Car horns blared all around me as I waited impatiently in Boston's hideous, yet inevitable rush hour traffic. I impulsively kept checking the time on my phone, hoping it was slower than the clock on the dash of my A6. Shit. Who would've thought it would take an hour and a half to drive 5 miles across town? I squeezed the steering wheel, my knuckles whitening, and slowly inched my way along, praying some Masshole wouldn't rear end the glistening black bumper on my new car. Cambridge to the North End was a complete disaster, and there was nothing I could do but wait.
I finally got to the TD Bank Garden (two hours late), which is the home of the Boston Bruins and the Celtics. Now, if there's one thing everyone knows about me, it's that my family is New England royalty. This place is our palace. Not a concept I engineered, but the media enjoys calling me 'Boston's Princess.' It's not my fault my dad owns TD Bank. But he likes to put me on babysitting duty whenever there's another team in town. Tours, dinners, clubs; you name it, I either take them there or are responsible for it. Even though it's a searing August evening, there's a week-long NHL training clinic at the Garden. The first practice was at 2, and I was painfully late. All the big shots are supposed to be there, and I've already made a horrible impression on them by arriving over an hour after their practice ended. I pulled up to the fenced lot and made quick small talk with Henry, the gate-tender.
"Oh, Miss Charlotte! You know those boys are expecting you." He seemed to be scolding me, the wrinkles on his dark face shifting to match his disappointed expression.
"I know Henry, I'm sorry. This traffic is wicked bad. I'll see you when I leave!" I took my access card from him and parked my Audi with the rest of the luxury cars. Most of them were probably rentals for the week, but I picked out Tyler Seguin and Patrice Bergeron's cars. They'd give me an earful when I saw them, I knew it.
I made my way into the back entrance, trying to smooth my lacey robin's egg blue dress and fluff my long sun-bleached blonde hair before facing the testosterone. Dad would be pretty pissed if he saw the outfit I was wearing, but what could he expect in this wretched 90-degree weather? The dress had an open back and was cut well above my knees, and my cream colored heels made my legs look much more slender than they actually were. But I marched along the alley way, flipping through the itineraries and folders and pictures of each player, past the locker rooms and out into the arena. The thousands of seats were empty except for the 30 or so hockey players jumping around in the front rows. They looked like they had already showered, and were tossing a football around, leaping through the aisles, hurdling themselves up the stairs. Boys. They were loud, rowdy. I recognized most of them, players from the Eastern Conference. I made my way closer, and once they realized I was there, they stopped dead in their tracks and hopped into seats, knowing full well that I was their authority figure for the night, and that they would have to be on their best behavior.
A loud whistle pierced through the still, chilly air, clearly a response to my outfit, and I shot a quick glare over to Tyler, who diverted his eyes from mine, intimidated. I knew it came from him. That's right, don't even try that with me tonight. I cleared my throat before beginning my usual shpeel.
"Well, hello everyone. For those of you who haven't met me, I'm Charlotte Williams, and I am responsible for all of you while you're here. I'm sorry I couldn't meet you this morning and that I kept you waiting tonight, but now I have all of your itineraries. I assume you all checked into your hotels?"
I was answered with silent nods.
"Good. I'm sorry again that I kept you waiting, you all must be starving." That was an understatement. "So, let's go out to the hallway, it'll be easier to talk out there."
I led the parade of t-shirt-clad men back out into the alley I came through. The acoustics were much better, and I could see everyone at eye level, instead of standing rows above them and worrying if they could see up my dress or not. Everyone gathered against the wall, and I stood opposite them, shuffling through my papers again.
"Alright, so y'all are organized by teams, unless you requested otherwise, so we'll start with the Boston boys. You're having dinner with Dad tonight, have fun!" I rose my voice sarcastically and handed them their sheet with directions and car service information. They knew the drill, and they rolled their eyes at me as they headed outside. But Tyler remained behind, and I quickly looked over the list again to make sure his name wasn't left off it. He wasn't listed there. Ugh, you've got to be kidding me. I sent the rest of the teams on their way, Washington was having dinner downtown, Philly was meeting with some potential sponsors, and the New York and New Jersey teams were going out for some sight seeing.
"Okay, so I'm assuming you're the Penguins?" I asked, looking at the remaining guys in front of me– Sidney Crosby and Evgeni Malkin. And Tyler, standing there with some smug look on his face. I had met Sid and Evgeni before but had never really spoken to them besides usually business stuff like this. "Well, you're having dinner with me and then we're going out, is that good?" They nodded again and followed me out the door. I usually never actually entertain guests personally but things went awry with some of the planning, and I didn't mind. Pittsburgh had the fewest number of players sent from a team so I had to make them feel welcome. Dad's orders, but I had already told my best friends Morgan and Chelsea that they could come with us, and they were beyond excited to meet the mystery guests. I hadn't told them who I got stuck with, but they trusted that any hockey player would be attractive.
"I hope you guys don't mind that we're meeting some of my friends at the restaurant. I wasn't planning on having you with me, not that it's a problem. I just had plans." The girls would help break the ice and make it easier to communicate with the unfamiliar players. Tyler, they knew. Pretty well. I couldn't give these three guys equal attention without things getting awkward, and I'm sure they would appreciate the company. Don't get me wrong, I could entertain a crowd, but usually when I take groups of players out they request 'dates.' But this would be different, these were my best friends, and they just wanted to have fun.
"They hot?" One asked in a thick, Russian accent. What do they call him? Oh right, Geno.
