She’s a great mom. We have an unconventional family—my nephews’ teachers have assumed we’re a two-mom household at school events—but I wouldn’t change a thing. I’d like to have a part-time man in my life for dinner and sweaty sex every week or two, but that’s it. Blair, Eli, and Coop are my family, and that will never change.
“You’re right.” I sigh heavily and hold the wine bottle over the sink, where I try to pour some of the wine from my glass back in. “I don’t want to be hungover tomorrow either.”
“You’re beautiful. Get the hell off that dating app and consult my spreadsheet. There are lots of single Crush players.”
After I got my job with the Crush, my sister made a spreadsheet of the entire player roster. She regularly combs through social media like a private investigator to find out if they’re married or dating anyone. The spreadsheet includes hockey stats and details about each player she’s found online. She’s proud of it, but it feels stalkerish to me.
“Magnus Lundgren is holding on to the number one spot on the spreadsheet,” Blair says. “If he makes the roster, you need to get all over that. He’s thirty-one, spent his first big paycheck buying his mom a house, and he knows how to knit. He could make you sweaters. The only field I coded red for him is that he still uses a flip phone by choice.”
“I keep telling you I don’t want to date any of the players. It would undermine me professionally, and my boss said it’s strongly discouraged.”
“What about the zaddy coach who thinks you’re beautiful?”
My stomach does an excited flip, but I shake my head. “He was just trying to make me feel better. And the only reason he came to talk to me was because he’s pissy about me filming the players.”
“He said you’re a ten, Jules. That’s more than just making you feel better.”
I glance at my watch, moving on. “I need to go pick up dinner. Get some bail money together, because I can’t be held responsible for my actions if Casa Mariachi forgets my extra sour cream this time.”
“You need to check the bag before you leave.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t want to be one of those people.”
“Check it in the car, then. The boys had tacos without meat last week, remember? I have the order in the app, and I checked no lettuce, but they got tacos with only cheese and lettuce.”
“I’ll check it in the car.”
I look at my glass of wine, only thinking about it for a second before I pour it into the kitchen sink.
“You went fromabout to guzzle an entire bottletonone for me, thankspretty fast,” Blair says.
“Yeah.” I sigh heavily, watching the dark liquid flow down the drain.
A few seconds of silence pass. I can’t look at her, and after the day I’ve had, I just don’t have the energy to make excuses about why I decided not to have any wine. We both know the reason.
My heart races, and I’m torn. I want to do something—anything—to occupy my mind, but I also want to get into bed and stay there until tomorrow morning.
“Hey, what did we promise?” My sister’s clear, strong voice pulls me out of my own head.
I lock eyes with her and nod. “I’m good.”
“Want me to go get the food?”
“I’ve got it.”
I grab my keys from the counter and leave, knowing Blair understands. I’ll blast some music on my drive and be myself again by the time I get back home.
The next morning,I square my shoulders and walk into the home locker room. It’s funny—I get hundreds of comments on my socials every day, nearly all glowing compliments, and I know I know what I’m doing, but I’m still nervous.
I don’t just want to do this job for the Crush—I want to, well,crushit. My inner people pleaser wants everyone from the team to think I’m good at this job. Metrics don’t lie, but I’m not satisfied until I’m getting in-person validation, too.
There aren’t any players in the locker room because there was no practice today. Which is good, because while I’ve done a flawless job of avoiding seeing penises so far, I know the day is coming when I accidentally look directly at one.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a penis fan. But I don’t want to react to one that’s bigger or smaller than average, or crooked, or accompanied by a nutsack waxed so smooth it looks like a freshly hatched bird.
Coach Turner’s door is open, and he looks up from his desk to find me standing there.
“Good morning,” he says.
