Disclaimer: I do not own the NHL. If I did, I'd probably be Canadian, or knowledgeable about hockey. I do own The Imaginary University of Denver, but possibly NOT the Buccaneers. If I did own the Buccaneers, I would be congratulating myself on my irrefutable knack for creating wicked-awesome Team Names. I do not own scorpions, since they're ridiculously-difficult to train. I do not own Wal-Mart. If I did, I'd be paying the employees higher wages, because those are some decent folks. I do not own lime-green hair, Group Showers, and Girl Talk. I do not own the Big Bad Wolf. I do not own Bambi (the movie, the rights, or the hooker). I do not own the Chesire Cat (from the Alice In Wonderland movie or books). I do not own the cliché about pushing someone's buttons. I do not own Neanderthals. Of course, I used to be hit on by Neanderthals repeatedly, when I lived in the dorm next to one of the frat houses, last year. Note to Frat Guys: Trying to pick up a girl by telling her that you broke your foot, when you fell off a flagpole, while you were drunk is ABSOLUTELY MORONIC. You're not being cute, so you're not gonna get laid! I do not own "as you wish," which belongs to The Man in Black from The Princess Bride.
Previously on On Thin Ice: Phoenix was accepted into The Imaginary University of Denver, which she is hoping will result in a future of Revolutionizing the Game of Hockey. Garrett refuses to marry Dallas, but he does offer to hold her hostage in a Motel 6. The Drake Women arrive at the University-Provided Cabin, complete with animal heads, a skilift, a polar bear, and Caleb Bradford in Phoenix's bed. Oy, but those sponges move fast, don't they? During the dinner at Coach Markson's, Phoenix is unable to consume a carrot stick, and Manhattan is unable to stomach Caleb's robotic proclamation that Phoenix is 'breathtaking.'
"The next time you abuse your locker, try not to envision your destiny's face while doing so." –Marissa Jennings
Outside Coach Markson's Office: Of Mothers and Meetings
"MUH-THER," Phoenix shrilled imperiously.
Mrs. Drake arched an eyebrow, but refrained from commenting.
Meticulously, she busied herself straightening Phoenix's collar.
Phoenix irately wrenched herself from her mother's grasp.
Head held high, she haughtily groused, "I'm doing this ALONE! This is NOT my first day of Kindergarten, and I don't need you to hold my hand! After all, NO ONE in the NHL has a mother who insists on tagging along to meetings."
In times of stress, Mrs. Drake knew better than to contradict her daughter.
Meekly, she nodded her agreement.
Phoenix hobbled forward a few steps.
Immediately, she retreated, flinging her arms around her mother's neck.
"But, since I'm not in the NHL yet, if it wouldn't be too much trouble for you to…," she whimpered pitifully.
"I'll be right outside the door, Sweetheart."
With that assurance, Phoenix teetered precariously toward her destiny.
Mrs. Drake was left alone to mull over the uncertain fate of her middle child.
Try as she might to justify her daughter's faults, Phoenix's overconfidence was irrefutable.
Phoenix was certain that her independent streak was a million miles long, but the truth was, she would never be able to tackle the world on her own.
When Harold died, Phoenix had lost the only person with whom she was willing to let her guard down.
More than anything else, Mrs. Drake prayed that Phoenix would find someone she could trust as much as she trusted her father.
Inside Coach Markson's Office: But, the Script Offers Nothing to Curb Her Wrath
Five minutes earlier, Coach Markson had sauntered jauntily out of his office.
Heaving an indifferently-agonized sigh, Caleb Bradford contemplated the file Coach Markson had thrust at him, prior to his merry departure.
"With all due respect, Sir," he had tediously murmured, following Coach Markson's chirpy declaration that the meeting with Phoenix Drake would be placed squarely upon his shoulders, "I'm not sure that my position as the MASCOT qualifies me to discuss matters of such a sensitive nature with a perspective STAR PLAYER."
"With all due respect, Bradford, that's one hell of a pansy-ass cop-out," Coach Markson had resolutely boomed.
"Your father has been my best friend for over thirty years, and in all the time I've known him, he has never been more certain of anything than he is of your intelligence. Don't prove him wrong, Son! All I'm depending on you to do is to tell Miss Drake that she and her family are more than welcome to stay at Barton Park, free of charge, as part of her scholarship. If she wishes to move elsewhere, she can schedule an appointment with me. Also, inform Miss Drake that her position on the team will be dealt with at practice on Monday. Then, give her the schedule for the season. If you have any questions, I've written a script for you, which I put in the file with Miss Drake's name on it. After all, you've tackled Medical School. One woman shouldn't be too much to handle."
