Juliet purses her lips. “But you’re qualified to be helping injured athletes recover? That’s what you want to be doing?”
Is my face on fire? Sure feels like it. I look down at Juliet, the sassy brunette with a take-charge attitude I would kill for, and I swallow.
“Yeah. That’s my goal. Mobility work, basic athletic training, yoga certification. But I'm not a licensed PT. I didn't finish the program."
Juliet’s eyes narrow. She asks carefully, "Do you mind if I ask why not?"
The question lands like a punch. I sit back on my heels, still holding a crumpled schedule. "Like I said, life happened. First my dad needed someone to stay with him after my mom died. And then my ex and I got married, and he didn’t want me to work." I shrug, trying to make years of regret sound casual. "I left the work force before I ever really entered it. And now... I'm here."
“It sounds like you just need a little help getting to the right job.” She stacks the last of the papers and presses them into my hands, her grip firm. "Think about what you'd actually want to do here if you could use your training. We'll talk about it the next time I see you."
"Okay," I say quietly. "Thanks, Juliet."
“Of course. I love helping women reach their potential.” She gives me one more brief smile, something knowing and sad in her eyes, then walks out.
When she looks at me like that, is she seeing a young divorcée? A meandering soul? A lost little girl? It doesn't matter because I don't want to see myself from the outside.
I already know that my life is screwed up.
I stay on the floor for another minute, surrounded by highlighted schedules and half-formed dreams. Then I stand up, smooth my team polo, and get back to work. That's what I do. It's all I know how to do.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of tasks. I find therookie's AirPods in the locker room, reorganize Juliet's filing system because someone messed it up, answer countless emails and confirm reservations. When it gets near lunch time, I order lunch for a sponsor meeting.
By two o'clock, my feet hurt and my stomach is growling. I'm heading to the break room for a granola bar when I turn a corner and walk straight into a wall.
Except it's not a wall. It's Silas Huxley.
The papers in my arms jab into my ribs. I stumble back a step, looking up and up until I find his face. He's massive. Six foot eight of muscle and silence, standing there in training gear that somehow looks both casual and severe. His dirty blond hair falls past his chin. His blue-gray eyes are both unfathomable and unreadable at once.
He’s the one hockey player on this team that I do have some history with.Unfortunately.
"Sorry," I blurt out, already moving to squeeze past him.
He doesn't say anything. He doesn't move either. No, he just stares down at me with that blank expression that gives away nothing.
Is he angry? Annoyed? Even a little acknowledgment that I'm a human being standing in front of him would be a positive note at this point.
I edge sideways. My shoulder brushes his arm and something electric shoots through me, quick and unwelcome. I don't look back as I hurry down the hallway. My skin prickles like I've stepped from a sunbeam onto a vast, icy hockey rink.
I've worked for the Havoc for a while now. Of all the players that I deal with on a daily basis, only Silas Huxley still unsettles me. He's the team's star defender, quiet and intense. The kind of player who racks up points without saying a word. Off the ice, he's a ghost. He shows up, does his job, and disappears. No drama, jokes, or warmth.
Just cold, controlled silence.
And I can never tell if he still hates my guts or if he’s forgotten me entirely. He doesn’t talk or smile, not even with his teammates. He’s a mystery, and not one that I should find intriguing.
I shake off the feeling and focus on my tasks. When my shift finally ends, I check my phone and find a text from Jessa.
Jessa
Coven meeting at The Secret History tonight. You're coming. No excuses.
The Coven is Jessa's nickname for the girls that work for the Seattle Havoc team. I stare at the message, already thinking of reasons to say no. Truthfully, I hate bars. The noise and the crowds put me off. And the way laughter bounces off walls while I sit in the corner feeling invisible is almost shameful. But… Jessa asked.
I've learned that saying no to people who care about you is harder than just showing up.
Me
Thanks for the invite! I'll be there.
