Blair
“Come on,Viggy. I know you gave me a smile in there somewhere—There it is. Good.”
I paused the footage and took a screenshot of the captain of the Austin Aces hockey team, smirking. Fans would love it.
Backing the footage up a couple of seconds, I isolated the moment and spliced it into a teaser trailer of this season’s lineup. Some of the content had been recycled from previous years, while other files were footage I’d filmed during the development camp in July.
“Now, let’s see if I can find when Oscar…” I grinned as I clicked into the video of the giant winger striking a flamenco pose and cha-cha-ing in full gear. He’d told me that he and his wife regularly took dance classes together, and the way he said it felt like he was giving me TMI, but I had to admit that he could move both on and off the ice.
Pausing on a closeup of his goofy grin, I took my glasses off and stretched, wincing as my spine snapped, crackled, and popped—a reminder to move that was more effective than my fitness watch’s hourly beep to the tune ofmove your ass. The glow of my laptop was the only source of light in the room, and after God knew how long in front of the computer, my dry eyes were screaming for a break. Huh. Five hours. My stomach rumbled, and I reached for the melted iced latte I’d bought at Starbucks on my way home from the rink.
I really should eat something healthy.
The idea of cooking any of the wilted vegetables I’d bought during a wave of health-related inspiration felt like too much work, so with a half-hearted promise to cook the following night, I opened my browser. A burger with tomato on it was almost the same as eating a salad. Right? As the website thanked me for my order and estimated delivery time at forty minutes, my cell rang.
Fishing through my drink collection—mango boba, ‘hot’ coffee, iced latte, and a Stanley cup full of untouched, room temperature water—and casting aside yesterday’s T-shirt that hadn’t made it to the hamper, I groaned as I caught sight of who was reaching out to touch me and seriously considered letting the thing ring out. The problem was that the caller was a level of tenacious that she could choose to turn up on my doorstep in less time than my burger and fries.
I pushed the bulk of my curls away from my ear and prayed for patience as I accepted the call.
“Hey, Mom. How are you?”
“Duckie. I didn't expect you to answer your phone. You can be so difficult to contact.”
I cringed at the old nickname and mentally tallied the first criticism of the phone call. First sentence. She was off to a solid start.
“Well, work keeps me busy. I can’t always answer.”
“When are you getting a real job? Instead of being an instafluencer, or whatever it is, you should be doing something with that brain of yours. Such a waste, especially when… you know.”
I considered reminding her that Social Media Manager for the Austin Aces was a respectable job, especially at twenty-three, but she was already onto her next favorite topic.
“Georgia has a very promising audition coming up next week. She could be on the television soon. She’ll be famous. She’s grown into such a beautiful woman.”
In the space of thirty seconds she had insulted my job, reminded me how superior my sister was to me, and alluded to my unfortunate looks.
Bravo, Mom. New record.
I considered knocking myself out on my desk to avoid the need to engage in the rest of this conversation. Unfortunately, I was chicken shit when it came to pain, so I’d just have to grit and bear it for at least another… The minute hand clicked over on my wall clock. Two minutes before I could beg off and end the conversation.
“...you really should take what you can get, so I told him you were free this Friday.”
“What?” I cut in on my mother’s insult-riddled monologue.
The long-suffering sigh told me I was a disappointment and a lost cause all rolled up in one difficult-to-accept package.
“The Ronson boy. He always liked you when you were young. He has an overnight stopover in Austin on Friday night and has agreed to take you out.”
An image came to mind of a ten-year-old boy whose hair had been thinning even then. His dark eyes, small and shifty, had always been too close together, and his forefinger on an eternal journey between his nostril and his mouth. He had somehow always smelled of wet dog, despite having had a severe allergy to the species; the musty, earthy, slightly fecal odor a constant mystery to every kid unfortunate enough to be forced into a play date with the guy.
“Not Snot Ronson. Seriously, Mom? I’m not going out with that guy.” The clock ticked over another minute, and I watched with rapt attention, wondering if I needed to just bite the bullet and go into hiding. I could change my name and become a circus performer… Except I was scared of heights. And was about as flexible as a loaf of bread. I could bend, but there was a good chance I’d just break in two.
“He’s grown up so much since you last saw him.”
“Wasn’t he arrested last year for stalking?”
“The allegations were unfounded. It was all a misunderstanding. His poor mother had to have a word with that wicked woman… Anyway. Enough of that. You’re lucky he’s available and willing to spend time with you. You don’t want to end up a spinster, stuck at home with her cats.”
Aaannnd I was done. Knocking on the underside of my desk, I feigned an approximation of upset.
