Page 47 of My Lucky Charm

Still, I say nothing.

“I’ll be in early tomorrow,” he says.

After a pause and without looking at him, I say, “Can I go now?”

He shakes his head, seemingly fed up. “Yeah, go.”

I storm off. I’m not even sure why I’m still irritated. I’m stuck in this spiral of no one getting it, me not wanting to explain it, and needing everyone to leave me alone.

But as I get in my rental car and turn on the GPS, I remember. I don’t even know how to get back to my place without a computer giving me directions. This isn’t where I belong.

Not when she’s in Philadelphia.

I make my way through the streets of Chicago, imagining my route home back in Philly. That route was familiar. It made sense. The guys were like family. Way more than my own parents.

I pull into the garage, park, lock the car, and head inside. I don’t look at anyone as I push the button for the elevator, and when I’m finally safe inside the four walls of the little box that will deposit me in my apartment, I close my eyes and let myself feel it all.

Only for a second.

Here, in the silence, without any reporters or prying eyes, I can finally admit what’s really going on.

I’m losing everything that matters.

And it’s my own stupid fault. I’m too dumb to get out of my own way.

Nobody works as hard as I do to be the best in this game, and Philly—well, they just threw that away like it meant nothing.

Years of dedication and loyalty . . . for what? A couple of draft picks and salary cap space?

And now, I’m here, starting over, in a city that doesn’t want me, with guys I don’t know.

The elevator dings, and the doors open. I angrily step out into the loft, ready to chuck my bag, but I’m stopped by a smell I don’t recognize. I pause and draw in a deep breath. Cinnamon and . . . apple?

There’s a dim light on in the kitchen, and another in the living room, and my boxes are gone. I lay my bag over the back of a chair and notice there’s a blanket hanging over the arm of the couch and . . . are those throw pillows?

A large painting over the fireplace. Three potted plants. A rug. A vase of flowers on the kitchen counter. A stack of books on the coffee table that was here when I moved in. A postcard of the Chicago skyline with the words Sweet Home Chicago stuck to the refrigerator.

I open the fridge and find it completely stocked with the foods I wrote on my list. Fruit. Vegetables. Fitness water. But in addition to that, there are stacks of containers and jars neatly arranged on the refrigerator shelves.

I pull one out and open it to find a full homemade chicken and pasta dish, and . . . oh man, it smells amazing.

I close the door and walk over to the counter, where I find a small notepad. On it, Eloise has written:

Gray:

There are meals in the fridge. I read that hockey players eat a lot of pasta, so it’s a lot of pasta.

Lotsa Pasta. Great restaurant name, if you ask me! ??

Heat it up in the microwave or, if you’re like me and think microwaved meat tastes weird, take the lid off and heat in the oven. I used glass containers to make it easy. Plastic leaks toxins into your food, did you know that? So, 350 degrees for 15-20 minutes or until warm.

There are more instructions for a dozen other meals. This took time to write.

At the bottom she signed the note:

I hope you like the new décor!

Your Amazing Assistant,

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