I blinked as disappointment crept up my spine. “What? What do you mean? I was supposed to move in on Friday. That’s two days from now.”
“The pipes burst, flooding three units, including yours.”
My father began typing on his keyboard, then spun the monitor around for me to see. I skimmed the email that the property management team sent, which confirmed extensive water damage. They cited repairs would be needed and indicated that the earliest move-in date was now looking like April or at the latest May, no sooner.
My stomach dropped. Eight, maybe nine months? My mind spun. I was going to need housing. There was no way I was staying in my father’s tiny office on that couch for another six months. Four weeks had been long enough.
“There are hotels. Extended stay places. I will figure it out,” I said immediately.
“On a trainer’s salary?” my father said, looking at me. “You will burn through all of your savings in a month.”
“Then I will find a short-term sublet. I will post on the team message board and?—”
“No,” he said firmly.
My father leaned back in his chair, and I could see that right now he wasn’t my boss but my father. He was the man who’d taught me to skate before I could ride a bike, and who had iced all my bruises and fixed my broken heart as I grew up.
“Dad…” I whispered.
“Bianca, people are already talking. Saying the team only hired you because you are my daughter. Don’t think I don’t hear the rumors.”
I’d expected this, and I’d prepared myself for it. People loved to talk, but I had the credentials behind me. I was a licensed athletic trainer. I not only had professional experience but I also had more schooling behind me than many people. People could talk, but I knew that I’d earned my position.
“What are you saying? That I can’t use the team message board?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Because it would look like I can’t handle a basic adult problem?”
“Like you’re vulnerable.”
His protectiveness leaked through. I could see it in the way he held himself, the way his hands formed fists on his desk.
“Do you think I don’t know what happens when a young woman asks for housing in a professional sports environment? The assumptions people make? The?—”
“Dad, I can handle this myself.”
“I know you can, but you shouldn’t have to. Not when I already have a solution that will work.”
I felt my stomach give one last heave, my morning bagel that I ate on the way here threatening to make a reappearance.
“What solution?”
My father looked at me.
“Evan Callahan has a two-bedroom condo. He lives alone.”
I sat there, unable to speak.
Evan Callahan was the team’s right defenseman. His contract was worth more than I’d make in a decade. He was also one of the few players on the team who’d barely acknowledged my existence beyond a professional nod.
“No way.”
“It’s temporary.”
“It’s insane,” I said, leaning forward. “If you’re worried about people and their assumptions because I post about finding a living arrangement on a bulletin board, what do you think this will look like? The coach’s daughter moving in with one of the star players? Jesus, Dad, do you have any idea at all how that will look?—”
“Look. I am ensuring that my staff has safe, appropriate housing during an emergency.” My father’s voice hardened into the tone that made most players stiffen. “Callahan has the space.He is responsible, doesn’t party, and keeps to himself. It’s a practical solution.”
