“How’s the leg holding up?” she asks.
I look down at my jean clad leg. “Better than before.”
“I already put in my vacation notice and made arrangements to fly out there. No matter happens, I want to see Nathan Campbell on the ice again. It’s imperative.”
“Prepare to be amazed,” I say lightly, but my tongue feels swollen.
“I, uh,” Renea clears her throat and I know she’s about to deliver some bad news, “I heard from the Black Ice Collective. About your brand deal?”
I bite down on my bottom lip.
“They’re not renewing,” Renea says. “I’m sorry, Nat.”
I hang my head, feeling the sting of that final rejection. Black Ice Collective was a brand that reached out to me when they were barely known in the hockey world. I was the hotshot with companies clamoring to work with me and Renea advised me to choose a bigger portfolio. But I liked the owners so I told Renea to sign, even if they weren’t as prominent as some other apparel brands.
I force out a laugh. “I don’t blame them. They stuck it out with me longer than any other brand. They were loyal to the end.”
“Are you really okay, Nat?”
I blow a raspberry. “Pfft. Yeah! I’m great! Thanks to my brilliant agent, I made some smart investments, so at least I won’t be thrown out on the street. And I have this opportunity with the Lucky Strikers. What do I have to complain about?”
“I’m really glad you’re taking it so well,” Renea says. “You’re a true champ.”
I end the call and, in the screaming silence, my smile drops flat.
Renea is wrong.
I’m not a champ.
I haven’t been for a long time, and there’s a quiet, sinister voice in my head telling me that I never will be again.
Chapter Seven
RILEY
On Sunday, I spend hours watching the video links that Rebel sent me. She curated a bunch of useful trainings on auto shop management.
I latch onto the tutorials like a life raft in a storm.
Studying is a perfect distraction from yesterday’s horrifying incident.
“Good customer dialogue is imperative when running a garage,” the white-haired man on the screen informs me.
I jot down ‘good dialogue’ in my notebook.
Do I need to leave the house to have great dialogue with customers?
Can I just manage the garage from my living room?
I groan and turn the video off. Wrapping my fingers around my cell phone I give in to the terrible habit that I picked up at exactly 7:05pm yesterday when I returned home from the fair in a heap of embarrassment and shame.
I open social media.
And type in:Nathan Campbell.
His smiling picture stares up at me from a bright, colorful grid.
One picture is of Nathan in black and white, his face turned to the sea as the wind ruffles his dark hair.
