Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
But I don’t tell Riley any of that—she doesn’t need another reason to feel disillusioned.
She’s relentless though, she snaps her gaze to me, a twinkle in those blue eyes. “But have you noticed that, among your friends, you’re the only one not dating a hockey player?”
Of course I’ve noticed. Of course I’m acutely aware of it. “Well, Fable’s with Wilder. So not all of them,” I say, pointing out the fallacy in her argument.
“Still. Odds are you’re next in line,” she says with a mischievous grin.
I shake my head. “Not a chance. Have you met our father? Have you heard his warnings?”
“He did tell me never to date a hockey player.”
“What a surprise. He said the same to me the other day. Hockey players can be charming,” I say, imitating him and his euphemisms.
“That’s so him.”
“And it’s sound advice,” I say, hoping that’ll end the topic.
But Riley doesn’t give up so easily. “Like I said, Miles is the hot one, so…I could kind of see you with him.”
Her comment catches me off guard. Even my sister thinks we’d be a good match. And maybe, if things were different—if I had a different last name—I’d be able to think so too. Which means I’m going to have to double down on the friendship plans with Miles in, oh, say, thirty minutes when I arrive at work.
“You’ve always had a good imagination,” I say, giving her a quick squeeze as we reach her school. “Now go, before you’re late.”
Once she’s past the doors, I check my phone. There’s a text from my father with a photo he’s snapped on his digital photo frame, likely this morning. It’s a picture of me heading into work at the boba shop I worked at during high school. Look what my frame showed me this morning! A first day of work pic! Good luck today!
I smile from the note. I think it’s the only time Coach McBride uses exclamation points—with his daughters.
With my camera bag slung over my shoulder and my brand-new temporary employee badge in my hand, I stop at the doors into the corridor of the arena that leads to the locker room, the weight room, the rink. I’ve been here a hundred times, but this is the first time my stomach has flipped like a pancake so many times. I’m not usually a nervous person, but I’m made of nothing but jitters right now.
It’s not simply the Miles factor. It’s that I want to prove I belong here—that I’m not a daddy’s girl or a nepo baby. It’s not like anyone’s said it outright, but I know what people might think. And that sliver of doubt, that little what if, keeps gnawing at me. And there’s this bit of a worry too—what if I don’t hear something someone says?
I swallow before I open the door, slide a hand into my jeans pocket, and check my phone. My hearing aids are fully charged, and the program is set for speech. It’ll be fine. I don’t usually have a problem. And besides, pro athletes aren’t usually soft-spoken.
And really, it’s not like asking what did you say is the worst thing.
I tuck my hair over my ear, then stop, breathe, and untuck it. Better to let it fall long and loose.
I’m ready, and the second I push open the door, I spot Everly on the other side. She’s laughing with Jenna Nguyen, the promotions manager, who wears glasses and has her sleek black hair cinched back in a clip, and Chanda Kumar, the director of marketing. Chanda’s wearing a bright red blazer over her blouse, and has a tablet in hand, her usual energy practically buzzing in the air around her as she scrolls through notes, presumably. I head over to them. I know them all already, but I still feel all the first-day-of-school vibes.
When I arrive, Everly turns her gaze to me. She’s friendly but professional as she says, “Hey, Leighton. Welcome to the team. We have a busy day for you.”
“I’m ready,” I say, and I slough off all my nerves since I am ready. Ready to focus on work and to safeguard my future. Starting with photos for a series of social media posts around the “we’re back” theme.
I’ve got the talent, the vision. I’ve been doing this long before I ever thought about working here. This is just another gig. Another opportunity.
Twenty minutes later, I'm walking into the weight room to take pictures of the guys working out. The smell of rubber mats and a hint of fresh laundry fills the air. Machines line the walls, clanging as weights are adjusted, while a couple of players—Hugo, one of the defensemen, and Alexei, usually a center on the second line—laugh in the corner, catching their breath between sets. Rowan, as promised by Riley, is stoic as he finishes up some preacher curls next to them.