He hands me a piece of paper. “They do day-in-the-life kind of profiles, right?”
“Yep.” He rolls his eyes and the crease between them deepens. “It’s another distraction no one needs but the fans like it and they buy the tickets, so once again I got outvoted. So the team wants the profile to be on you. Our tickets sales were down last year and didn’t pick up the first month of this season, and they think your profile will put more butts in seats. Like I said, you weren’t hired for your on-ice abilities.”
Ouch. And fuck. I nod even though the last thing I want in this world is to have a television crew follow me anywhere. When I played in Seattle they profiled one of the guys and it looked like a nightmare. They followed him everywhere except the shitter and I’m sure they tried. But I just nod again because I’ll take it up with PR, not Coach. He’s pissed off enough as it is, the last thing I should be doing is complaining to him. He leans back in his chair. “So contact Liz in PR. She’ll set things up for you. Her number is on the sheet. I’ll see you on the plane tomorrow. Be early. Not on time, not late. Early.”
I stand up and give him an easy confident smile. “Yes, sir.”
He turns to his computer screen so I head out the door. Well, that kind of sucks donkey’s balls, I think. There is no way in hell I am doing a TV show that’s going to expose my personal life to the masses. It’s Jordan or Luc or Devin or hell even that quirky young kid Tommy with the wild slap shot they should be profiling, not me.
I frown as I step out into the chilly fall air and walk across the arena parking lot toward the subway. My phone buzzes with a text from Luc with the name, email and number of his real estate broker. I contemplate calling her now, but decide I’ll email her later since I have somewhere to be. I usually find a group home or charity to volunteer at after I get settled in a new city and while I was unable to sleep last night, I looked up some places online. Normally I would give myself a couple weeks to settle in, but this place I’ve decided to volunteer at only does orientations and applications for new volunteers once every few months, so I either go today or I wait months. That’d be way too long. Too much free time without focus. When my teammates are with their families I volunteer. It’s the only thing that I feel connected to outside of hockey.
As I approach the subway entrance I see a young, too skinny guy sitting on a dirty duffel bag holding a shitty piece of cardboard that says “Any help is appreciated” but he’s spelled “appreciated” wrong. He’s probably in his early twenties and looks like life has kicked him in the teeth for at least half that time. He briefly makes eye contact as I approach.
“You hungry?”
He looks up and blinks and for a second I think he doesn’t realize I’m talking to him. “Always,” he says quietly.
I glance past the subway entrance and see a little deli on the corner. “Wait here, I’ll grab you a sandwich. Any preference?”
He hesitates before answering. “Honestly, anything would be great.”
I head to the deli. It’s tiny and packed. I glance at the time on my phone screen. I’m not sure how long it takes to get from one place to another in this city but I think I’m flirting with being late for the volunteer thing. I hope I’m wrong. Ten minutes later I hand the guy a paper bag with a ham and cheese sandwich, a pastrami on rye, two apples, and a bottle of water. Then I hand him forty bucks and a hot coffee.
“Thanks, man, you’re the best.”
“Hope things get better for you, man.” I nod and walk to the corner, pulling up Lyft on my phone. When the car shows up I ask the driver how long it’ll take to get there and he winces. “Hope you’re not in a hurry, dude. That’s on the other side of town and traffic is a disaster.”
“It is what it is,” I reply and try not to groan in his face. I’m going to be late. Of course. Because the only kind of karma I have is bad. Ugh. This whole first day in the Big Apple can bite me.
Chapter 2
Brie
Ihate today,” I declare dramatically and Len laughs in my face.
“Thanks, pal,” she replies tartly. “Since you spent the last three hours in here with me, I appreciate that.”
I smile sheepishly at my best friend, who also happens to be my accountant. “You know I love you. It’s just I hate math. I hate paperwork. I hate numbers.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Len nods, her eyes back on the laptop screen in front of her. One hand zips around the track pad and the other twirls one of her dark curls around her finger. “I swear we’re only friends because together we are a whole, fully functional person. Separately we’re disasters.”
I nod. We’ve been saying that since we met at age twelve in school. I’m intuitive and street smart, she’s analytical and book smart. She tutored me in high school when I was struggling with calculus and I, more than once, have saved her from sketchy potential suitors and internet scams.
“We’re almost done here and then you can get back to your precious children,” Len says and smiles to offset her judgy tone. She loves these kids as much as I do, she’s just too scared to admit it. If she didn’t she wouldn’t volunteer here at Daphne’s House, which is the charity for homeless teens that I founded. She offered to teach a budgeting class as soon as the doors opened; I didn’t even have to ask or beg and I would have done both.
“Yeah but before I leave here you’re going to give me that horrible number and it will put me in a bad mood,” I sigh, dramatically again. The number I’m referring to is the amount of donations we need for the last quarter of the year.
We’re doing a fund-raiser in a few weeks and if the number we have to hit is astronomical I’m going to get depressed. I would dip into my own savings again, but at this point if I do, I won’t be able to pay my own bills. This year we just haven’t gotten the media exposure we have in the past and if people don’t know about us, they can’t donate. I’ve tapped out all my personal contacts. My parents have been more than generous with donations and would help me out if I ask, but my dad just retired and I am not eating away at his hard-earned savings. He and Mom have made plans for that money and they deserve to keep them.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Len says and gives me a comforting smile. “Just have Vic invite all his snooty friends to the fund-raiser. They love to throw money at things they think makes them look like a good person. It’s easier than actually being one.”
I let that go like I always do because Len has every right to be bitchy and I am still feeling guilty for setting her up with Robert, one of Victor’s close friends, who dated her for almost two months and then completely ghosted her. Instead I correct her on the one thing I can without feeling bad. “Victor. You know he hates being called Vic.”
Her wide, perfectly glossed mouth takes a downward turn. “See? Snooty.”
I can’t help but laugh. I’ve known since almost day one that Len didn’t like Victor. But she tolerates him and respects my decision to date him. Still, I get the distinct impression she didn’t think it would last six days let alone six months.
I glance at the clock. “How much longer, tax master? I have a new volunteers coming in here and need to prep the classroom for the GED lesson.”
