Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
I trudge over and sink onto the mattress again, this time reveling in the clean sheets and soft blanket. I rest my head on the pillow, sighing contentedly. “This was a good idea.”
“You need some rest.”
“So do you. Don’t you have a game tomorrow?”
“I have hockey, and you have baking.” He bends down and dusts the sweetest, most poignant kiss onto my forehead.
It’s hardly the code switch we promised earlier, but I’m not going to protest. Especially since it feels bittersweet, like the kiss is saying it wishes it were more but knows it can’t be.
“Good night, Mabel.” When he pulls back, his brow is furrowed, as if something just occurred to him. “I meant to ask. What did your mom mean about the job in food services?”
Oh, right. That. A pang of sadness lances me as I remember what Mom said. The way my choices never seem like enough for her. “She said she could get me a job at the university in food services. She wants me to have benefits. It’s her weird way of looking out for me.”
“I take it you don’t want to work in food services?”
I shake my head, a soft smile tugging at my lips. “I like it here.”
“We’re going to make this work,” he says, and it’s a new promise, one that settles into my bones as he leaves.
But even though he’s gone, I can’t help but think—or maybe hope—that I’m his favorite part of the day.
29
SEE ME IN MY OFFICE
CORBIN
Morning skate just hits different. Every shot feels loose and relaxed. Every sprint down the ice is powerful. Every pass lands.
I don’t want to rest on the laurels of practice, though, since the devil is in the details, and the details are in the game.
As I finish my pre-game warm-up with a sweaty, intense session on the bike, where I log nine miles in twenty-two minutes, a text pings on my phone.
Mabel: Alexa, send a note to Corbin letting him know I sold out of orange habanero cookies and his sweet and salties, the gluten-free kind. Alexa, set a reminder to place an order for more gluten-free pretzels for the sweet and salties. Everyone is asking for them! Alexa, tell Corbin I didn’t think of his dick once today. Just kidding, Alexa, don’t tell him that. Okay, customers coming. More later.
I crack up, but I can’t resist replying in kind.
Corbin: Alexa, tell Mabel I approve of the above message.
Mabel: Are you kidding me, self???? OK, gotta go.
As I ride, I place an order for pretzels from the local grocery store in Cozy Valley, asking for a rush delivery. The app tells me they’ll be there in twenty minutes. Perfect. Not sure if she’ll be able to bake more today, but at least she’ll have what she needs for tomorrow. I’ve been trying to help out with inventory and placing orders, since I’m good at that stuff, and it’s easy enough to do on the go. I send a message letting her know to be on the lookout. Then, I hop off the bike, head to the locker room, and put on my uniform, hoping that easy feeling lasts through the game.
And it does.
I score in the first five minutes, flicking a wrist shot right through the Miami goalie’s legs. He curses, and that makes the goal even better.
Miller gives a fist pump from all the way on the other side of the rink, while guarding our net.
Riggs claps me on the back.
Lake knocks the back of my helmet. “Fuck, yes.”
When it’s time for a line change a minute later, I jump over the boards, revved up and full of energy from the goal. I should be exhausted after working all day yesterday, but my head’s clear. No distractions pulling me in different directions. Just hockey. Just this moment. It’s so damn welcome.
It’s tempting to ease up, thanks to the early goal. But nope. I watch every play from the bench when it’s not my shift, tracking the Miami defenders and their tactics, trading my observations with teammates on the bench, then passing pucks to them on the ice.
When the game ends, we’ve put another W on the board. It’s one game, but it’s better than the last one I played, and in this business, I’ll take that. Maybe code-switching is what I need in…everything. Keep work separate from personal, hockey separate from the bakery.
Yeah, that sounds like a good plan. One I’ll have to use when I return to the bakery next week after a short road trip. And one I’ll need when I teach Mabel how to ace pickleball.
The Foxes hit up Dallas, absolutely destroying the team there, and not gonna lie—it’s satisfying to pummel them. Next up is Seattle, and we win there, too, thanks to an assist from me.
When I head into the visitors’ locker room at the end of the game, I yank off my helmet with a newfound lightness in my limbs, a veritable fucking spring in my step.