“Journal?”
Is she fucking kidding me?
She wants me to write in a damn journal. That’s somehow worse than talking about my feelings.
“I’m pretty busy, Doc.”
“I heard you say you want to stay, and you want to continue to play hockey.” Her tone stays even. “Journaling could help you unlock your potential.”
I don’t fucking think so.
I grind my molars, debating my options.
Not too many.
“Fine.” I grind the word out. “I’ll write in a journal. What do you want me to write about?”
“Journal about the thing you’re most afraid will ruin your career.”
My gut clenches and I instantly regret asking the question.
Because the league thinks it’s viral Tiktoks and bad publicity.
But I’m starting to think it’sher.
“Fine. See you next week.”
Rising from the couch, I stomp out of her office more pissed off than when I walked in.
Because I already know the truth bomb on the page — and I haven’t even opened the damn journal yet.
CHAPTER 11
TORI
I’m off-kilter the entire day after the yacht club gala.
I tell myself it’s the stress of being away from the office. Falling out of sync with investors, missing the water cooler chit-chat with colleagues.
That it has nothing to do with the bombshell about Preston’s engagement.
And even less to do with the bad boy hockey player living next door.
When the markets finally close for the day, I do myself a favor and uncharacteristically power down my laptop.
I need a break. From today, from my job.
Hell, from life in general.
Pouring myself a generous glass of Cab, I preheat the oven.
It’s time to unwind.
Some people do yoga. I stress bake.
Pulling the dry ingredients from the tiny pantry — flour, baking powder, baking soda, vanilla, chocolate chips — I plop them one by one onto the kitchen island. I shufflethrough my music and crank up my chill vibes playlist. Lots of instrumental songs and jazzy renditions of Broadway musicals.
Perfect.
