Page 2 of Slap Shot

“Sold?” I repeat. “Our profit margins are through the roof. Almost every culinary magazine has featured us in positive write-ups. Why would they?—”

“It happens a lot in this business. You know how high turnover is. Someone has an idea they want to try out, and it’s successful for two weeks before going up in smoke. This management company has been snatching up dozens of restaurants in the city, and they chose CARVD as their next project. They’re going to turn it into a tapas lounge.”

“Tapas? That’s not even a full plate of food.”

“It’s not my call.”

“When does it go into effect?”

“Immediately. Don’t bother with dinner. They’re bringing in their folks to handle the crowd tonight before shutting down for a week to repurpose the menu,” Jared says.

The menu I’ve spent countless hours on.

The menu I’ve poured my heart and soul into.

It wasn’t good enough.

I’mnot good enough, and that’s a terrifying revelation.

My hands shake and I take a breath through my nose. I want to cry, but I learned a long time ago that getting emotional won’t fix the problem in front of me.

Jared throws out words likeinvestment opportunityandnew ideas, and a million thoughts race through my head.

How am I going to pay for my daughter, Lucy, to go to school? How am I going to afford rent, my car payment, and Christmas gifts in a few months?

I’m not rich by any means, but I know I’m lucky compared to others. My low six-figure salary lets us get by comfortably. It lets me pay the bills and gives me a chance to set aside money each month for Lucy’s college fund.

Losing that is going to up-end everything I’ve worked so hard for, and that’s what hurts the most.

“Okay.” I stand and head for the door, wanting nothing more than to escape to a place where I can be weak for a minute. Where I can cry and be mad. My chest hurts. My eyes burn, and I hold back the sob working its way up my throat. “Thank you for letting me know, Jared.”

“Madeline,” he says. “You’ll find something.”

In a cutthroat industry where job openings on a similar compensation scale don’t appear out of thin air, I’m not hopeful. But I smile anyway. I lift my shoulders in aWhat can you do? kind of way and nod.

“If you hear of anything, let me know,” I say, closing the door to his office with an aggressive slam.

My empathetic side tells me to head back to the kitchen and spend a few minutes with the people I enjoy working with, but I refuse to be the one to break the news about our impending unemployment.

Instead, I grab my purse and slip out the back exit to the employee parking lot, grateful for a moment alone.

The dry afternoon heat greets me, and it’s a hug I’ve come to tolerate after so many years of living here. When I first moved to Vegas, I complained about the never-ending summer. I missed cycling through four seasons. Leaves falling in autumn and snow on Christmas Day back in Ohio.

The warmth is a comfort now, and after that news, I need all the comfort I can get.

I climb in my car and start the drive to my parents’ house ten minutes away from the Strip. I grip the steering wheel tightly while an old country song croons from the speakers of my Hyundai. George Strait helps ease the sting of losing something I love, something I’mgoodat, but not by much.

When you’re a single parent who needs to provide for her child, you don’t have time to wallow. You don’t have the opportunity to beat yourself up or stew over what you could’ve done differently.

You have to put on your big girl pants, plaster on a fake fucking smile, and figure out a way to get shit done.

By the time I cut the engine, my mind is working in overdrive. I’m thinking of the contacts I have in the city who might know of any openings. I’m revamping my resume and wondering if I have any business casual clothes in my closet that might be appropriate for an interview.

“Mom?” I call out, letting myself in. “Anyone home?”

“Madeline?” My mom appears around the corner wearing a worried look. “What are you doing here?”

I kick off my shoes. Panic claws at the base of my spine when I realize there’s someone else who can be responsible for a minute. It doesn’t always have to be me.

---