Rinkside Ruin

4.WELCOME BACK, SLUT!

MARA VOSS’ POV (ONE YEAR LATER)

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I’m not dramatic. Really, I’m not. I’m a woman of facts, of logic, of orthopedic-grade insoles because my job requires twelve-hour shifts on my feet and I’ve given up on cute shoes for the sake of my arches. But when my phone rings at six-freaking-thirty in the morning and Ms. Chapman’s name flashes on the screen, I know (emphasis on that) my day is about to get steamrolled.

“Voss,” I answer, because I’ve been trained to sound professional even when I’m half-asleep and drooling into my pillow.

“Mara,” Ms. Chapman purrs, and nothing good ever comes after that tone. “How fast can you pack?”

I sit up so fast I nearly throw myself off the bed. “Why would I need to pack?”

“You're going to Chicago."

“Chicago?” I croak, voice still scratchy from sleep. My heart rate spikes, panic unfurling in my chest like an old, familiar friend. “You can’t be serious.”

Ms. Chapman doesn’t even flinch. Not that I can see her, but I can feel the unbothered shrug through the phone. “I’m dead serious. They need OUR best and YOU'RE the best trauma therapist in the league, Mara. They need you.”

Standing, I squeeze my eyes shut and drag a shaky breath through my nose. Heavens. Goddess. Budha. Anywhere but Chicago.

“Respectfully,” I walk to the window, already sweating, though the morning air is cool, “I can’t take this case. I mean… there are other people—”

“Mara.” Her voice sharpens, the way it always does when she’s about to make my life hell in a very polite, HR-friendly tone. “It’s the captain of the Chicago Blizzards. He just had a career-threatening injury, and he’s… difficult. Volatile was the word. Nobody else can handle him. They need you.”

I feel sick. Actually, physically ill. My stomach twists itself into origami. I grip the edge of the window before I hit the floor.

“Absolutely not.” My voice jumps an octave. “No. No, ma’am. Hard pass. I’m not going back to Chicago.”

I can already feel my body locking up, my chest tightening, my heart thudding out the letters of DON’T DO IT in Morse code. Chicago? The city where every bad memory I’ve collected in my adult life lives rent-free?

“Oh, Mara,” she hums, like I’m a particularly slow child. “You’re not understanding me. I’m not asking.”

I’m already spiraling, heart pounding like it’s in a death metal band. Because she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know the real reason I can’t go back there. The man I’m not risking bumping into again.

“You’ll go,” Ms. Chapman continues, oblivious to the way my whole body is physically recoiling from this conversation. “Or you can kiss your career goodbye. I already submitted your name to them. Oh, and I told Gigi you’d be back in Chicago.”

I make a strangled noise somewhere between a groan and a scream. “You what?!”

“Gigi sounded thrilled,” she says, sounding entirely too smug. “Congratulations, Mara. This is a huge opportunity.”

Before I can unleash the string of profanity that’s already bubbling up my throat, she hangs up.

Oh, she’s good.

I stand there in stunned silence, phone still pressed to my ear like the call might magically resurrect itself and undo this nightmare.

Chicago.

Chicago, the city where everything went to hell.

Where I found my ex-fiancé in bed with his secretary last year because, yes, my life is apparently a soap opera with zero originality.

Where Gigi, in all her chaotic wisdom, dared me to sleep with the first hot man I saw, shouting, “The best way to get over a man is to get under another, babe!”

And like an absolute moron, I listened.

Rowan Kaine.

The man is branded onto my brain like a warning label.

He was dangerous. And addictive. The very kind of sin you’d happily ruin your life for. I’d never done anything like that before — never had a one-night stand, never even thought about it — but with him? Heaven help me, I jumped. Headfirst.

The s*x? The best night of my entire life. Bar none.

The regret? Also the best of my life. Five stars, highly recommend ghosting the hottest man you’ve ever slept with and then skipping town before dawn.

Yes, I ghosted him. Slipped out of that hotel room before sunrise without so much as a note.

Because I’m a coward. A gutless, weak-willed coward with an addiction to self-sabotage.

Worse? He plays hockey in Chicago. Somewhere. I never looked into it too hard, because honestly? I didn’t want to know.

