Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
He blinks a few times. “You did? I only told you about it a few days ago.”
“I was excited. I worked on it in between other things. I’m very efficient.” I started it right away, working on it the night he told me about the initiative, then the next day, right through to last night. “It’s not complete, but I think it’ll give you a good start. I know this is just part of my regular job, and I hope that I can keep that too, but even if I can’t, even if you need to let me go, I believe in the mission and I want whoever gets the job to be able to execute this initiative,” I say, and then I take out my phone and I hit send. “It’s yours now for whatever you want to do with it.”
After an awkward meal, we return to the office and go our separate ways. I try not to look at the locker room, the rink, the equipment room. Not that I’d see Lake anyway. The team flew to Los Angeles today for a game tomorrow afternoon. It’s for the best.
If I ran into him here, I don’t know what I’d say or do. Instead, I work, keenly aware the whole time that it might be one of my last days in this arena.
And the whole time, I’m missing Lake and what I thought we were becoming.
* * *
I’m almost done with my tour of truth. That’s what Clem and Mabel call it in our group chat.
Clementine: Are you doing it today?
Mabel: We should celebrate afterward.
Remy: Oh yeah, I’m totally in the mood to celebrate.
Mabel: Cookies are always a good idea.
Clementine: Facts.
Remy: And yes, I’m ready. I’m at her office now.
It’s Tuesday afternoon. I’ve finished work for the day, and the team is losing to Los Angeles. I’ve heard nothing from Daniel all day about the job, and I’m pretty sure he’s been interviewing other candidates based on the tailored blouses and slacks and sports jacket attire I’ve seen from those heading into his office on and off throughout the day.
I can’t control what he decides.
But I can control what I do next.
And when I sink down on Elena’s cushy gray couch, my gaze straying briefly to the painting of the snowy cabin above her head, I rip off the Band-Aid.
“I haven’t been truthful with you.”
“Oh?” The question is asked with curiosity and without judgment.
And I tell her everything about my romance with Lake, how it started, and how it ended.
A small, pleased smile shifts her lips.
“Why are you smiling?” I ask.
“Because you’re being upfront. That’s how we start.”
A start. A real start. “Okay. I’ll keep being honest.”
“Not just with me though. With others. Like Lake. Do you think you were honest with him?”
It’s like a kick in the gut even though I don’t think she meant it that way.
Because the answer is no.
53
SUPPOSED TO BE
LAKE
My lungs are burning, my thighs are screaming, and my shoulders want to murder me. I’ve been knocked into the boards more times than I want to count, and I’ve got nothing to show for it. We’re still scoreless in a rough, messy game. I’ve missed shot after shot.
I chase the puck with one minute left on the clock, hoping for a goddamn miracle—both in the game and in me. But I don’t know that I can do what I’ve done in the past: Put all my emotions into the game. Because there’s someplace else they want to be. With her.
She’s where I want to be.
But I’m here on the ice, so I line up and take a swing. Their goalie blocks it like it’s nothing. The clock eats up the rest of the minute, and we trudge off the ice to the visitor locker room. I toss my gloves on the bench, yank off my helmet, and try to rub out the knot of tension in my neck.
Riggs pats me on the back. “We’ll get them next time,” he says.
The guys have been nice to me. Because they know. They saw the blowup, the admission, the beer on the dress. They watched the stupid live stream.
I’ve barely said a word though. I grumble something like “thanks,” then hit the shower, stewing in my aloneness once again.
I’m good at that. Being alone.
It’s where I’ve been for the last three years.
I’m an expert at going solo. I could teach a master class. So I should be able to handle this—the inevitable end of a fake romance.
Too bad my chest is hollow, and it aches more than my bruised body.
Soon I’m boarding the team jet so we can fly back to San Francisco, but as I slog up the steps to the plane, dread coils in my stomach. I have to face my father for the first time since the wedding.