ICING THE PAIN

CHAPTER 1: The Humiliation

MOLLY'S POV

I throw the champagne bottle at the TV. It shattered against the screen, making the screen crackle before going black. And Hartland's face disappears mid-proposal.

Good. I don't need to see him slide that ring onto her finger anyway.

My hands are shaking. I've been staring at this screen for twenty minutes, watching the same clip over and over. 

Hartland Jacob, my ex-fiancé, down on one knee in front of Lilian Brooklyn at center ice. The crowd was going wild. 

He left me two months before our wedding, and one month later he's proposing to an actress on live television.

I grab my jacket and keys. My apartment suddenly feels too small and quiet.

My phone won't stop buzzing with texts and calls, but I shove it in my pocket and head out.

The Rusty Puck is the kind of dive bar where hockey fans go to celebrate or drown their sorrows, depending on how the game went.

Tonight, I'm not here for hockey.

I slide onto a barstool and the bartender gives me a once-over. 

"What'll it be ma'am?" The bartender asked.

"Tequila.” I immediately responded. “ And keep them coming, no questions."

He nods and pours without comment. I down the first shot and push the glass back toward him.

The bar is half-full, mostly guys in jerseys watching postgame highlights on the mounted TVs. I catch a glimpse of Hartland's face on one of them and look away fast.

He told me he needed space. He said the wedding planning was too much pressure, that he wasn't ready to settle down yet, and he needed to focus on his career.

I believed him and cancelled the venue, returned the dress, and told everyone the wedding was off.

Then I saw the pictures of him with Lilian Brooklyn three weeks later.

The second shot burns less than the first.

"Rough night?" The bartender is back with the bottle.

"Haha… rough month rather." I tap my glass.

He pours again and I drink it. The edges of the room start to blur a little. 

My phone buzzes again. I pull it out and see my sister's name, then my mom's, then my friend's I haven't talked to in months. Everyone wants to check on me. I silence it and order another drink.

By the time I've lost count of the shots, the bar is spinning. I need air. 

I stumble off the stool and head for the door. The bartender says something but I'm already outside, gulping down the night air.

There's a hotel across the street. The one with a lobby bar and valets.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm walking through the hotel doors.

The lobby is too bright. I squint at the front desk clerk.

"Room. I need a room."

She types something, asks for my card. I hand it over and she gives me a key card.

"Third floor, room 318."

I don't remember getting to the elevator or the ride up or finding the room.

What I remember is sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at my phone. The video of Hartland's proposal is everywhere. Twitter, Instagram, TikTok. Everyone is talking about it. #HartlandAndLilian. #CoupleGoals. #SoRomantic.

I wanted to scream before I heard a knock at the door.

I get up, swaying. I didn't order anything. Maybe it's housekeeping.

I open it and there's a man in the hallway, wearing a black hoodie with the hood up. I can barely see his face.

"Wrong room," I say, but my words are slurred.

"Everyone left," he says, laughing in-between.

"Everyone fucking left."

He's drunk too. I can hear it in his voice. I should push him off and close the door. But he looks broken, and I know that feeling.

"Come in." The words come out before I can think.

He stumbles inside and I close the door behind him. We stand there for a second, two drunk strangers in a hotel room.

I remember being lifted. And then my back hitting the bed and his weight on top of me.

Then everything goes black.

The first thing I noticed was my aching head. The second thing is the dry taste in my mouth. The third thing is that I'm not wearing any clothes.

I keep my eyes closed, trying to piece together what happened. The bar. The shots. The hotel room. The man at my door.

Oh god.

My stomach twists. I force my eyes open and the sunlight makes everything worse.

I turn my head slowly and freeze. And God, there's someone next to me.

A man, still asleep, dark hair messy against the pillow. His arm is across my waist. 

On the floor next to the bed, there's a black hoodie and jeans. And under them, a hockey jersey.

And that made my heart stop. No. Please no.

Hartland came back. Did the backlash from the proposal make him come find me?? And I was so drunk I slept with him.

I'm going to be sick. God… noooo

My phone starts ringing from the nightstand. I grab it with shaking hands, trying not to wake him.

The screen lights up with the name HARTLAND'S MOTHER.

The man beside me stirs at the sound. Please let this be a nightmare. Please let me wake up.

He rolls onto his back, one arm going behind his head. His eyes are still closed. That's not Hartland's face.

This guy's features are sharper. The jawline is different. And when he opens his eyes, they're ice blue.

I've seen this face before. On TV, in sports articles, in the tabloids.

Goddddd…. This is Karl Lagerfeld.

Hartland's teammate. The star player he's always complaining about. The guy who's better at everything, according to Hartland's bitter rants.

My phone is still ringing in my hand. Then Karl looks at me, then at the phone screen, then back at me. 

"Are you Molly Texas?" he asks.

I totally forgot how to breathe. He's so gorgeous.

"Hartland's ex," he continued, sitting up slowly. "The one he dumped before the wedding."

The phone stops ringing. Three seconds later, it starts again.

HARTLAND'S MOTHER.

"Yes I am. And this is bad," I whisper.

"Yeah." He runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah, this is really bad."