"But Coach," he had listlessly protested, "Phoenix was promised a meeting with YOU."
"Nonsense, Bradford!"
Coach Markson had waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
"You and Miss Drake CLEARLY hit it off last night, and if there's one thing in this cruel world that warms this old man's heart, it's when two young people are inexplicably drawn together."
"Coach, all I did was offer to show her the escape routes," Caleb had casually retaliated.
Coach Markson had slugged him jovially on the shoulder.
"GOOD FOR YOU, SON! Escaping into the night for a clandestine rendezvous! Your father will be thrilled!"
"Well, certainly not as thrilled as Miss Drake will be when YOU agree to meet with her. And, as far as Miss Drake and I are concerned, there is no togetherness, 'inexplicable,' or otherwise," Caleb had countered, flatly.
"Bradford, a woman's heart is a delicate instrument. It just takes time and patience to properly pluck the strings. YOU will meet with Miss Drake, and you will both benefit from the experience."
"Not fucking likely," Caleb spiritlessly seethed at the offending file.
Inside Coach Markson's Office: To Score with a Scorpion
It was at that moment that Phoenix stumbled (literally) into the room.
Upon realizing that he wasn't, in fact, Coach Markson, she deafeningly thundered, "HELL NO," while staggering from the office.
Understandably, he was banally bemused by her excruciatingly-awkward retreat.
When she limped back into the inexplicably-sweltering office, Caleb's bland snickering immediately ceased.
Absentmindedly, he tugged at his collar.
He diligently averted his eyes from her form-fitting blouse and curve-hugging skirt, which steadily traveled up her thigh when she plopped, without a shred of poise, into the chair across from him.
Damn!
Those heels make her legs look delicious!
No!
Must focus on something else!
Look up, Moron!
BLOODY HELL!
Look past the cleavage!
Definitely look past the mouth!
Just focus on the eyes, those intoxicating eyes.
Say something!
But, DON'T deviate from the script!
Otherwise, the first words out of your mouth will be, "I know you're intending to stay at Barton Park, so let's screw this meeting, shall we? And speaking of screwing, how would you feel about being ravished on Markson's desk...by me?"
Caleb Bradford, you are twenty-four-years-old.
This is not the first woman you have come in contact with.
Pull yourself together, Man!
Of course, she is the first woman you have come in contact with, who has made you feel… THIS!
Well, if you're going to make an ass of yourself, you may as well start now.
"Morning, Miss Drake."
"OH, SO YOU ARE CAPABLE OF CIVILITY," Phoenix venomously gritted.
"I beg your pardon," he stammered, detached.
THIS ISN'T IN THE GODDAMN SCRIPT!
She bellowed, lividly, "Last night we were having a conversation, and YOU BAILED! YOU BAILED WITHOUT SO MUCH AS A "GOODBYE!"
Maybe it's just me, but she seems a LITTLE bent out of shape about this.
"Miss Drake, I believe you made it PERFECTLY clear that you weren't interested in my help. There was nothing more that needed to be said. Hence, I ended the discussion."
"Mr. Bradford," she snarled vehemently, "what gives you the right to decide when our discussions end?"
"Well," he nonchalantly retorted, "clearly, my presence was distressing you, so I felt that it would be best if I terminated the conversation."
"'DISTRESSING?' Your presence was 'DISTRESSING' me? Don't presume to know me, Mr. Bradford."
"How could I presume any such thing, Miss Drake? You're not willing to give me a chance to know you."
"You know what, Mr. Bradford, let's NOT make this personal," she murderously raged.
"As you wish, Miss Drake. I suppose the first order of business is…"
"What YOU are doing at MY meeting," Phoenix indignantly erupted.
Caleb valiantly struggled to remain impassive.
Her fury simply increases her physical appeal.
More importantly, I have a better chance of scoring with a scorpion than I do of scoring with Phoenix Drake.
Indifferent, Caleb handed the file to Phoenix.
"Coach Markson asked me to give you this information. The speech, which you refused to listen to, should answer any questions you have about living arrangements. There is also a schedule of practices, games, and special events for the entire season. You will learn your position at Monday's practice. Enjoy the rest of the weekend, Miss Drake."
