I stilled. “You’d really been carrying that?”
She pursed her lips, which meant yes. On a whim, I poured two glasses of wine. It was Friday night; we could celebrate.
I lifted mine. “To surviving the stress and brighter futures.”
“To the best of futures,” she echoed.
We clinked glasses and sipped.
Then she reached over, tasted the soup cooling on the counter, and pointed the spoon at me. “Okay. You crushed the interview, got the job, but you arewaytoo chill. Anything else happened, besides basically bodychecking the coach?”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know.” She watched me. “You blinked three times when I saidbodychecking the coach.That’s a tell.”
I tasted the soup. “You’re exhausting.”
She grinned, too pleased with herself. “I’ll get it out of you eventually.”
I rolled my eyes, but my chest fluttered anyway. Because yeah, something happened. That ankle-check night had stuck to me like glitter—the way his eyes had held mine, the feel of his handsso steady and certain. But it didn’t mean anything, especially now that we were colleagues.
He was the coach, the real deal at Tahoe West, a former pro. I was a support staff, and my job wasn’t even official yet.
The only thing worse than messing up was thinking about the boss while doing it. That was a fast track to professional disaster, and a painfully awkward exit interview.
I wasn’t sure what made me more nervous: the new job or the chance of running intoCoach Calm-and-Sureagain. His Greek image was stuck in my head, so I put on my favoriteFriendsepisodes to erase it. I curled up on the couch, a throw pillow under my head, definitely not looking forward to our next face-to-face.
I woke up the next day and texted Erica the good news from bed. She’d been worried about me:
Me:You won’t believe it. I got that job I told you about with the hockey team. I’m so freaking happy right now. Oh, and guess who’s the head coach? That guy who helped with my ankle. I didn’t see that one coming. Talk about a meet-cute gone ‘Oh crap, he’s my boss.’
Erica:Stop it. You got the job, and your new boss has already seen your ankle close up? I knew you’d crush it. Now I need popcorn, and your drink’s on me, obviously. I’m so stinkin’ happy for you!
Me:\*happy emoji\*
I could practically hear her whispering:Look alive, Mel. No deer in the headlights.
I walked into the kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee and toast hung in the air; Sam had already left. Sunlight streamed through the window, and the hum of the fridge filled the quiet. I grabbed a mug and poured coffee.
My phone lit up.
Maria:Morning! I should’ve thought of this earlier. Want to come to the first playoff game tonight? I’ll be with my husband in the family section. It’s not formal, but it’ll give you a feel for the rhythm. No pressure, just let me know.
No pressure—as if. I read the message twice. A playoff game with Maria in thefamilysection, where players’ girlfriends, wives, and kids sat. There was no way to say no. This wasn’t a casual invitation from the general manager; it was a code for:You’re on the radar now.
Which meant the real work was about to begin.
I felt nervous as I texted back:
Me:Would love to. Thank you.
The rest of the day blurred in a haze wardrobe indecision. I must’ve changed three times before settling on something that said competent employee instead of overeager fan. By the time I walked into the arena that night, my heart was doing its own warm-up drills.
The family section sat a few rows above the home bench. Close enough to see the players’ expressions, far enough to hopefully dodge a flying puck.
Maria waved me over and stood to greet me with a radiant smile. “There you are. Come meet Greg.”
Her husband stood and offered a firm, friendly handshake. “Nice to meet you, Melanie,” he said, eyes kind.
