Page 42 of Pickled
“Judy?” I blinked. “I don’t believe you.” I opened the bag and pulled out a Miami Barracuda jersey. “You’ve got to be fu—dging kidding me.”
Lisa took Olive’s hand. “Fine, so what if she told me her scheme? She wants you to get out and have some fun.”
The bag dropped to the ground as I turned the jersey around. “Fun? Then how do you explain this?”
“Oh my God.” Lisa clapped her hand over her mouth. “I swear I didn’t know anything about that.”
The name Bailey and the number seventeen were plastered across the back in bright white lettering. “I can’t wear this.”
The revving of an engine interrupted us. “Have you got a water bottle?” Lisa looked down at Olive.
She nodded. “I’ve got a water bottle and the headband that you gave me last time. But I still don’t have a paddle.”
“Oh, don’t worry, sweetie. We’ve got that covered.” Lisa squeezed her shoulder, then turned her attention to me. “It’s a hockey game with your boss. Everyone will be wearing team stuff. Go. Have fun. Your daughter is getting the most expensive lesson at the club.” I could read between the lines. Judith, or Judy as Lisa called her, had paid for the lessons.
The engine revved again. “Fudge it,” I muttered under my breath and pulled the jersey over my head. “How do I look?” I rubbed at my eyes, hoping the mascara I’d applied before my nap hadn’t taken a southern detour down my face.
Olive turned to look at me. “Mommy, you look beautiful.”
Lisa’s eyes shimmered. “You do look beautiful.”
The horn honked again, but this time, it wasn’t a cute beep. Judith was leaning on it. There was no time to spruce up. I would go to the game looking like a disheveled mess, drink a twenty-dollar beer with my boss, come home, and put the whole debacle behind me.
“I think your ride is getting impatient.” The horn continued to blare.
“Argh.” I groaned and yanked the door shut. “Let’s get this over with.” Olive and Gabby bounded down the stairs ahead of us and piled into the back seat of Lisa’s SUV.
We both stopped as we turned the corner.
“This keeps getting better.” Lisa draped her arm over my shoulder and chuckled. “At least you’ll get there fast.”
Judith sat in the driver’s seat of Keith’s bright red Ferrari, the same model as the one from the movieFerris Bueller’s Day Off. She’d wrapped her scarf around the Tigers hat and tied it beneath her chin. I held up my finger, pausing race car Judy’s horn, and jogged to Lisa’s car. I leaned in the back seat to hug Olive. “Have fun, sweetheart.”
“Thank you for letting me go. Have fun with Mrs. Lockelhurst.”
“I will,” I lied.
After seeing the look on Olive’s face, how could I be mad at Judith? If putting on a jersey and going to abarnon a sweltering Sunday night bought a lesson with Janie Myers, I could be a sacrificial puck bunny.
The engine revvedas we pulled up to the VIP valet. The attendants gave each other an amused look but sprang into action as Mrs. L tossed them the keys. “I know what the odometer reads, boys, and no, you can’t roll it back.”
The valet who caught the keys doubled over in laughter. “We’ll take good care of her.”
With the Ferrari “safely” valeted, Mrs. Lockelhurst and I joined the crowd of people making their way into the stadium. “Mrs. Lockelhurst, you’re full of surprises. You’ve seenFerris Bueller’s Day Off?” I said.
“I may be old, but I’m not a dinosaur, Piper, and please, call me Judy,” she whispered. “I use that line on the valets all the time. They eat it up.”
Judy. A sense of pride flooded through me. Lisa wasn’t the only one in the call-me-Judy club. “And none of them have ever taken it for a joyride?”
She leaned into me. “Who knows? I have no idea what the odometer says.”
I laughed. While our boss-employee dynamic seemed to be on pause for the evening, I wasn’t going to forget who signed my paychecks.
It wasn’t until our tickets were scanned and we were officially inside the fishbowl that I caught a glimpse of my reflection. If my hair started the trip looking slightly nap-tousled, it was nowone hundred miles an hour down the interstate in a Ferrari meets 1980s hair bandhuge. Unlike Mrs. Lockelhurst—Judy, whose hair scarf was tied elegantly on the handle of her handbag, while her hair cascaded mermaid-like from under her tiger hat.
The size of the building brought me comfort. I breathed in the sharp bite of the cold air mixed with the smell of stale popcorn and beer. There had to be at least ten thousand people inside, so the likelihood of running into anyone I knew or a player was minimal.But not zero, I reminded myself. I smoothed my hair asbest I could and tried to keep up with Judy as she wove through the crowd.
My hope of blending in diminished with every step we took toward the ice. Could I remain another face in the crowd when we were in the first row? Not just in the first row—we were at center ice. I could reach out and touch the glass.