Phoenix peevishly spun on her flimsy, Wal-Mart-brand, nine-inch heel, only to discover herself tumbling backwards against Caleb Bradford.
"Miss Drake, I knew you hadn't intended to leave without saying so much as a "goodbye,"" he quipped, aloof.
Momentarily, he placed his hands upon her hips to steady her.
Her body was pressed so firmly against his, he was COMPLETELY conscious of her skirt inching upwards.
DAMN YOU TO HELL, SCRIPT!
He assisted her to her feet, in a manner completely immune to adjectives, and escorted her to the door.
Outside Coach Markson's Office: Your Shoes Betray Your Defeat
Once Phoenix had freed herself from the stiflingly-cramped quarters of Coach Markson's Office, she furiously yanked off her shoes.
Purposefully, she charged toward her mother, loathsome file clenched between her teeth.
"Not the most productive meeting in the history of hockey was it," Mrs. Drake dryly remarked.
Gathering Phoenix's shoes, she ushered her vengefully-mumbling daughter to the car.
Inside Coach Markson's Office: Of Blisters and Bitches
Within the bowels of Coach Markson's Office, Caleb Bradford paced frantically, to and fro, to and fro.
And yet, he accomplished nothing, but wearing a hole in the already-battered carpet.
Incidentally, he developed some fairly severe blisters, which certainly would do nothing to improve the Mascot Routine he was supposed to have perfected by Monday's practice.
What is it about Phoenix Drake that has my innards all tied up in knots?
For the first time, probably in his life, Coach Markson couldn't be more wrong.
Phoenix Drake has strings that I will NEVER come close to plucking!
Her defiance had captured his interest the instant he met her.
She pushed his typically-indifferent buttons in ways that no one else had in many years.
She made him FEEL for the first time since Skylar's death.
Buccaneerettes' Locker Room: Of Requisite Lesbian Banter and Strength
Phoenix stormed into the Buccaneerettes' Locker Room, wayward clumps of hair tumbling into her eyes.
She was as red as a beet, sweating profusely, and huffing and puffing more fervently than the Big Bad Wolf.
Furiously, she slammed her locker shut.
A disembodied, feminine voice, from a few lockers down, comfortingly commented, "Take it from me, Honey, I don't care how impressive his equipment is, he ain't worth it! You're about to benefit from the wisdom of a gal who has been down that road. Don't destroy your locker! Boys come and boys go, but a decent locker, well...that WILL last you an entire career."
Phoenix's feet, completely of their own accord, led her to the source of the voice: a gangly, honey-haired, freckled mass of arms and legs, with striking sapphire eyes and a rebellious smirk.
Hefting her duffle bag into her locker, she eased it shut (Phoenix was positively delighted to note that the door hung limply from its rusted hinges, at a decidedly-bizarre angle), extending her frail hand toward Phoenix.
"Marissa Jennings. You look awfully bushed for someone who hasn't even endured her first Buccaneers' Practice! Are you absolutely positive that there wasn't some Group Shower I missed?"
Phoenix could only gawk in awe at the freckled bundle of innuendo.
"Of course," Marissa provocatively purred, "the next time I miss a Group Shower, you and I can always hook up later. Perhaps we'll even drop the soap."
Phoenix's jaw plummeted to the floor.
"And by 'hook up,' I mean I'll give you the indescribable pleasure of treating me to coffee…"
"Phoenix," she supplied, AWKWARDLY.
Marissa amiably squeezed her shoulder, sassing, "Now that the requisite Lesbian Banter is behind us, let's get real, Girl. That partay at Coach Markson's on Friday night? I can't believe you don't even remember me!"
Phoenix furrowed her brow.
What apocalyptic event happened on Friday night?
Caleb Bradford had single-handedly screwed over my unconditional love of carrot sticks!
Caleb Bradford had been an unforgivable dick!
I didn't allow myself to over-react to Caleb Bradford's prickish ways…IN THE SLIGHTEST!
Then, I was BLESSED by Caleb Bradford's abrupt disappearance.
And, the local authorities crashed the party, because one of the neighbors had complained about a topless girl attempting to ride a deer through her front lawn!
"That's right! Everyone was calling you 'Bambi.'"
Phoenix lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Did you get arrested?"
Marissa simply leered at Phoenix, a la the Cheshire Cat.
