Makena: Now it’s on top of the fryer.
Makena: Sitting there with a bag of chips, it somehow managed to open.
Makena: JUST SITTING AND TALKING SHIT AND EATING CHIPS LIKE IT’S PLANNING TO STAY THERE FOREVER.
Charlotte: Oh my God, honey. Have you called someone? Animal control? The police? Both?
Makena: Animal control is on the way, but they said it could be an hour or more. Apparently, there’s a possum situation in the park near the playground that takes precedence because of the children nearby and all. But possums are NICE, Charlotte. This raccoon is NOT nice. Seriously, I may have to rethink my favorite drink at the dive bar. I don’t know if I can support the trash panda beverage now that I have been treated so poorly by an actual trash panda.
Charlotte: Understandable. Just hang in there, okay? And don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.
Makena: Of course, you will! Just don’t talk to Dierdre, she’s an asshole.
Charlotte: How will I know which one is Dierdre?
Makena: The asshole glint in her eye, of course. One look at her, and you’ll clock that she’s the kind of wretched beast who takes pleasure in other people’s pain. Also, she’s the only WAG with blond hair down to her butt. If she tries to fuck with you, ask her if it’s a wig. She hates that.
Charlotte: I’ll just avoid her.
Makena: Good plan. I like the way you choose peace instead of violence. But I have to choose violence sometimes, Charlotte. I really do. I can’t help it. I think I should go in there and face this critter down, mono a mono, but Elly keeps pulling me away from the door.
Charlotte: Listen to Elly! Do not, I repeat DO NOT go in there. It could be rabid.
Makena: Ugh. Fine. I think it’s just a shit weasel who enjoys senseless acts of destruction, but…I’ll be good. I promise.
Charlotte: Good. Keep me updated, and I’ll cheer extra loud when Parker’s on the ice for you.
Makena: Great! Thank you. He probably won’t see much ice time since he’s just coming off the injured list. Still, I really wanted to be there to support him during his first game back. But he understands this is out of my control. Humans make plans; giant trash pandas laugh.
Charlotte: So true. Hang in there, babes.
Islide my phone back into my purse, pulling in a breath that does nothing to ease the anxiety clutching at my ribs. I’m going to have to face the wives and girlfriends alone.
That’s fine.
I’m a grown woman. I run a successful business. I’ve thrown parties for hundreds of people and celebrities without breaking a sweat.
I can handle sitting with a bunch of strangers for a few hours.
Even though Makena has gone out of her way to warn me that most of these strangers are not nice or friendly. According to her, in fact, many of them are petty mean girls and old Dierdre is a flat-out “asshole.”
My stomach twists.
Stop it. You’re excited, not nervous. Remember? You’ve got this. Just linger at the edge and be friendly, but chill. Do not engage or attract too much attention, and everything will be fine.
I roll my shoulders back, lift my chin, and make my way to the private entrance to the WAG box, where a bored-looking security guard checks my name against his list, gives me a lanyard with “VIP ACCESS” printed in bold letters, and directs me down a tunnel that’s quieter than the main concourse.
My heels click against the concrete. The sound echoes, making me hyperaware of how alone I am.
Soon, the tunnel opens into a private box with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ice. Plush stadium-style seats fill the front of the space, with couches and small café tables arranged behind them. There’s a bar in the corner next to a small buffet, and flat screens mounted on the walls play the pre-game coverage.
The WAGs are already here in force. A gaggle of women laugh and gossip by the bar, several more are gathered in the middle of the seating area, whispering furtively behind theirhands, and two leggy women in tiny miniskirts pick at carrot sticks at one of the café tables.
I spot three older women seated to my far left—mothers of the players, maybe?
I decide they’re the least intimidating clique and start that way, only to be intercepted by the carrot stick duo.
“Hey! Are you Charlotte?” A twenty something blonde in a crop top with “TORRANCE IS THE GOAT” bedazzled across the front bounds in front of me with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever. “Torrance said Baylor’s new girl would be here, and I should be sure to say hi.”
