"Ah, I see what happened here,” Mavis said. "Clara told you about the arena proposal. She shouldn't have done that."
"I'm glad someone did," Donnie replied. "Why don'tyoutell me what is going on? I'd like to hear it from the mayor.”
"Oh, Donnie." Mavis's gravelly voice went soft, a tone she probably reserved for her great-grandchildren. "It's still in the early proposal phase. There's red tape with these things."
Mavis was hard to read. One minute she seemed genuinely interested in the project, the next she'd ask questions that made me wonder if she was trying to kill it entirely.
"Red tape, huh." Donnie's lips narrowed. "Does it involve tearing down the arena to build townhomes for skiers, or those damn Airbnb things?"
Mavis opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Donnie's expression hardened. "Good luck with that. Last I heard you work for us, the people.” He jutted his thumb at his chest. “We, the people, don't want more empty shoeboxes."
My stomach dropped. What had I expected? That I'd roll into town, flash some renderings, and everyone would hop on board because it's a hockey town?
"Maybe I should go back to Windswan with the proposal." I bluffed. William King wanted Chance Rapids.
"Whoa." Rob grabbed my arm. "It's one old-timer and a high school dropout who hasn't even seen the plans. They're making judgments based on… nothing." He spread his arms wide. "It's nostalgia. It's time this town moved into the twenty-first century."
In theory, I agreed with him. But it was the second time a day that I'd wanted to jersey the guy and deliver him a serving of uppercuts. Did I sound like this asshole?
"Well, I think this old-timer has heard enough. You'll have to excuse me," Donnie said. "That girl's going to need her coat." Clara's sleeping bag with arms was draped over the boards.
“I’ll take it to her." I gathered the miles of puffy fabric in my arms, catching the faint scent of her shampoo. It was something earthy I didn't recognize, not the vanilla she used to wear. "It will give me a chance to explain the project properly."
Donnie raised an eyebrow. "You sure that's a good idea, Shepherd?"
It was a terrible idea. She'd made it clear this morning she wanted nothing to do with me. But this was a small town, and if she was going to be spreading rumors about my project, at least they'd be right.
My laugh caught in my throat and came out more like a croak. "Probably not. But I'm doing it anyway."
The smellof sweat and stale beer hung heavily in the concrete hallway. I shuffled Clara's coat to my left arm and raised my right to knock on dressing room number two.
My heartbeat thumped in my ears as I waited for a response. I raised my hand to knock again when a loud clatter stopped me.It sounded like something, or someone, had fallen. I knocked again. "Clara? Are you alright?"
No response.
"Clara, I'm coming in." I spoke through the partially opened door. Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open and stepped into the fluorescent light of dressing room number two. Clara's bare back was to me, hunched over a pile of makeup on the floor. She was wearing a pair of big white headphones, humming angrily as she swept the plastic containers and brushes into a terry cloth bag.
She hadn't seen me. I still had time to save myself. I backed into the hallway, managing to ease the door halfway shut, but just before it clicked, she looked over her shoulder and saw me.
"What the hell?" Her voice permeated the steel door.
Could I drop her coat and run away?
Before I could act, the door flung open. Clara's nostrils flared as she clutched her T-shirt to her chest. "What are you doing?" Music, still ACDC, blared from the earpieces hooked around her neck.
Holding the coat like a peace offering, I averted my gaze from her heaving chest. "You forgot your coat."
"Ever hear of knocking?" She snatched the jacket from my hands.
"I did." I stared at the black rubberized flooring. "I heard something fall and thought you might need help."
"Help?" Her voice was low, but shook. "Help?" she repeated.
I looked up, meeting her narrowed eyes. "Beckett Shepherd. I'd rather bleed out on this floor, sniff the armpit of a hockey jersey, or choke on a dill pickle chip—"
"I got it." I wasn't sure when she was going to stop.
