Ahh, Christmas in Las Vegas.
Well, to be precise, Thanksgiving Day in Las Vegas.
But everyone knows that those two holidays practically blend into one. The second the witches and ghouls and pumpkins pack up, it’s one big festive season through to January.
And even though it’s about a million and ten degrees as I step out of the arena and onto the Vegas Strip—where I shed my Cyclones hoodie and tie it around my waist so my skin can sizzle in the late afternoon sunshine like a fried egg—the entire place is buzzing with holiday cheer.
There are lights strung up everywhere, an abundance of 40-foot trees covered in glittery ornaments, and many, many sexy Santa Clauses milling about as I start to walk aimlessly, taking in the sights, smells and sounds of the holidays, Vegas style.
I take a deep breath, and realize I’m… content.
All things considered, it’s been a very good Thanksgiving so far.
This morning, I woke up early and ordered nutritionally balanced, personally customized breakfasts to be delivered to each player’s hotel room before their morning skate. Apparently, I don’t even have to do any cooking while I’m here, simply order food based on each of the guys’ macros. Which I probably could have done from Atlanta, but hey, I’m not complaining about a free trip to Vegas.
Plus, traveling with the team automatically got me out of today’s dinner with my parents (not to mention venturing into the great outdoors with Jax). And so, I ordered a ton of boring chicken-and-wild-rice-themed dishes for the boys’ pregame lunches, and then I mightttt have hit up a behemoth Vegas buffet, where I gleefully stuffed ham n’ yams in my face without my dear mother or ex-boyfriend to make comments on how much food I was ingesting.
After consuming about a million fat and sugar calories that shattered my inner nutritionist’s “everything in moderation” mantra, it was time for the game itself. It was an afternoon event so the arena was packed with families, which made the atmosphere very wholesome indeed. Save for the woman three rows up who kept trying to flash her bra at the players, and the drunk guy sitting behind me, double fisting plastic cups of beer and screaming “Go on Soupy! HIT HIM, SOUPY!” the entire time.
Goodness knows who Soupy is.
Anyhow, it was a much more entertaining event than expected. And the Cyclones won the game, thanks to Seb’s incredible last-minute goal. That man’s focus is like a laser beam when he’s out there on the ice. I might not be a hockey fan, but even I could tell how good he is. How much his head is in the game when he plays.
He scored at the exact moment my mother called me for the fifth time in a row. I may or may not have jumped up from my seat and cheered (because it’s part of my job, of course) as I answered, because clearly Mother Dearest was hellbent on ignoring my “I’ll call you after the game” texts.
Needless to say, I couldn’t hear a thing over the noise in the arena. And now that the game is done and I’m outside, I know that I should call her back… but I’m enjoying a few moments of happy solitude first.
Thanksgiving has been great. Maybe my first Christmas in years as a singleton won’t be so bad, either.
Adam who?
As if on cue, my phone rings, popping my little bliss bubble.
I wince, take a deep, gulping breath in, then answer. “Hello?”
“There you are, Madelyn.” My mother’s voice is sharp. Not unlike the screech of skates coming to a quick stop. “And at a normal decibel level. Finally. First, you abandon your family to jet off to Vegas for Thanksgiving, and then you add insult to injury by screaming at me like a banshee.”
“I didn’t ‘jet off.’”
“You took a jet, did you not?”
Serves me right for telling my family about the team plane. I pinch the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. “I’m here for work, Mom. And I was at the game when you called. It was loud.”
“Well what did you expect, being somewhere as uncouth as an ice hockey arena.” Mom sniffs.
I shake my head and jump on a subject change. “How’s your holiday going, Mom? Are you and Richard having a nice day?”
First rule of handling my Mother Dearest: when in doubt, make the conversation about her.
“I’m having a lovely day, actually.” Mom surprises me by saying. I was expecting another guilt trip. “After you decided to abandon us for Vegas, Jaxon canceled too and took off to the mountains for the weekend. Said he was going on one of his strange wilderness survival thingies to do… whatever he does out there.”
“You mean, he went on a backcountry camping trip?” I supply as I step around a couple taking selfies on the street.
Mom tuts. “It’s not good for a man to spend all that alone time without a female body to keep him warm.”
“Mom. Gross!”
“I’m just saying. That brother of yours needs a good wife so he can stop taking off on these strange little adventures.”
“Backpacking is a pretty normal hobby for those who are outdoors inclined.”
i.e. Not me.
“I would never go so far as to call such a thing normal, Madelyn.” Mom is silent for a moment and I picture her shaking her head and sighing about her wayward children. “Anyhow, your father and I are effectively childless for the holidays, so I thought it was hardly worth making a turkey dinner for two people. Especially with your father’s cholesterol…”
“Mmm,” I hum in noncommittal agreement as I’m momentarily distracted by an array of showgirls walking past, waving their feathered costumes like they’re exotic birds.
