Page 17 of A Little Too Forward

I had reached the stage of self-pity where pizza for breakfast was accepted as the norm. Can’t eat your feelings all day if you don’t start first thing in the morning. I chuckle at my depressing humour.

Two weeks of unemployment isn’t the end of the world, but it feels like it to me. I’m not out in the action, not pulling stats and making quick judgments. No, I’m sitting on my sofa, yelling at the TV most nights as I watch live hockey.

I even found myself watching a Toronto Nighthawks game and tracking Max with a hawk eye across the ice. The idiot is good, really good. And sure, I’ve known that for what feels like forever. Yet after seriously watching him and the way he moves on the ice, his puck handling, I can admit the man has serious skill.

Skills that’ve been honed for almost a decade and I wasn’t there to witness.

Part of me feels sad about that. Max and I had a love/hate relationship as teenagers, but no matter what, we’d always been there for each other. He made a bad decision, but I was the one who walked away.

Shaking off that line of thinking, I decided not to be a gremlin today and take a shower. Taylor Swift blasts from my Bluetooth speakers, and I yell with her about the smallest man as I aggressively scrub my body.

I’m stepping out, steam rising off my body and filling the small space, when I see my phone light up on the floor.

Shit. I forgot I shoved the thing in my sweatpants pocket when I was grabbing my plate of pizza. Squinting to read the name on the screen, I give an uncharacteristic squeal when I make out who it is.

“Shiiiitt.” The word is stretched out as I slip on the wet floor. My wrist slams down on the counter, but I work through the pain. I need to get this call!

With a towel clutched to my chest and my other hand swiping accept on the call, I take a quick, deep breath before saying hello.

And I instantly start coughing like a dying man.

“Hello? Miss Sutton? Are you there?”

“Yes,” I wheeze, trying to get air into my lungs. “One second, please.” I shove the phone into the material of the towel to muffle the sound, turning my head in the opposite direction at the same time. Then, I force myself to cough and clear my throat. “I’m so sorry about that,” I finally say into the phone, sounding almost normal. “Swallowed the wrong way,” I semi-lie.

There’s a small laugh at the other end. “No worries,” the voice begins again. “If this is a bad time, I can call back later.”

“No!” I say too quickly and too harshly. “No,” I correct myself. “Now is a great time.”

“Awesome. This is West Eastwich from Sports National Network. I’m sure you’ve heard of the network,” he boasts.

“Yes, of course. You can’t work in sports media and not know SNN.”

“Good. Good. Well, I’m calling today, Miss Sutton—”

“Please, call me Sabrina,” I tell him as I try to wipe my dripping hair out of my face.

“Sabrina,” he corrects with humour in his voice. “I’m calling to set up a virtual meeting with you to talk about the potential of you hosting a documentary series we have planned. We’re hoping to get filming very quickly on this, so would love to know if you could meet with us, say, tomorrow morning? We’ll send over a calendar invite.”

He’s making it sound like the option to correct him or turn him down isn’t even a possibility. Not that I would even dare. SNN is calling me! For a documentary!

“Yes, tomorrow morning works perfectly for me. Thank you so much for the opportunity.”

“Cool, cool, cool. Sending that over right now. Bruna and Ricky look forward to chatting with you. Have a—”

I cut West off. “Bruna Rose? Like,theBruna Rose will be on the call tomorrow?”

“That’s correct. She’s the leading producer on this documentary segment.”

I don’t even know what to say after that point. I’m stunned. I’m going to meet screen-to-screen with Bruna freaking Rose tomorrow!

“Okay,” I say in a daze.

“Okay. See you tomorrow.”

The line goes dead, but I’m still staring off into space, trying to wrap my head around what’s just happened. A scream of excitement bursts out of me like a demon being released. The towel drops as both hands fist in the air in victory.

“Yes!” I cry like a warrior princess. “It’s happening!”

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