three
Paisley
A semi-truck smokes past me, the gush of air rocking my little Toyota on the icy road, and I grip the wheel with both hands until my car steadies. It’s right after the hockey game, and although I was able to shoot the game with my phone, I’m still desperate to find my camera.
Earlier in the day I had returned to the ballroom, only to find that the room had already been restored to normal. All evidence of the party was gone, including my camera and glasses. I don’t even care about my glasses as those are replaceable, and I’m easily able to use my contact lenses until I get a new pair.
I inquired with the event coordinator about the camera, but she told me that no one had turned in a camera. She took my information in case it turns up, but she also said not to get my hopes up. At this point it’s not even the monetary value of the camera that stresses me out, but I need those photos!
With a deadline looming in two weeks, most people might give up.
But not me.
I won’t give up looking for my camera, but I’m going to figure out a way to make my deadline with or without it. With a lump in my throat, I head back to my Airbnb for the night.My foot is firmly on the accelerator, but my speed declines. I scan the dash, and my heart sinks.The fuel light glows on E. I had seen it flash on when I got in earlier, but I was in a hurry to get to the game early so I could get a good seat for photos. I knew I could go a while with the light on.
Clearly, not this far.
My brow dips. Just once can I catch a break?
I grit my teeth as my car slows even more, and I yank on the steering wheel, pulling onto the shoulder. While shaking my head and sighing loudly, I rummage through my purse on the passenger seat and locate my phone—which is dead.
Not even 2% for me to send a text.
I wore down all the charge taking photos of the hockey game. I don’t even have a charger in the car. Giving up, I jab the hazard lights button in the center of my dash and throw my head back hard against the headrest.
Just great. It’s my first job, and it feels like I’m destined to fail.
Working for Sports Era Magazine is my dream job. Sure, my dad pulled his puppet strings to land me this cushy job with one of his brands, but all I ever wanted was one chance to show my dad he can be proud of me too. He's one of those dads that believes in pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps, and that's his reasoning for not helping me out financially. He makes a point to remind me often that I would be working in food service if it wasn't for him. I get it. I want to be able to do this on my own, but it's a lot harder than I thought it would be. I blink back warm tears, a glaring reminder of how much I hate that I’m struggling so much.
It’s not for lack of trying either.
I’ve been working my tail off to gain a lot of resume-building experience as I smile my way through an assortment of events and games. Recently, Granite Ice has been in the news because of a relationship between the team center and a celebrity. When I mentioned to my dad that I wanted to cover the story, he became unglued. He’s not a yeller, but he started muttering so many random stories, I knew something was up.
Facts I learned about my dad this last year.
One: He hates Bill Baker.
Um, that’s pretty much it.
So maybe not pluralfactsas much as it is justfact.He said the only way I could come out here to cover this story was if I exposed them. It’s not an ideal assignment, but with the economy in a dumpster fire, I know people who are in much worse situations.
I zip up my jacket, pulling the fur-trimmed hood tight around my head, and I wrap my scarf twice around my neck, covering my mouth. If I must walk back to town in these frigid temperatures then I guess that’s what I’ll do.
I grab my door handle and push hard against the winter wind gusts, all the while biting back a sarcastic smile that saysit can’t get worse than this. I put one heel to the street and wince. I’m not the type of girl to wear heels, and my shoe selection alone screams how hard I’m trying to succeed.
A black SUV flies past me, and I quickly jump back. This two-lane highway suddenly feels really narrow. Instead of continuing, the SUV hits the brakes, coming to a stop on the shoulder a few car lengths ahead of my car.Relief floods my chest. Even though I had been resigned to walk, I’d much rather catch a ride. I shut my car door, taking a moment to lock it, and turn back to the SUV.My celebration doesn’t last long asI joltinto a frozen stance while familiar humiliation washes over me, warming my cheeks.
Strong-set jaw.
Placid thick lips.
Dark hair that curls around the bottom of his Granite Ice beanie.
Noah Miller.
Again.
What are the odds?
