“We’re happy to have you on board,” she replied, and wrapped up with a plan to follow up today.
After we hung up, I screamed into the empty house. Every tiny insect must have trembled in its crevice, and I wasn’t even remotely sorry.
So, this morning—Friday, April 18th, a date now tattooed into my brain—I filled out paperwork in an office that smelled of ink and so many possibilities. NDAs, benefits, background checks, and all the stuff that turns a maybe into a pinch-me-I’m-dreaming job.
The team wasn’t practicing on-site, but the arena buzzed anyway with lighting checks, camera crews swarming, and playoff signage being rolled out.
Walking those halls felt different. I wasn’t a visitor anymore; I was part of the furniture in a good way. I had an ID badge and a role.
I still couldn’t believe one twisted-ankle night landed me a better-paying job than I’d had six weeks ago. Story of my slightly painful luck.
Then there was Andrew… After our third date, I gave him the classic we’re-turning-into-friends speech. He’d said, “That’s how real things start.” He wasn’t wrong; I knew couples who started out as friends. But I was always chasing that elusive spark, and with Andrew, it felt more like a polite flicker than a bonfire.
It’d been a dating-free zone since my failed engagement, focusing on advancing my career. Then came Mom’s pokes about my age (twenty-eight, as if I were ancient) and future kids, as subtle as a brick to the head. Definitely annoying, but I put myself out there again.
Andrew was handsome and perfectly reasonable on paper, and I’d already learned the hard way that boxes checked didn’t mean it felt right.
Eventually, though, the truth was impossible to ignore. Nice, safe, and easy only carried you so far. By the time we talked, we both knew it: There wasn’t a spark. We ended it as friends.
“Imagine being stuck in that. A relationship so flatlined, even a heart monitor wouldn’t call it.” I laughed when Sam said that.
Soon-to-be Dr. Samantha Boyd was annoyingly accurate with the diagnoses.
I exhaled, smiling to myself. Yesterday’s job offer opened doors, gave me wings to fly, and nudged all the spark chasing (and my slightly dusty dating apps) to the back shelf.
I’d wanted a life that moved me, and now I was literally getting paid to be on the move with the team. A whole new thrilling chapter.
The front door swung open, and Sam breezed in, dropped her bag, and beelined for the kitchen.
“Mel, a traveling sports logistics job? That is amazing!” she said, grabbing a glass from the cabinet.
“I know! Sometimes I pinch myself to believe it,” I said, shaking my head. “And my favorite part of today was Maria handing me what I now consider my armor against high-speed muscles and locker-room flirts: a DevPad.”
“Do tell.” Sam slid into a chair at the kitchen table.
“It’s short for Development Pad. Basically an iPad loaded with built-in spreadsheets and tracking tools for player progress—Player Notes Log, Spray Chart Tool, Drill Library.”
She nodded over the rim of her glass.
“Every entry auto-generates a graph, so you can track trends and goals in real time,” I added.
“Nice! And your big plan is to use this high-tech stat machine as a shield against hockey thighs and sweaty abs?” She wrinkled her nose. “Tragic. Please tell me they’re hiring in the physical exam department.”
I gave her a warning look.
“I bet that gadget has a built-in camera. I’d use it as a stealth photo tool for biceps in slow motion and adorable bruised jaws.”
I shook my head. “You’re beyond help.”
She laughed. “Are we sure the coach didn’t give you a glowing reference after that little…men’s bathroom collision? He probably expects some oops pictures.”
I almost flicked her forehead. Some things were too sacred (or mortifying) to joke about.
She threw up her hands, laughing. “Kidding! Kidding!”
“I earned every inch of this,” I said, stirring the soup with more gusto, though it hadn’t personally doubted my credentials. “Six years out of college, third job, a solid résumé. This wasn’t just luck.
She stopped laughing and leaned back. “I’m relieved,” she said. “Getting matched in Baltimore…I was worried about you, about the house. I thought maybe we’d sell. I could pay off my loans, and you’d have more freedom.”
