“Hey! We could get implants together!”
Jenna laughed. “Weed and now plastic surgery? I think you’re becoming a bad influence.” She dropped onto the couch, sobering. “It’s not funny, though.”
“If you want me to stop making jokes, go get tested!”
Jenna nearly choked on the lump in her throat. “I need to—” She mumbled an excuse involving a phone charger and bag of pretzels in Liam’s direction and spun toward the door. What she needed was to get safely to her office. Her heels clicked on the linoleum like ice picks as she navigated back to the carpeted office halls then snagged on the fibres as she darted into her office and slammed the door closed.
Why did her office have so many damn windows?! She huddled in the back corner next to her desk without flicking the lights on and gave in to the torrent of regret and shame smashing through her carefully built levees. Her chest heaved, more hyperventilated breath than tears, but those came, too.
What was happening to her? She never cried at work—ever. Not when she’d missed the promotion to producer a year after she started on the technical team. Not when she came into the office an hour after having to put her dog Tya down. Not even when her mom called and told her she thought her breast cancer might be back.
She’d nearly cried when Travis called and insinuated she was selfish and a terrible daughter for not coming home for her mother’s treatment, but that was a whole other bag of worms. This was different. She should not be losing her crap over an ex-boyfriend that she’d emailed and asked to come in to GCBN.
Except that Gentry was connected to all of it. Every last piece.
Jenna groaned and slid down the wall to the floor. It had been idiotic of her to think her relationship with him lived in a vacuum. They’d been together their entire grade twelve year and their first three years as impulsive, fun-loving young adults. He was there through her initial struggles in broadcasting school and through her mom’s diagnosis. He was woven like permanent filaments through those parts of her life, and the worst part was . . . she’d never wanted to clip those threads.
Jenna sucked in a ragged breath as truth stamped itself across the inside of her forehead. These tears? They weren’t because she was frustrated to see him. Not even a little bit.
Seeing Country living and breathing in front of her made her feel like Dorothy in Oz. It was as if she’d been seeing in greyscale for the past decade then suddenly dropped into a life of technicolour. The other half of her had been resurrected, which was why she was crying, and why her ribs were tighter than a blood pressure cuff, and why she couldn’t breathe.
Jenna dropped her head between her knees and forced her lungs to fill. She drew three deep breaths and exhaled as her eyes refocused.
She just needed to figure out how to relegate Gentry to the part of her heart she reserved for memorable vacations or good books she’d read years ago and loved. Country in the present was only a blip. A necessary evil she needed to deal with for a week. Tops.
Jenna reached for anything to use as a tissue since she didn’t keep a box in her office. Because why would she? She settled on the napkin sitting on the empty lunch takeout container. The rough paper irritated her nose, but it barely registered. What was a little chafing when her eyes probably looked like she’d been stung by a blowfish?
Ugh. This was not how she’d planned to finish out 2023 by a long shot. Until that week, she’d executed her plan to a T by asking “how high” every time John asked her to jump, then found other hurdles to bound over just to show him she had more to give. Country guest sportscasting on HEC was the icing on that proverbial cake, and once tonight’s broadcast was successful, John would have to recognize how much better suited she was than Owen for his job.
She only had to get through tonight. Then she could veer off her yellow brick road and retreat to Kansas where she belonged.
Jenna wasn’t the same person she’d been back then. She’d made sacrifices. Compromises. Bowed her head for every sixty-five-year-old executive who said that she was too this and not enough that. She’d paid her dues, and now she was finally at the point where she’d get to call the shots as an exec.
She couldn’t have what she’d wanted thirteen years ago, but she could have this—only if she didn’t lose her focus. So. Even though her body fizzed like a shaken bottle of Coke in his presence, Gentry Maddox needed to go. He needed to do his guest appearance and fade into the history of her life again.
Jenna drew a breath and held it, then dabbed the last of the moisture from her cheeks. As she exhaled, she straightened her blouse and felt her armpits to make sure there wasn’t sweat showing through the fabric. Thank goodness she wasn’t wearing grey.
Fine. She was fine. She’d go to the bathroom and straighten up then walk back to the studio and pretend she’d had an allergic reaction to strawberry flavouring in an electrolyte drink.
By the time Jenna was standing back behind the cameras, the bomb of emotion that had been ticking in her chest was at least partially diffused. She yanked on her producer hat and focused on Country and Glen as they discussed a controversial penalty during the Penguins game.
Country patted the desk for emphasis. “If you want to punish players, that’s a solid strategy. If you want to promote athleticism?—”
Glen chuckled awkwardly. “You think that was athletic? I guess we have different definitions of what makes a strong player.”
“We probably have a different definition of a lot of things, Glen.”
“I’m just saying?—”
“You’re just saying you want pussy hockey.”
Glen’s eyes widened as Jenna’s jaw dropped. Tasha barked a laugh.
The door to the studio opened, and Liam shot out with his glasses askew. “Yeah, so that word, you can’t?—”
“I love it!” John’s booming voice echoed through the studio. Jenna whirled, unable to focus on his hulking frame with her eyes still blinded from staring at the lit-up stage.
Glen quickly adjusted his expression. “Didn’t know you were still here, boss.”
