Mabel: I have fun things to show you! I can text you gobs of photos, or we can try to find time to meet? I’m in the city.
Corbin: Same here. Just arrived early at the arena. Charlotte’s doing homework, and I have a game tonight.
Mabel: So, later, then?
Corbin: Come by now. I’m just working out.
Oh. That means I’ll be talking to him while he’s…lifting weights. I’m both thrilled and worried.
But mostly thrilled since having a hot business partner has its perks.
I hop off the bus near the arena. As I walk, I rummage in my bag for a handful of the postcards I keep with me. I pull them out whenever I wish I could talk to my grandmother, which lately feels like all the time.
And it definitely feels likenow. Maybe because I’m a little nervous heading to see Corbin while he’s at work? No, excited is more like it.
I flip through the eclectic half-dozen cards, including one she sent when I was in college. The illustration of New York City on the front is in a playful and exaggerated style, and on the back, Grandma had written: “Did I ever tell you about the year I lived in New York City? It was harrowing and wonderful. Everyone—but especially a young woman with big dreams—should live in a city at some point. You’ll learn so much about yourself and about the world.”
The next week, I’d written back to her on a postcard I found with an image of Paris at night: “So you’re going to send me to Paris for a year to eat crepes and drink espresso by the Seine? Thanks, Grandma!”
The next week, she sent me a vintage postcard of San Francisco. “Or the city just over the bridge. I hear it’s nice there too.”
And it was closer. That was always one of my favorite things about living in San Francisco. It was close to her.
I frown as I tuck the cards back into my bag. Grandma and I talked a lot about how much I loved living in the city. But I wish I could talk to her about what I’m doing with the firehouse she left me, or tell her about the guy I kissed impetuously and then even more impulsively opened a shop with. I want to ask her if this is what she wanted for her independent, wild child of a grandkid. But mostly I want to ask what she’d think about mixing business with pleasure.
Those questions will have to remain unanswered.
I walk past the fox statue outside the arena, heading to one of the main doors.
I’ve been here plenty of times. Having a big brother who was obsessed with sports law, sports management, and sports deals meant I was in and out of rinks and stadiums a lot growing up. Worked for me, because while Theo shouted at refs and umpires, I watched videos about food styling, detailing how to present food in the most visually appealing way and how to take photos of it too. I taught myself all about the color wheel and complementary hues, and what looks good together.
The arena, though, is the opposite of my cozy, pretty, sugary world. It’s the opposite of the paint chips too. It’s all dark purples and soft whites. It’s mammoth ceilings and massive banners of men holding sticks and looking mean.
They’re supposed to intimidate opponents and rally the fans.
When I open the door and stop at the security turnstile, I’m greeted by a thirty-foot-tall Corbin. There he is, hanging from the top of the arena, scowling, his helmet on, his gaze fixed on the puck as he flies down the ice with it. A captured moment in time—the hockey player dead-set on scoring. His jaw tight. His eyes dark. His attitude ferocious.
It’s a little scary.
It’s even scarier how turned on I am.
I tear my gaze from the banner and focus on the security guard, who’s asking, “What can I do for you?”
“I’m Mabel Llewelyn. I’m here to see Corbin Knight.” I wonder if I sound like a groupie, and I’m tempted to add,I’m his new business partner.But that sounds even more like an excuse made up to creep on him.
The man with the mustache scans his tablet, and a little frisson of excitement runs through me at the idea that I’m on some list. I feel a little like a star. Like a VIP.
Then my fantasies come crashing down when he says, “Nope, you’re not on here.”
“I’ll just give him a quick call,” I say, grabbing my phone. I ignore the sound of approaching footsteps on the polished floor until I hear my brother’s voice.
“She’s with me.”
I turn, and of course, it’s Theo right here, with his polished wingtips gleaming and a smile that says whatever he says goes.
The security guard nods deferentially. “Of course, Mr. Llewelyn,” he says, then scans my bag and lets me through the turnstile.
I thank him, then look at my brother with a furrowed brow. “How did you know I was going to be here?”
