Page 24 of Coach's Temptation

"Okay. We can expedite for an extra $500."

I stare at my phone like it just slapped me. "Oh, cool. Let me just sell a kidney real quick."

The plumber hangs up and I scream into the void.

I toss my phone onto the counter, gripping the edges as I take a slow, measured breath.

Okay. Think, Natalie.

I'm a medical professional.I keep grown men from breaking themselves on a daily basis. I can fix this.

…Right?

My gaze darts around the apartment, landing on a sad, leaning stack of old towels in the corner that I've been meaning to donate. I grab every single one, throwing them down with the urgency of a woman fighting for her life. Spoiler alert: they do absolutely nothing to stop the water from creeping across the floor like a vengeful ghost.

"Okay.New plan."

I dart into the bathroom, yanking open the cabinet under the sink and grabbing the biggest bucket I own. Then another. And another.

By the time I line them up under the worst of the leaks, my apartment looks like a budget kiddie pool setup. I grab my grandma’s massively oversized mixing bowl—the one she used to make Christmas cookies—and shove it under the big leak, the one currently doing its best impression of a broken fire hydrant.

There. That’s… something.

Water plinks into the makeshift disaster relief stations I’ve assembled, and for the first time in the past twenty minutes, I exhale.

This is fine. Everything is fine.

Except it really, really isn’t.

I glance at the clock on my stove. 6:12 AM.

I have to be at work in an hour.

I stare down at myself. Soaked sleep shirt. Soggy socks. Hair plastered to my face like I just lost a battle with a rainstorm.

Shit.

Resigning myself to the nightmare that is my life, I grab my one semi-dry hoodie from the back of the chair and yank it over my head before throwing on leggings and sneakers that probably shouldn’t squelch when I walk, but here we are.

One last glance at my apartment, at the buckets, the ruined ceiling, the very concerning water stain spreading toward my bookshelf… and I slam the door shut behind me.

I’ll deal with it later.

Right now?

I have to go pretend I have my shit together.

***

The automatic doors swish open as I step into the arena, and the sharp difference between freezing rain and industrial-strength heating makes me full-body shiver.

I adjust my hoodie, shake out my damp ponytail, and try my best to walk with some level of dignity.

My socks are still damp, my hoodie smells like wet dog and regret. I don't even have a dog. And worse than all that? I’m running on exactly zero ounces of coffee.

This day? Sucks.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a second. Just get to the therapy room. Hide in the office. Pretend today never happened.

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