“So we ended up having a delicious lunch at the Plumlees. I wish we could’ve stayed longer, but you know how your father feels about footba—”
I tune back in. “Wait, what? You went where today?”
Mom lets out an exasperated sigh. “Keep up, Madelyn. We were at the Plumlee’s house. You know that Alicia always puts out quite the spread.”
Yes, I do know.
“Mom, why on earth did you go over to the Plumlees?”
“Well. Just because Adam and you have parted ways doesn’t mean that we can’t honor tradition. When you said you weren’t coming, this felt like a natural solution.” Mom says this with finality. Like no further explanation could possibly be warranted. Then, she goes on to twist the knife a little. “Elizabeth was there with Adam, you know. Such a glamorous woman. Very well put together. She was wearing this positively striking cream pantsuit, and I had to ask where she got it. She told me—”
“Mom, why are you telling me this?” I interrupt, a little irked by all the singing-of-Elizabeth’s-praises.
“Because you should’ve been there, too.” Mom’s voice rises slightly. “I was the only person at the lunch without her children present. But fortunately, Alicia Plumlee has invited us again for Christmas this year, so you and Jaxon can make up for your no-shows then.”
“What?” I stop dead in my tracks, almost causing an entire family of German tourists in matching anoraks to fall like dominoes.
“Schiesse!” one of the blond giants exclaims as he springs left with surprising grace for such a substantial man.
“Sorry, sorry. My bad,” I mumble as the rest of the colorful anoraks scatter around me. I address my mom again, “What do you mean she’s invited us for Christmas?”
“I mean she’s invited us for Christmas,” Mom repeats with exasperation. “The same way she’s invited us for years. I’m not sure how much clearer I can make myself.”
“I assumed that since Adam and I aren’t together anymore…” I trail off, realizing that I have, of course, made an ass out of myself by assuming anything when it comes to my mother. I clear my throat. “You said no… right, Mom?”
Silence.
“Mom?” My voice sounds vaguely strangled.
“I said we’d be delighted.” Mom sniffs. “Why would I say no to Christmas in Aspen? It’s tradition for us by now. What else would we do?”
“Um, maybe not go on a vacation to my ex’s family cabin for the holidays!?”
“We were friends with Alicia and Paul before you dated Adam,” Mom argues.
“Well, then I hope you and Richard have a lovely time, but I will not be attending.” No matter how warm the Vegas air currently is, I feel cold from the inside out on this positively frosty phone call.
“Indeed you will be.” Mom’s response is calm. Measured. “You dated Adam for over a decade, and obviously, he was lacking for something in your relationship. So what you need to do is turn up and show him that you’ve changed.” She pauses for a moment to take a long, labored breath. “Prove that you’re not wallowing in misery without him. I mean, you must have lost at least ten pounds since the breakup. Couple that with a new haircut and some highlights—I’ll happily book you in with Pablo, my treat—and you’ll be able to make him reconsider, at the very least. I’d like this to not be the last time we get to enjoy the Plumlee cabin for the holidays.”
Ahhh. This isn’t just any regular guilt trip call…
This is a vengeance call.
“So, let me get this straight,” I say, surprisingly evenly. “You’re saying that it’s my fault that Adam dumped me on national television and that it’s therefore my obligation to win that absolute douchebag back?”
“No,” my mother replies curtly and I breathe a short sigh of relief. Until she adds, “I mean, not in as many words. I’d never use language like that.”
I almost laugh—more so at the fact that I gave her the benefit of the doubt than anything else. My mother would put a Disney stepmother to shame. “I have to go, Mom.”
“Only five weeks ‘til Christmas!” She adopts a falsely cheery tone, like the argument we just had was fabricated in my own mind.
I hang up. Then, because clearly all sense and reason has left the building, I kick a trashcan.
A metal trashcan.
Owfreakingouch.
I rub my throbbing foot and swear. So much for walking up and down the Strip this evening. My mother has managed to ruin my better-than-expected, first-time-solo Thanksgiving celebrations with a quick ten-minute phone call.
Because somehow, since our breakup, I have been sleeping on a couch and making yogurt parfaits for hockey players, while Adam has gotten the perfect job, the perfect woman, and the support of my own dear mother. And I now get the privilege of watching him get all cozy with his new fiancee over the holidays.
Schiesse, indeed.
With a sigh, I hobble off towards my hotel. If I can’t take in the sights of Vegas tonight, I can sure as hell drown my sorrows in the hotel bar.
“Mmm.”
I take a big gulp of my third Lover’s Leap cocktail (ironic, I know, but the bartender assured me it was less full of love and mostly full of tequila) and sigh happily. My body feels pleasantly warm right now despite the hotel’s powerful air conditioning. And my poor trashcan foot is more tingly than sore.
“That’s good,” I draw out the S like a snake. I take a few more gulps ‘til I’ve drained half the glass. “Even better than the last one.”
