Page 2 of Puck to the Heart
One of my dad’s favorite songs ripped through the arena, a welcome break from my train of thought. Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer”. Thanks to my dad, I practically cut my teeth on Poison and cassettes of other all the other eighties rock bands you could think of. We had this silly family tradition of making up bad lyrics to our favorite songs. “Squidward on a chair” was my personal favorite.
Thinking of his favorite song delivered a pang of missing him. I’d moved across the country to take the job with Hurst Labs when it came as my only option after I abandoned my original plan after grad school.
The job I’d lined up as my ex’s assistant professor was less than appealing after our miserable breakup. Instead, I moved away from my only family, my friends, and lived alone for the first time in my life to get away from him. Irony was a bitch, though. I moved across the country to escape one awful man, only to end up surrounded by them at work. Brad was my penitence for leaving, I guess.
In my defense, I’d hoped contract lab work would be a stepping-stone to leading my own lab and catalyzing STEM outreach programs, but we were a year in, and the future looked bleak.
A horn blared, mercifully releasing me from my wallowing. One of the teams scored—I still wasn’t sure which I was supposed to care about—and I tried and failed again to watch until a fight broke out. Gloves and helmets flew off, and flakes of ice sprayed as razor-sharp skates skidded across the ice. With horrified captivation, I witnessed players from both teams pour off their respective benches and join the fray, indiscriminately throwing punches. For a few shocked seconds, I watched fans leap to their feet to scream their enjoyment, then I glanced around only to find a cameraman a few rows down with a camera pointed directly at my face.Again. I thought about flinging the greasy remains of my fries at him.
“Shouldn’t you be filming this?” I hissed. Again, panicky but angry horror churned through my stomach at the idea of thousands of people perceiving me and becoming a spectacle again.
“Weren’t you supposed to be watching the game earlier?” the man retorted, laughing as he swung the camera back toward the rink.
I flipped him off behind his back and stood to leave.
As I picked my way down the narrow steps, the announcer’s voice announced an upcoming eighties cover band concert coming to the arena, then he requested those with raffle tickets to direct their attention to the screen.
A number flashed in eye-wateringly bright white.Couldn’t hurt to check, I thought. A little thrill zipped through me as I poked around in my pocket until I found it.
524926
Holy shit, I won.
The only things I’d ever won in my life were the genetic lottery for long legs, an ample bosom and rear, and a keen mind for science.
I couldn’t remember the last time I went to a nice restaurant, and I salivated over thoughts of something so decadent. Imagining a meal prepared by someone else andnotin a paper bag sent my feet moving double-time down the remaining stairs. Following the signs to the ticket office, I moved like a salmon swimming upstream through the throngs of sports fans on their way out.
“Livy! Hey, wait!”
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I muttered.
“Where are you going?”
I nearly jumped out of my skin at how close he was when he spoke.
“I have to go to the ticket office. I’ll just be a sec.” I tried to be commanding without sounding bossy.
A tall guy in gray sweatpants and a Knights sweatshirt with the hood up lounged against the door, scrolling on his phone. As we drew closer, he looked our way. Most of his face was in shadow from the hood, but I got a glimpse of a sharp jawline and the curve of his mouth as he turned toward us.
Ignoring my request, Brad followed me right up to the door, closer than HR would’ve allowed if they bothered to pay attention.
“You know what? Don’t wait for me. I’ll get an Uber home.” Ordering a rideshare would cost a kidney at this time of night, but I prayed it would get him off my back.
“Sure thing, Sweetcheeks. See ya tomorrow.”
Relief flooded me when he ambled off, and I decided not to bring up the gross pet name. This time.
Inside the office, a bored-looking teenager sat, legs crossed, on top of the counter.
“You the winner?” The kid asked, eyeing the ticket in my hand.
“This is the number they called out.” I handed over the ticket, and after a second to double check, the kid agreed.
“Cool. Yo, Bash!” The last sentence they yelled loud enough to echo in the small room.
The door opened, and Hoodie Guy walked in.
“I’ve got the paperwork ready for you to sign. Just the standard photo usage and promotional stuff, blah, blah, blah.”