And now, I’m being shipped back there. Dropped into the lion’s den with every single skeleton I’ve worked so hard to bury.

Perfect.

Absolutely f**king perfect.

I flop back onto my bed and groan into my pillow, already picturing Gigi’s evil little grin.

* * *

Four hours, two screaming babies, and one offensively dry airport sandwich later, I land at Chicago O’Hare, also known as the ninth circle of hell.

I stagger out of the plane, disoriented and dehydrated, immediately swallowed by the chaos. There’s this unique energy here, like the airport itself is daring you to cry in public.

I try to follow the signs to baggage claim, but the signage is… I mean, I think it’s English, but it’s definitely not communicating with me.

It's vague at best and actively malicious at worst because I'm _absolutely_ sure I’ve passed the same Starbucks three times already.

I mutter under my breath as I drag my carry-on along, eyes darting wildly like I’m in a survival horror game.

“Welcome to Chicago O’Hare, where dreams go to die in Terminal 5 and your luggage gets rerouted to Wisconsin. Either this airport is a labyrinth. Or I’m losing it. Or both.”

It takes me twenty minutes, a minor existential crisis, and a run-in with an angry nun (don’t ask) before I finally locate baggage claim.

My phone vibrates just as I grab my suitcase.

> Gigi: I’m outside, b***h. 👀🍆🚨

The dread rolls through me like a tsunami.

I take a deep, steadying breath and push my way through the crowd toward the revolving doors, already bracing for whatever fresh hell she’s about to unleash, but still praying she’s learnt the meaning of “subtlety” since I last saw her.

Spoiler alert: She hasn’t.

I spot her the second I approach the revolving doors, and I immediately feel the blood drain from my face.

Sweet merciful God.

Standing outside her car, Gigi beams like she’s just won the lottery. In one hand, she's holding a massive, homemade, glitter-covered sign that screams: WELCOME BACK, SLUT!

But oh, it gets worse.

She’s also holding a goddamn megaphone.

And she’s testing it, too, because of course she is.

“MARAAAAA! YOUR CHICAGO ROYALTY HAS ARRIVED!” she shrieks, her voice echoing off every glass pane in a five-mile radius.

Oh. My. Sweet baby Krishna.

But wait, there’s more.

She’s wearing a full-body, hot pink plush p***s costume. A full-on mascot-style getup, complete with balls as the feet and a happy little smiley face on the tip.

She’s also clutching a bouquet of balloons shaped like boobs and butts.

People are filming her.

Airport security looks like they want to intervene but also aren’t paid nearly enough to engage with that.

I stop dead in my tracks, mortified beyond words.

“Nope,” I mutter out loud. “Absolutely not. I don’t know that woman. I’m turning around. I’ll move back to Seattle. Change my name. I’ll marry a barista named Chad. I don’t care.”

I spin on my heel, fully prepared to flee the scene and start a new life in witness protection.

But Gigi spots me and her shriek pierces the heavens.

“MARA! OH MY GOD, THERE SHE IS! MY EMOTIONAL SUPPORT w***e!”

The entire curbside area erupts in laughter, whistles and gasps.

I freeze in absolute horror as my entire body goes cold, then hot, then cold again in rapid succession.

I turn, too stunned to even run, just in time to see Gigi waddling toward me because, unsurprisingly, running in a p***s costume isn’t exactly aerodynamic.

“Don’t you dare—”

Too late.

She slams into me like a freight train, throwing her arms around me in a tackle-hug that knocks the air from my lungs.

I stand there, stiff as a board, as strangers record every second of my humiliation.

And in my head, I’m begging — no, pleading — with any higher power that’ll listen:

Dear God, please smite me right here on the sidewalk. I’ll take lightning. Fire. A spontaneous sinkhole. Dealer’s choice. Just end it. Let it end here.

Because if this is how my trip starts… I’m definitely not surviving what comes next.

Gigi’s laughing her evil little head off, still wrapped around me in her ridiculous plush c**k suit.

“You’re home, babe!” she cackles into my ear. “And you look like you want to die!”

“I do,” I whisper, dead inside.

She pulls back, beaming under her p***s hood. “Welcome back to the Windy City, slut.”

And I already know.

I’m in so much trouble.