"Hasn't happened yet! The Sheriff just sent me to my room for the rest of the weekend. And, I know what you're thinking. Why does my law-abiding, not to mention law-enforcing, Old Man, tolerate my public…ahem…exhibitions? Well, I've got Juvenile Diabetes, and he's not certain how long I'll be physically capable of sowing my wild oats, so he's willing to let anything but murder, drugs, and theft slide."
Marissa slumped wearily upon the bench.
All the color drained from her face, as she exhaustedly tugged at the laces on her skates.
Phoenix knelt at her feet to complete the task.
"Although," Marissa mused, saucily arching an eyebrow, "I suppose I can understand why my partial nudity wouldn't make the list of your Fondest Markson Party Memories, considering who you and that carrot stick of yours were chatting up."
Idiotically, Phoenix gaped.
"Don't bother denying it," Marissa dramatically proclaimed.
"My lime-green-haired, thirteen-year-old, admitted-to-being-related-to-you source has already divulged EVERYTHING about your encounter with Caleb Bradford!"
Well, this is certainly the MOST befuddled I've ever been…in the middle of a locker room.
"And, judging by the ferocity of that locker abuse I just witnessed, I can't help but feel compelled to share said lime-green-haired, thirteen-year-old, admitted-to-being-related-to-you source's brilliance."
Knowing Manhattan, this 'brilliance' is DEFINITELY going to include "thither" and "thou," and possibly a "wherefore art."
"My source philosophized that the first guy you meet is the first guy you snub, but he's the one you're meant to be with. And, I'm inclined to believe her, since she's read A FEW romance novels in her lifetime."
Phoenix dismissed Manhattan's juvenile theory with a concerned, "Why hockey? Shouldn't you be spending your energy…"
"Shouldn't I be spending my energy on things that won't increase my chances of dying young? Why not enjoy the time I have?Doing something that allows me to temporarily forget that I'm not as strong as everyone else is theBEST way of spending my energy!"
Coach Markson's whistle tooted faintly in the distance.
Phoenix helped Marissa to her feet.
"You've got it backwards, Marissa. You're much stronger than EVERYONE else."
Cove Stadium: Neanderthals and the Joys of Being Rendered Immobile
They entered the rink, arm-in-arm, amongst the Neanderthal-esque hooting of their teammates.
Phoenix beamed.
I can handle the catcalls.
The foreign concept of Heartfelt Girl Talk and Purging of Innermost Secrets, on the other hand, is another story ENTIRELY!
And, what right does Manhattan have to spout utter BULLSHIT about me and…HIM to a complete stranger?
Especially when that complete stranger might have just been coming on to me!
Coach Markson put an immediate kibosh on the testosterone frenzy, with a terse, "Gentlemen, and primates, I would like to welcome all of you to what I expect will be another undefeated season of Buccaneers' Hockey. Therefore, I am proud to introduce our newest member, Center, and Assistant Captain, PHOENIX DRAKE!"
Marissa futilely endeavored to nudge her forward.
This unexpected pronouncement had rendered Phoenix immobile.
Author's Note: For those of you who are new to the story, the transition from Coach Markson's Office to the Girls' Locker Room is a bit murky, but everything will be cleared up by next chapter. So, we've introduced the mysterious, deceased Skylar, whose memory is haunting Caleb, and the out-spoken Marissa Jennings (based on Mrs. Markson's mother in the book), who is named after my sister's best friend Marissa (she also suffers from Juvenile Diabetes), and was accidentally based on the dog from Lady and the Tramp that Lady meets in the pound, the one who's all, "most men are total dogs, but we love them anyway." Wow! Unexpected Disney Moment! Marissa, I love you, Dude. You've been a wonderful addition to my sister's life and an inspiration to me. You're ALL KINDS of AWESOME! Unfortunately, Marissa has been too ill to attend school, and her arthritis is REALLY acting up, so if you're a prayerful/thoughtful sort of person, prayers/thoughts on Marissa's behalf would be greatly appreciated.Iactually researched a bit of hockey terminology (and I'm not just talking about the "Flying V" from Mighty Ducks), so, I'll explain Phoenix's position in more detail next chapter.
Non-damsel: At this point, I might jump Caleb'sbones, before Phoenixrealizes what she wants. I was never a huge fan of this chapter, because it's pure, lesbian-tinted filler. Hopefully, any worthwhile scene was adequately fleshed out. I'm looking forward to yourreview. Don't forget, I have twoReview-a-Thons I can use for leverage. SHANYID COMMUNICATION! RANNY! MY BELOVED JESS!