"That's for you to decide." They laughed lightly at my response and we met the driver of the Escalade that would be escorting us all night and piled in. We waved to Henry at the gate and set off to our destination: Tangierino, a chic Moroccan restaurant. It was only a quick drive. We honestly could've walked but it just wasn't realistic given our status. I really don't have an ego, it's just fact. You can't walk around Boston with Tyler Seguin, Evgeni Malkin and Sidney Crosby and think no one will recognize you. Paparazzi also tended to follow me around when I went out because of some unsavory things I did in the past. I couldn't shake them, and it drove me nuts. Plus, the guys were wearing their post-practice t-shirts and shorts – not acceptable for a night out in Boston. We drove to Tyler's apartment and then Sid and Geno's hotel and I waited in the car each time for what seemed like an eternity while they changed into button down shirts in various shades of light blue and shorts. Sidney was wearing Nantucket reds, but Geno and Tyler wore khakis.
Once we got to the restaurant, the host quickly shuffled us to one of the private dining rooms where Morgan and Chelsea were already waiting for us. We entered the grand area – not grand in size, but in appearance. The walls were a deep red, covered in Moroccan artwork, mirrors and mosaics. There were couches and piles of pillows toward the back of the room, and the table was the central piece, a round, reclaimed piece of wood that had been stained to nearly a milk chocolate brown. It shone against the soft golden beams emanating from the dimmed chandelier above. Chelsea and Morgan jumped up from their seats and ran over to me, throwing their arms around me.
"Well aren't you going to introduce us?" They chimed, giving the new guys behind me once-overs.
"Morgan, Chelsea, this is Sidney Crosby, Evgeni Malkin… and you know Tyler." Sid and Geno shook hands the girls' eager hands cordially, anxiously smiling at the looks they were giving them. The guys politely pulled chairs out for us around the table and we took our seats. I immediately buried my face in a menu. I was starving, and trying to avoid Tyler, but Morgan and Chelsea were whispering to themselves behind theirs, obviously plotting some evil scheme.
We ate our dinner with polite small talk and awkward advances from my friends. God, they could drive me nuts, especially when other teams came to town. They already had a reputation with the Bruins, but new guys? I'm sure they were already scheming about how they could get used to bitter Pittsburgh winters. As if they were worse than Boston's. Dinner was pleasant, but I was relieved when we finally got up to head to the club called The Estate, just across the river from my brownstone in Cambridge. I could use some hard liquor. We loaded into the Escalade and headed across the city where our driver dropped us off. The music from within the building pulsed beneath our feet before we even got inside. Of course we were shot glances from the people waiting in line around the building when we were immediately let in, but it was easy to shake them off.
"SHOTS ON CHARLOTTE!" Morgan hollered and ran ahead to the bar. Her tight black dress clung to her tiny, yet athletic frame as she shuffled in her stilettos toward the vodka. We followed behind her, trying to push our way through the masses of people. The music roared and the air was thick with sweat and fog, but hopefully we could get to the VIP section at some point and escape the madness. People slowly began to recognize us, but it was dark enough that we could stay on the down-low for a little while.
Morgan and Chelsea knew I had the 'company credit card.' Daddy's money. As much as I loved them, their expectation that my dad would pay for everything was a little ridiculous. But I couldn't do much, and by the time we got to the bar, six shots of Grey Goose were being poured for us. No questions asked, the bartender just shot me a quick wink. We each grabbed one and Morgan lifted it above her in a toast position.
"Thank you Charlotte's daddy for buying us these shots, and thank you for bringing us these smoking hot hockey players. Amen!" We clinked glasses, dumbfounded that this was her speech before she had even had more than a glass of wine, and downed our poison. It flamed down my throat, a warning, foreshadowing the consequences of a night that I knew this would turn out to be, and I quickly motioned for the bartender to pour another round.
After four more shots, I was ready to weave my way through the middle of the dance floor and let loose, mixed drink in hand. The bass pumped and Chelsea and Morgan faced me in our own mini circle as we worked our bodies with the music. As the minutes passed, I could feel the alcohol becoming more concentrated in my body, inflicting its early effects on my judgment and coordination. I almost didn't even think twice when I felt someone behind me moving in sync with the rhythm my hips were keeping. I could feel my mind slowly slipping, revealing my party-princess alter ego, and the sluttyness got turned up about 100 notches. The bare backs of my thighs rubbed against the legs of whoever was dancing with me. I didn't think about turning around to look at him, but the looks on Morgan and Chelsea's faces and the blurred expressions around me suggested otherwise. With my backside still moving firmly with his rhythm, I tilted my chin up, and before I could get a good look at him, I felt a pair of lips attach on to mine. I responded instinctively – I kissed back, spinning my body around without breaking the kiss. I grinded my hips against his, as I nipped and tugged at his bottom lip. His tongue eagerly explored the inside of my mouth, his left hand wandering down to my thigh, pulling me as close as possible.
"Charlotte! Charlotte what the fuck are you doing?" Chelsea pulled at my shoulder, breaking the bond of the lips I had been kissing. I opened my eyes, taking in the sight of just whom exactly I was throwing myself on, and I took a huge step back. Fuck. Fuck, not again. A camera flashed, and I realized I had conjured up quite the crowd around us.
"I... I'm sorry." I pushed through the crowd, forcing my way to the back door where the security guard, who immediately recognized me, propped the door open for me as I slipped outside. People with cameras had followed me most of the way, but the guard kept them from exiting the way I had to give me some space. I put my palm to my forehead as I wobbly paced back and forth on the sidewalk. Luckily this side of the building was opposite to the one with the line. The fresh air didn't do much to help clear my head. Why was this happening again? How could I be so stupid? I felt like a young deer, unsteady in my heels, frantic and scrambling to gather my thoughts, when I heard the door open again behind me.