Page 39 of Mistlefoe
“It’s the easiest word in the planet, kid. That particular letter combination means it’s not gonna happen.”
“Gramps.” I lean over his desk and rest my hands against it. “A large sum of money will fall right on this desk. It will help us work through a good chunk of the overdue bills. It’d be a great start to a new revenue stream of private events, which in turn will help us hire more temps so you don’t have to do everything by yourself. We might even”—I take a deep breath—“replace the geriatric Zamboni that makes a whirring sound when it runs.”
“That Zamboni belongs in a junkyard, just like me. I want to retire.”
“But—”
“No, you try working for sixty four years and have a young buck come tell you that you can’t retire.”
“I’m not saying you can’t retire, Gramps. I’m just saying the place doesn’t have to close down when you do.”
“I want to close it down!” I reel back because Gramps never yells, and yet that’s exactly what’s happening. “I’d raze it to the ground if I could and then pour kerosene on every damn pile of debris and burn it to ashes.”
My mouth opens. “What?”
Huffing, he lowers himself slowly until he plops the rest ofthe way on his chair. “This is where I taught you everything about hockey and made you dream big, and it’s no replacement for the dream I put in your head. It’s best if it disappears altogether.”
“So this is my fault.” I bark the words and it makes him look up. “You closing this place and ruining a bunch of little kids’s dreams because I lost mine issureto make me feel better, huh?”
And there it is, the ugliness that had been brewing between us that neither wanted to face.
I pick myself back up and shake my head. “I don’t care if this makes me a coward, but I’m going to remove myself from this conversation before I say something a lot damn spicier than that. Call me when you change your mind.”
Gramps doesn’t stop me on my way out. And he also doesn’t call me back.
CHAPTER 14
SIERRA
Ifreaking love my job.SPORTYis literally paying me to listen to music right now—and not just any good jam trending on Spotify, but Christmas music.
So far I’ve found two solid candidates who make the wildest remixes to Christmas classics that sound like club bangers until you pay attention. One’s Boston based and the other from New York, and I’ve already emailed them asking for rates and availability. But no matter who pans out, they just secured themselves a new fan.
I’m shimmying my shoulders when Conor walks into the office, and two bizarre things happen at the same time. First, that even though I’m partying at my desk, I somehow light up like a Christmas tree at the sight of his face. I’d argue it’s because I’m excited to hear news about the venue but I’m not in the business of gaslighting myself. I can confirm that Conor Mahoney is officially out of my naughty list, and I never thought that would happen.
But then I notice the other thing. And that is his face. It’s not arranged in the normal way.
Okay, his nose is still in the middle and all that. Butnormally Conor’s face is the textbook definition of happy, all shiny eyes and easy smiles that I used to take as a personal attack. The man plopping at his seat across me looks like he’s about to punch something. Or cry. He’s definitely screamed, at least.
I pause my happy music and remove my headset. How do you ask the guy who was your former work nemesis if he’s okay?
“Yo, dude. You look like you fought a bull,” Stephen says casually while munching on chips from a crinkly bag in an annoying way. Or maybe I’m just annoyed that he could get straight to the point without overthinking.
Conor doesn’t answer right away. Sighing, he pulls at his red scarf from one end until it unwinds from his neck. After tossing it on his desk, he removes his glasses and rubs his eyes with the most exhausted sigh I’ve ever heard from him.
What the heck happened?
First he gets the kiss of his lifetime from yours truly, and I’m not exaggerating. I know he was into it because that heavy blush didn’t lie—I’ve never seen him do that. Then after that, he got the great news that we can use his grandpa’s rink and he went on his way to get the sweet old man on board. Nothing in his expression right now would make me infer any of these things actually happened today.
Conor jams his glasses back in place and pins a hard stare on me. “Sierra, can we please have a word?”
“Ohh.” Stephen puts a handful of chips in his mouth and crunches loudly, watching like he expects a MMA fight.
One by one, our colleagues turn their attention to us. Lewis is on a call but you’d think someone stripped naked in the middle of the office with the way his eyes sparkle at the potential drama. Next to me, Rachel stops scribbling something on her planner and scrunches her nose at me in that way I know means she’s wondering if I’m okay. From the opposite corner,Kayla glances between Conor and I like this is a tennis match, even though no barbs are being exchanged. Dave is still home sick.
Meanwhile, I’m racking my brain to figure out what I could’ve possibly done wrong—today, I mean. He wouldn’t randomly get upset at the million ways I’ve wronged him in the past two years.
Well, whatever it is, we don’t need an audience.