“Good to hear, ma’am.” The bartender nods at me a tad stiffly. I think it’s because I tried to be suave and slide him a folded twenty across the bar to keep ‘em coming, but my money turned out to be an old stick of gum from the bottom of my purse.
Could’ve sworn I had a loose twenty in there.
I take another sip and hiccup slightly. I may be a touch intoxicated. Luckily my room is just upstairs, so I can get myself to bed later. Assuming that I can find my way to the elevators. The fancy casino on the ground floor of this hotel is an absolute riot of colors and sounds and piped-in air conditioning that kind of makes me feel disorientated and lost even when I’m one hundred percent sober.
I prop myself up on my elbows and lean forward. “I’m working, too. On Thanksgiving. We’re both working right now.”
“Oh, um.” The guy looks me up and down and shakes his head. “Thank you for the offer, but I’m not really in the market for that. I have a girlfriend.”
For some reason, I find this hysterically funny. “Nonononono, I’m not selling sex. I’m in the NHL.”
Wait, that’s not right.
“I mean, I work for the NHL. A team. NHL team. I am working for hockey.”
In response to this, the bartender blinks at me multiple times, looking a touch concerned for my mental wellbeing.
“I feed the hockey players,” I add helpfully, then break off into peals of laughter again.
Wow. I don’t remember the last time I was this drunk. Words are hard, but at least my brain is happy. Finally.
Took me multiple drinks to drown out the memory of my mom’s voice, going on and on about Elizabeth’s stupid pantsuit.
Who does she think she is, anyway? Hillary Clinton?
“Harassing the bar staff, are we, Lady M?”
The deep voice comes from behind my right shoulder, and I jerk my head around to see Number 19, Sebastian Slater, slide onto the barstool beside me. Despite my drunken haze, I notice two things: one, he’s wearing a very nice shirt that he’s filling out very nicely. Two, he looks freaking pissed.
“Hello Mr. Hockey Man.” I hold up my glass and toast him. A bit too vigorously, apparently, as a slosh of sticky pink liquid splashes down my arm. I grab a handful of napkins and start dabbing at my forearm. “What are you doing here? And I still can’t figure out why you call me Lady M. Why do you call me that?”
He ignores my questions. Instead, he flattens his palm on the bar, and smoothly slides what looks to be a one hundred dollar bill to my bartender friend in one slick motion. “Jack, neat. And keep ‘em coming.”
I watch, suitably impressed, as the bartender snaps up the bill and his whole body snaps to attention. “Right away, sir.”
That’s how it’s meant to be done. Clearly.
The bartender places a glass of dark amber liquid on the bar and Seb immediately downs it. Another one appears like magic, and he drinks that, too.
“Celebrating your big win?” I ask with a smile that feels soft and blurry around the edges. Come to think of it, the room feels soft and blurry around the edges, too.
He scoffs, then gestures for another drink, his jaw clenching. His whole beautiful face is drawn, his brows lowered right down to his eyes and his lips pursed. He seems stormy. Not unlike a… cyclone?
I snort with laughter at my own internal monologue. Seb simply raises a brow at me.
“Doing okay over there, Lady M?”
“I am thriving, actually.” At this very inopportune moment, my stool twiddles and I have to grasp onto the bar.
The mustachioed bartender looks at me wearily, then turns to Seb. “You two know each other?”
I nod manically. “Sure do.”
Seb, meanwhile, cracks the first smile I’ve seen this evening as he stares into a brand-new drink that’s magically appeared in front of him. “Watch out for this one. She likes to lurk in men’s restrooms.”
“WHAT? Not true!” I throw up my arms… and almost topple off my stool again.
“Whoa. Easy there, drunky.” Seb steadies me. The bartender gives us both a flat look and then walks away to serve another customer.
Once I’m seated and balanced back on my stool properly—like a lady (my abundance of class is why Seb calls me Lady M, perhaps?)—I pick up my drink and swirl my straw. Number 19 has returned to full-on glowering at the amber liquor in his glass.
“You’re my ex’s favorite hockey player, you know,” I blurt. For whatever reason.
I should probably take a selfie with him.
Yes! Great idea, Maddie. Take a selfie with the big, clearly angry hockey player, and then, you can send it to Adam and make him jealous!
I’m about to propose this incredibly smart and sophisticated revenge plan to my new friend Seb (see, Mom, I’m not the only one who can conduct a little phone vengeance!) when he says, “Was.”
“Was what?” I ask. At least, that’s what I want to ask. It comes out sounding more like “Wathwart.” Which, incidentally, sounds like my Harry Potter name.
Despite the hard lines around his eyes and his tense posture, he laughs.
“I was your ex’s favorite hockey player.” He polishes off his glass, then slumps forward in his chair. “But I’m not anyone’s favorite hockey player now that I can no longer play.”
