SAWYER
There are ten women sitting in front of me. Ten. Ten expectant sets of eyes waiting for me to tell them what to do.
All holding empty pots.
All watching me.
All waiting for me to do something intelligent with a pothos. Or is it a philodendron?
I have played in sold-out arenas. I have skated under spotlights. I have taken slap shots while being screamed at by twenty thousand people who desperately want me to fail.
Yet somehow this is worse.
“Okay,” I say, clapping my hands together like that will summon courage from the universe. “So. Repotting a pothos. Very chill. Very low pressure. Nothing terrifying about having eleven sets of eyes on me.”
Juliette stands off to my right, arms folded, lips pressed together like she’s actively fighting a smile. She has her phone out, angled just enough that I know exactly what she’s doing. Documenting this for posterity. And social media, but I’m going for Oscar-worthy drama today.
“I can skate backwards for hours on the ice in front of thousands of people,” I mutter, picking up the plant like it might bolt, “but ten women with houseplants is where I meet my emotional limit.”
A few of them laugh. One nods like she deeply understands this struggle.
Juliette taps her screen again. “Smile,” she says softly.
“I am smiling,” I say through my teeth.
“That’s concern,” she replies. “Different face.”
I glance down at the ficus, then back up at the group. “All right. First rule. We’re not panicking the plant. Plants can sense fear.”
One woman raises her hand. “Is that true?”
“No,” Juliette says calmly.
“Yes,” I say at the same time.
She gives me a look. I shrug. “I need authority here.”
Another phone comes out. Then another. I can feel this spiraling, and yet—oddly—it’s kind of fun. The energy in the room is light. Curious. Rooting for me in a way I’m not used to off the ice.
I slide the ficus out of its pot and soil drops onto the table. Then onto the floor.
“Confidence,” I say, as if this were intentional. “Very important.”
Juliette laughs, quick and bright, and catches it on camera. I glance over at her and something steadies. The way she’s watching. She’s not judging me. She’s having fun.
“Okay,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “Let’s repot this thing.”
Feeling steadier, I glance toward the back of the store—and freeze when movement catches my eye. Two figures I recognize are trying to slip in amongst the shadows and go unnoticed, but please. Maybe in a larger crowd, but not here in Juliette’s store, population of fourteen today.
Owen and Ty stand there grinning from ear to ear. Both arewearing bright white T-shirts that read, in bold green letters:PLANT DADDY.
Owen lifts a stack of them like he’s presenting sacred relics as the women turn, tracking my gaze.
There’s a collective gasp as our workshop attendees realize they could be in a hostage situation. Hockey-hostage, that is.
“Is someone messing with me—,” someone whispers.
“Never,” Owen says proudly. “We’re here for moral support. Plus, we brought gifts.”
