Thin Ice (Power Play Series Book #2)

Chapter Twenty-Three × Berated Over a Quarter

I have a confession to make - and before you ask, no, it's not that I'm part robot. Even though sometimes people have seemed like foreign creatures to me; and at times, I've wondered if I am on the autism spectrum, it has nothing to do with me or my ability to consume information - and more to do with my lack of processing it.

And since I'm not good with words, nor a professional writer, I will have to repeat myself because you probably understood none of that. I'm scared of flying. That's my confession. I know, call Opera and Dr. Phil and everyone else with a primetime talk show. Does Opera even have a talk show anymore? I'm not sure.

Put me on TMZ and People's magazine – except, instead of the article being entitled 10 times Rosie Labrun rocked the no boobs look it'll be entitled, flying without a brain - or something like that.

"You, okay?" Erik asks me, as we mull around in line, waiting for security. They offered to open up a private line just for us, for him, but he declined. He's just like everyone else, or so he says. I say I'm tired of having people stare at me when I'm not wearing any makeup and look like what would happen if you invaded a cockroach's hood.

"Yup." I answer, wishing I could communicate in Morris code, or be able to communicate my feelings of fear to my boyfriend. With my boyfriend? Whatever you wanna call it. I wish I were able to actually tell him how I'm feeling, what I'm thinking, about any particular subject.

And most of the time, I am. When it comes to sex, or our relationship, or global warming. At least, I'd like to think so. But when it comes to the things that trouble me; the issues that plague my mind worse than the blacks of my teeth, I clam up.

"Next." The security guard calls out, gesturing for me to hurry the fuck up and quit holding up the line up. I've never been in an airport before (unless you count when I was eleven months old and my mom took me to Poland), so I really have no clue what to expect.

He stares at me for a few moments, as if recognizing me from my short stint as a professional hockey player's girlfriend, or puck bunny. Or the girl he jacked off to, a few months back. I hope it's one of the first two and not the last one. But you'd be surprised how many guys think it's an accomplishment to be able to come to your photo. Or send you images of their dick that resembles a forest.

"Put your bags here and stuff in the bin." Another one - a security guard, not a hairy dick, tells me, practically coming out of left field. I suppose it's because he's short and hidden behind a giant machine, but I had no idea he was even there. Or maybe it's because I was so focused on the guy that's standing past the metal detectors, walking around with a bomb dog.

I know that people don't like to talk about bombings or all the horrible things that are happening in the world, but I think about them. Sometimes when I'm in a mall or library or other place, I'll imagine someone walking in and shooting up the place - or should I say, worry about it.

I don't know why, I should probably tell my therapist. But like I said before, talking is hard.

Instructions - on the other hand, are not. "Shoes too." The security guard tells me, gesturing to the tattered running shoes on my feet. I wasn't planning on anyone to really be seeing me today, given that we have a redeye flight on Christmas eve. Apparently, I am both delusional and not aware of how airports work.

"Sorry." I mumble, using the counter as support to take them off. I shift my feet and accidently step in a puddle from someone else's previous shoes and now, I have wet socks. Could this day get any better?

"Walk though." The guard waiting beyond the machines tells me, waving me like he's out on the runway. He seems to have more energy than the other one - more pizazz. Maybe he's just like me and spends most of his time not knowing what to do with himself.

As I walk through the metal detector, I hold my breath, just like I do whenever I go past the scanners at Target. The ones that would go off if you're shoplifting - which I never am, but I worry somehow, someway, I'll mysteriously have random stuff in my pockets and end up being sent to jail. And someone like me, would not do well in jail.

I couldn't bring my stuffed elephant.

"Next." Another guard nearby practically belts, scowling at an older grandma that's taking too long to remove her shoes. They seem like they have a hard job, but also like they're using their power to scream at people. How do I apply? Just kidding, I don't have a good yelling voice. I just end up sounding like a pre-pubescent boy.

I hurry myself along, breathing a sigh of relief when the machine doesn't go off and I'm left to live another day. What will I do with an additional day on this earth - not having sweated to death, or having had airport security find a vibrator in my suitcase? Probably nothing. Definitely not anything worthy of having coined my last day on the planet.

"Hey, how're you?" Erik asks the guard, flashing his usual smile when he reaches him. Unlike me, the guards are nice to him - welcoming, even. Helping him pick up his belongings, not asking him to take off his shoes, and not even flinching when he sets off the machine because he left change in his back pocket.

I think I saw a woman a few rows down cry, after being berated over a quarter.

I wait patiently, staying to the side of the wall as the crowd passes between him and I. It's Christmas eve, so granted, it's busy inside. People stop him to ask for an autograph, a photo, a lock of hair - not actually but it wouldn't surprise me. Being famous seems to come with its own manual: how to act, what to say, what not to do. Being a normal person seemed hard enough; being a famous hockey player's girlfriend seems like it might be a lot more work.

"Wanna grab some coffee?" He asks, glancing at the Rolex watch on his wrist. He wears it like I wear my favorite hoodie or sport my iPhone 6. I'm pretty sure it costs more than what my life insurance payout would be - not that any company would ever insure me. I thought of applying for it - once, and then I looked at the questionnaire. A million questions prying into my life, family history, everything wrong, and I recycled it in the closest bin I could find.

Save the trees, yes; save me, don't bother. Sorry, I'm a little depressing today because I haven't been caffeinated, or fed - and judging by the lineup at Starbucks, I assume I'll remain so for the next little while. Because with no mobile ordering and only one barista at the counter, I think we'll miss our flight if we stay here. Then someone appears from the back - likely a manger, and takes Erik and I's order. Right there, in the middle of the mile-long line up.

We get our coffee and my muffin on the side, and away we go. No special treatment? No truth.

"I don't understand how you can fit that much in your body." I comment, only being a mere spectator at the show that is his breakfast consumption. Two breakfast sandwiches, a venti coffee (medium roast) and a blueberry muffin. He got two - one for me, and one for himself. He also didn't let me pay for anything because he's an asshole.

Or really sweet, depending on how you look at it.

"I'm just getting started." He says, laughing as he pulls a protein shake from his bag. I thought I heard the blender, but then again, I was also half-asleep and trying to put on clothes when most people would be taking them off.

I don't understand how people could ever think god is a woman. Because anyone that's seen the amount of food a man can eat - and not get fat; whilst women starve themselves, clearly is delusional. Maybe I'm just biased because I can only eat two pieces of a muffin before feeling stuffed. Not by design, but by a habit I've developed over the last few years. A habit called: how to lose 100 pounds. The secret? Starve yourself.

"Can I have some?" Erik asks, gesturing to my venti iced latte with extra ice. I wish he had just gotten another one, because he always ends up drinking half of mine. I remember when my overpriced drinks were just for myself; then I started dating him and everything changed. That seems to be the way a lot of things are - completely different with him in my life.