Chapter 7
Mascara, Mayhem & Maple Granola
Luna
Theimagestaringbackat me in the mirror is quite frankly terrifying. Is that even salvageable? A massive yawn stretches my mouth wide as I run a hand through the snarled mess on top of my head. It better be. I have to make at least one quick video to tease our little adventure tomorrow, which I’m dreading but also a little excited for. Watching the great Beau Whitaker scrubbing a cage should be a good show. Everything about him screams never-done-a-day-of-manual-labor in his life. From the smooth wave of golden hair to the blindingly white sneakers on his feet. I hope he wears those tomorrow. They won’t be so white by the end of the day.
The glaring light of my makeup mirror does nothing for my tired skin. I pull out the heavy-duty concealer to deal with the dark shadows under my eyes. If the makeup mirror highlights the flaws, my ring lights will only intensify them. It’s almost tempting to try out a filter, but I’ve been careful not to use one over my years on social media, and I’m not planning on starting now. The layers of makeup provide enough of a shield.
My lashes are hanging on precariously. I’m going to need to get them redone ASAP. Because obviously, I needed one more expense.
The transformation is fantastic, but I can still see the strained lines at the corners of my eyes. Three hours of sleep is not enough for anyone, even me. Why did Radison have to spring a test on us when we’ve barely had time to catch our breath after the holiday break? I think his kink might be sadism, but aren’t you supposed to sign an agreement before you inflict your brand of pleasure on someone else? Much less an entire class.
A loud bang at the door has me jumping out of my skin, and my hand slips as I’m swiping on a layer of brick red lipstick. I swear under my breath at the slash of color leading up to my nose.
“Wilder? You coming?”
Beth sounds way too chipper for this early in the morning, but then she always does. I’m not sure if it’s the melodic tone of her voice or her general positive-vibes-only energy, but she never sounds angry. Not even when we lose a game and our opponents chirp at her.
“Yeah, I’ll be down in a few. Just have to film a quick vid. After I fix my lipstick. Thanks for the scare.”
“My pleasure. Wait, can I be in your video?”
There’s a rattle as she jiggles the handle on my door, then I see her peering through the crack, blonde bob swinging over her cheek, eyes sparkling.
I shake my head. “Not today. This is just a quickie.”
“Ooh, a quickie. I’d rather a marathon sesh, but a quickie can be fun too.” She winks at me, ducking back out the door before the makeup brush hits it with a clatter.
“JK!” Her voice is muffled through the door, but then I hear her feet pounding down the stairs. She makes way too much noise for one tiny human.
I flick on my lighting setup, straighten out the miniature hockey players on the shelf I use as a backdrop and get myself in frame. Throwing on my best smile, I hit record on the remote.
“Hey, Wildlings! I’m popping in for a quick update. I know you’ve all been asking in the comments when you’re going to get to see more of the guys of Lakeview, and I’ve got a super fun surprise for you. So make sure you tune in to my live tomorrow. We’ll be hitting one of our favorite places.” I tilt my head to the side, raising an eyebrow. “Can you guess where? Let me know in the comments. I’m so sure you can that I’ll pick a few people who guess right to get a shout-out and a tag tomorrow. Sorry this is a quickie. But I’m heading off to visit the fam today, so I don’t have time for more. Tomorrow will be worth the wait, though, I promise. And have I ever let you down? Hockey Gal signing off.” I wiggle my fingers at the camera and mime shooting my stick before ending the video.
My shoulders relax, smile slipping as I grab my phone off the tripod. My fingers dance across my screen as I tweak and caption the clip. I hit post and grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder.
The sweet scent of coffee draws me to the kitchen. Beth and Krista are chatting between handfuls of homemade granola, but I can feel their eyes on my back as I’m reaching into the cupboard. Thankfully, there’s still some left even after I fill my stainless-steel tumbler to the brim. I have to dip down to take a sip, cursing as the coffee scalds my tongue. The tumbler wobbles as I yank back. I snatch at it before it topples, but it sloshes over the edge, sending pain shooting through my hand. Great start to the morning.
I scrabble around for a dishcloth to clean it, and a warm hand falls on my back. “You okay?”
Jenna grabs a cloth, soaking up the mess.
“I’m fine. Just a little tired.” As if to prove my point, I yawn again.
“You’re working too hard, babe. If you need anything, let us know.”
“It’s good. I’m good.”
I busy my hands screwing on the lid and turn back around. “You good to go, Beth?”
“I’ve been ready for literal hours. You know me. I’m all about the morning.”
She is, and normally I am too, but last night pushed me over the edge after a brutal week. I can’t remember the last time I got more than six hours of sleep.
“You going to grab anything to eat?”
My aching stomach is begging me for some sustenance, but I’m already running late. “Nah, I’ll grab something at my parents’ house.”
