Page 27 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
She didn’t know shit about what happened last time. But then again, maybe she’s more perceptive than I thought. Maybe she knew me withdrawing and closing myself off had a lot more to do with Eden’s rejection than I let on.
“I know, Mom, don’t worry. I’ve got to get going. Take care of yourself,” I say as I hand her a few bills.
She curls her hand around the cash, giving me a grateful look. “I always do, don’t I?”
I raise a brow in her direction. That’s debatable. But the last thing I want to do is get into yet another argument with my mom. “Talk to you soon.”
She only nods in response.
9
* * *
EDEN
It’s strange to be working at my grandfather’s desk, a dark mahogany piece of furniture, large and masculine. It suits the office nicely, but it doesn’t suit me. I wonder how long I’ll feel like an imposter.
Absently, I flip through a coffee-table book sitting on the edge of the desk. This one is filled with images of dramatic landscapes from around the world, photographed in black and white. I have no idea who bought it or why it’s here. It’s just a generic part of a generic office that I haven’t made mine yet.
A photo near the middle of the book makes me pause—it’s of a volcanic eruption. The sky looks normal, but everything around it has been blown to smithereens, the trees toppled over and bare of any branches or leaves.
I feel at home as I run my fingertip over the glossy image. Everything in my life looks normal. But inside, I feel confused and conflicted and distraught much of the time. Maybe everyone is right, and I need to sell the team and walk away with my dignity before it’s too late. But some stubborn, selfish part of me won’t let me do that.
Some days can only be conquered through pump-up playlists and double shots of espresso. The kind of days that begin with extra concealer under my eyes, and end with me falling into bed exhausted, with some whirlwind of chaos for the twelve to fourteen hours in between.
Lately, I call these days normal, and they’re a gentle summer breeze compared to the tornado I’ve been living through the last week. Which is why, somewhere between observing the team’s morning skate and my fifth brand-sponsorship meeting of the week, I sent an SOS text to Gretchen, insisting we pencil in some much-needed girl time.
Two hours later, she’s booked us mani-pedi appointments at my favorite nail salon, and now, after making liberal use of the massage functions of this pedicure chair, I’m beginning to feel like a new woman.
As the cloudy water spirals down the drain of my foot bath, David, my favorite nail guy, slips a flimsy pink pair of foam flip-flops onto my freshly exfoliated feet, then motions me toward the manicure station. Gretchen has already settled in at her station for the fancy hot-towel treatment she booked, and I pad over to join her, tossing my long-empty coffee cup into the trash can on the way.
“You’ve got to stop drinking coffee this late in the day, girl,” she says as I sink into the seat next to hers. She’d probably wag a finger at me too if her hands weren’t wrapped in hot eucalyptus-scented towels. While I didn’t spring for the deluxe treatment, just catching a whiff soothes my nerves.
“I will, I promise. Just as soon as the season ends, and I’m not losing half my sleep to stress dreams involving my late grandfather shooting hockey pucks at my head.”
Before she can take a crack at psychoanalyzing that nightmare, David interrupts her, shaking a bottle of bold emerald polish in my direction. It’s the perfect shade of Boston Titans green.
“This is your color, right?”
I nod, resting my wrists on the terrycloth towel. Normally I stick to pale pinks and nude tones, but if ever there was an occasion to paint my nails Titans colors, it’s the first game of the season, which is in less than twenty-four hours. For my toes, however, I stuck to my favorite shade of ballet-slipper pink. Old habits die hard.
While David gets to work filing my nails into the perfect almond shape, Gretchen scoots her chair an inch or two closer to mine, turning her shoulders to lean into whatever gossip she’s about to launch into.
“So, is it true that they’re adding extra security detail for the team this year? I read this whole article about it, but some fans say it’s just talk.”
For David’s sake, I try not to flinch. “Since when do you read the hockey blogs?”
“Since my best friend became the owner of a professional hockey team,” she says, the duh implied. “And especially since said friend became the subject of some crazy protests.”
My stomach clenches at the reminder. Things have quieted down a bit since the initial announcement, but I’m not optimistic enough to believe the fans are on board with me quite yet. “There’s speculation of another march outside the arena before tomorrow’s game too.”
