. I live in oversized sweaters and shorts. I have a throw blanket collection. You got me a desk chair that I can sit cross-legged in. Book events are the only time my hair sees a straightener or curling iron. I exist for comfort and creativity. Not power suits and do-me heels,” I reminded her.

“These are not f**k-me heels!” she objected. I just raised an eyebrow. “Oh, alright, they are. They are f**k-me heels. I can barely breathe in this skirt, too. But this is taken seriously.” She motioned to her entire outfit as if it would make her point for her.

I shrugged. I knew how appealing she was to men; I’d seen it firsthand. But she was married to her job. “I really only need a few to cooperate. Most of them have already signed the disclosures. I have use of over half the team’s names and likenesses. And I could always just make something up. This is fiction, after all.”

“And your best stuff has some basis in reality,” she argued. “Okay, you don’t have to change, but at least do something with the hair.”

I set my coffee and bagel down and then held up a finger. I left the kitchen, went over to my tiny living room, and snatched my hat from the table. I slid it over my head, then turned around and held my arms out victoriously.

“You are going to meet a bunch of professional athletes and the team staff with a pink cat ear hat on?”

“What’s wrong with it? It matches the sweater!”

“Where is there a cat on your sweater?” I pointed to the large pocket that had an embroidered cat hanging over it. Lotti closed her eyes and exhaled. “I’m doing your hair.”