“Okay,” I mutter, nudging Simon half an inch to the left. He responds by rolling onto his back and stretching across the keyboard. About three pages of the number five appear on the screen. Maybe Simon is trying to pen his own literary masterpiece.
“Seriously?” I ask.
From the kitchen, Beau yells, “You arguing with your emotional support cat again?”
“He started it,” I call back.
He laughs. I hear the fridge open, something clink. There’s comfort in the mundane rhythm of life. He travels a lot more now, so I appreciate every moment we have together. My office door is hanging open because the cats would stage a protest if we had the audacity to shut any door in our condo.
It’s perfect. Our home. My job is fun, but stressful. My social media following has grown beyond all my expectations, and I’m proud of the space I’ve created for female athletes and girls with big dreams. We uplift and educate and, my favorite part, we analyze.
I lean back in my chair, stretching until my spine cracks, and minimize the footage. My inbox is overflowing. There are graphics to approve for the panel show I’m on next week, a follow-up from the stats team I consult with, and something about a media kit refresh I keep forgetting to sign off on.
I skim mechanically, sorting out what can wait and what might be hiding a full-blown dumpster fire behind a deceptively simple subject line.
And then I see it. I get lots of emails from various leagues. But this is in my personal inbox. And it’s from the women’s professional league. Their first two years have been phenomenal. Blew everyone’s expectations away. Sellout crowds, enthusiastic fans, and amazing hockey.
The body of the email is brief but direct. There’s a new women’s hockey team launching next year as part of the league’s expansion. Right here. In New York. They’ve followed my commentary. Reviewed my player history. Watched my livestreams. And kept up with my current play. It’s not a pro team, but the play is good enough to keep my skills sharp and my mind happy.
Halfway through the paragraph, my brain short-circuits.
This is the opportunity I wasn’t expecting. They’re building a roster. And they’re not offering me a branding collab. They’re not asking me to sit behind a desk or hold a mic or run numbers.
They’re asking me to play. As in lace up. Sign a contract. Throw on a jersey and go. I went to a training camp this past summer to stay in the loop. But nobody contacted me after that. I didn’t see this coming.
I reread the line again just to be sure I wasn’t hallucinating. And then I whisper the only thing I can manage. “Holy shit.”
I’m still staring at the screen when the floor creaks in the hallway.
“Luna?” Beau’s voice floats in from the other room, muffled by distance and laundry. “You okay?”
I don’t answer right away. I can’t.
My heart’s beating too loud. My vision’s gone soft around the edges. There’s a warmth climbing up my spine. It’s part disbelief, part adrenaline, part something that feels dangerously close to hope. Real, messy, pulse-pounding hope.
“What’s wrong?” he calls again, louder this time, the telltale concern bleeding into his voice.
It takes me a minute. I have to reread it a few more times to make sure I wasn’t deluding myself. I swallow the lump in my throat, blink twice, and press the heel of my hand to my chest like I might be able to steady the wild, traitorous rhythm of my heart.
Then I raise my voice and say, “Nothing!”
A pause. “Okay?” Still tentative. Still ready to barge in if I sound even a little off but also willing to give me space if I need it. I smile. It’s a small, honest smile. The kind that builds from deep within my chest.
“It’s not okay. It’s amazing. Everything is perfect,” I whisper.
Then I turn to look at him. “We are about to be the ultimate power couple on the New York hockey scene.” And the quiet smile expands.
It takes him a minute. I can see him processing the information. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowed. But then he gets it. It sinks in.
“Are you serious? You’re going to be playing for the Valkyries?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the best news I’ve ever heard.”
“That can’t be true. What about when you got drafted? When you got called up?”
“This wins. Hands down.”
