Page 1 of Pucked On Camera

Chapter 1

Amelia

I zip up my jacket, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear as I step out of the Chicago Blades' locker room to head home. As I make my way down the hallway, I hurry through the banter of hockey players who act like overgrown puppies looking for attention.

"Hey, Amelia, you’re not done for the evening. Where do you think you’re going? I still need my balls washed… With your tongue," one of the manchild hockey players teases, his voice laced with a chuckle that's supposed to pass for friendly. They think they're hilarious. You’d think working at the professional level, the players would be more grown up than these guys are.

"Thanks, but I am all done and leaving. Wash your own balls," I shoot back, a practiced smile plastered on my face. Yoga and jogging keep me nimble - good for dodging unwanted conversations and juvenile jabs.

School was the training ground for this kind of thing. Words hurled like dodgeballs; you learn to duck or get smacked in the face. Fifteen years of schoolyard politics taught me well.

My phone vibrates against my thigh, a welcome intrusion. Mom's picture flashes on the screen.

"Hey, Mom," I say, stepping around a puddle from the afternoon’s slushy snowmelt.

"Amelia!" she chirps, then yells, "Hank, come over here! I’ve got Amelia on speaker phone!"

"Hey, kiddo," Dad's deep voice joins in, crackling through the speaker. I imagine him sitting at the kitchen table, glasses perched on his nose.

"Hi, Dad." My voice softens instinctively. "How's everything?"

"Are you okay? You sound tired," Mom asks, her worry cutting through the street noise.

"Never better," I insist. Like always, I'm an open book with pages they never bother to read. "Just headed home."

"Those boys at the rink giving you trouble again?" Dad's protective tone filters through, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He doesn't know the half of it, and I don't plan on giving him a full read. There was a reason the lady who interviewed me asked if I could handle pressure in the job place and if I could ignore unsavory comments. She said she had to ask because they’ve hired five people this season, and all of them have left within one week of working for the Blades.

"Nothing I can't handle," I assure them. "You know me."

I do my best to tune into the concern in my parents' voices while blocking out the rest of the world. Sometimes I wish someone would actually see beyond the facade. But hey, life's a game, right? And I'm all about keeping score my own way.

I quicken my pace, clutching the phone a little tighter. I breathe a sigh of relief from being on my way home and focus on the conversation at hand.

"Really, Amelia, how's the job going?" Mom's voice is laced with genuine curiosity, tinged with her ever-present hint of concern.

"Ah, the glamorous life of a locker room attendant," I reply with a chuckle. "It's... interesting. Definitely keeps me on my toes."

"Must be something, being around all those athletes," Dad muses, and I can almost hear the smile in his voice.

"Interesting" doesn't begin to cover it. It’s the not so glamorous life of towels, egos, and navigating through the testosterone-infused air of the Chicago Blades' sanctum. Each day is a new lesson in patience and diplomacy—skills that have nothing to do with picking up sweaty uniforms but everything with managing fragile pride.

"At least you know about hockey, so you should fit in nicely," Mom states.

"Mom, it’s more about shin guards and jockstraps than the actual game," I admit, and we share a laugh. It's easier this way, not diving into details. They don't need to know about the occasional sneer from a player who thinks of me as the nerdy girl from college. One of the best things I’ve done in my life was dropping out of college. It was too expensive, and it was just like high school where jocks and nerds never fit together in the same classroom.

"Sounds like you're making the best of it," Dad says, his voice warm and encouraging.

"Definitely trying," I say as I turn the corner.

I continue walking along the cracked sidewalk, phone wedged between my shoulder and ear, juggling my gym bag.

"Amelia, are you really okay with the money?" Dad asks, concern threading through his words. "A two-bedroom apartment seems excessive for one person."

I can almost see Mom nodding in agreement on the other end of the line. I dodge a puddle, carefully stepping around it as if it'sthe question I don't want to wade into. "I'm fine," I insist, my voice more steadfast than I feel. "It gives me space to... spread out."

"But dear, wouldn't downsizing be more practical? It would certainly be cheaper," Mom chimes in, the 'be sensible' undertone loud and clear.

"Can you handle that rent on what the Blades are paying you?" Dad's not one to dance around the subject.

---