Page 3 of Skating and Fake Dating
Cheeks now the shade of the chili pepper that sent my brother to the ER after a dare, I say, “Obviously, I was looking for an escape hatch.”
He cocks his head in question.
“So I can call in sick from a beach in Tahiti and not get marked down as late again.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Sick day trumps tardiness?”
For some unknown and foolish reason, I pat his chest apologetically. I mean, it’s right there. It was hard to resist testing whether it was as firm as it seemed. “In my current circumstances, yes.”
But that little fantasy world is the same as my dream world in which Carson, smelling clean and like sunscreen, would be beside me, sipping from a coconut through a straw with frills.
Not happening. Never. Not to a little goofus like me.
Carson says, “Haven’t been there myself.”
“I’ll send you a postcard. Greetings from paradise. There’d be a big cheeseburger on it instead of a woman in a bikini.”
And this is why I shouldn’t talk to guys. I make a fool ofmyself. A master flirt would’ve said something far more slick instead of talking about cheeseburgers and bikinis.
His grin grows as I laugh nervously and scuttle away with my black pumps squeaking on the glossy floor.
And I’m officially late.
I push through the glass door etched with the Knights’ team logo. The staff assistant hands me a folder and points to a meeting room. “You’re late.”
“I know. Well, I didn’t know we had a meeting.” Before I waste more words, I hurry toward the wooden door, straighten my blazer jacket, and then enter after a deep breath.
“Ah, our Player Assimilation Liaison. Glad you could make it,” Bernice Meyers, my boss and point person while on site, says with pointed sarcasm.
While she reviews the week ahead and some changes for floating staff—that would be me—my thoughts come in and out of focus, drifting toward the encounter with Carson, to Bernice’s comments about maintaining efficient timelines, and how desperate I am to make this job a success.
“Do you have any points on the matter that you’d like to share, Miss Porter?”
Thoughts trapped in the elevator with Carson, I say, “Like an exclamation point?”
A few people quickly mask their titters.
A walking, talking, breathing contradiction, I do my best to maintain professionalism at work and keep my hot mess at home, but a crack forms like in a sheet of ice. I want to blame Carson.
Every day, I plaster on my “I’ve got this smile,” wearing it—and apparently a mismatched blue pantsuit—until my cheeks ache while hiding my hobbies: making maple butter and finding a husband. With my perfect sister’s recent engagement, I’m desperate to avoid my mother’s pitying looks and matchmaking attempts, coming this weekend to theaters everywhere when I return home for my cousin’s wedding to my ex-boyfriend.
Yes, really.
Clearing my throat, I do my best to set aside my personal matters, recover the shreds of dignity discarded by my ex, and reply to Bernice. “It’s our priority to make the lives of NHL players, particularly the Knights, as wrinkle-free as possible so they can focus on training and winning. If I were a parent, I’d want to find a balance between teaching my children and giving them opportunities for independent learning. However, since we’re working with grown men—” and here my pesky mind detours to a very grown man, standing at about six-five with a set of shoulders that practically spans a doorway; a powerful and athletic build; strong, square jawline; and immaculately trimmed hair.
A few people lean in expectantly while Bernice’s smile thins during my mind’s moment of distraction.
Continuing, I say, “However, since NHL players already have parents and are not just overly large children wielding sticks, my role is to create a seamless transition from one team, one life, to a new one. My job is to be the invisible architect of the necessary changes during a trade, injury, or period of absence so they can focus on being the best hockey players on the planet.”
There’s a murmur of agreement. Bernice nods curtly, but I’m afraid she sees through me—just like everyone else—that I’ve got my life pieced together with playfully patterned washi tape, colorful bullet points, and a big pile of dirty laundry hidden in a basket that for some reason randomly contains my ankle weights for power walking. Not sure how those got in there. Thankfully, I didn’t accidentally toss them into the short-term rental community washing machine.
A few other employees present logistical details for the upcoming season, implementing a league-wide software program for aligning tasks and schedules, and then someone prattles on about the importance of communication and collaboration skills.
I sure wish my wooden teeth had stayed in my mouth andI’d communicated something flirty to the cowboy hockey player in my dream, or hadn’t made a fool of myself in front of the one in real life.
The meeting disbands, but not before I grab a pastry from the refreshments tray. It looks like raspberry custard—not seasonal, but my budget only allows me one specialty coffee or treat a week, which I purchase from the Busy Bee Bakery in Cobbiton on Fridays. That would be today. I’d like to have one on Mondays and all the other days that end with the letter Y, but Friday is the gateway to the weekend and a reason to celebrate.
The drone of voices fades into the distance as I shift my attention from a dull meeting to the folder the staff assistant gave me earlier.
