Page 3 of You Had Me at Hockey

“We’ll see, I guess.” Shit. That doesn’t sound positive. I need to be more upbeat about this. “New York’s cool and this is a great team.” That’s better.

“You two know each other?” Mike says.

“Yeah.” I nod. My eyes meet Easton’s again. Yeah, he doesn’t like talking about it either, I can see that. “We played together in the WHL, way back.”

I can see Mike’s face change as he puts two and two together. “Ah. Yeah. Right.” He knows who I am. But he clearly isn’t picking up on the tension between Easton and me. “Easton lives on the west side, in a building where a few players live. He can show you around and tell you everything you need to know.”

Easton’s face tightens. “Yeah, sure.”

I say nothing. I’ll just go along with it, my smile fixed in place.

I meet with my new coach, who’s only temporary. They’re trying to hire someone to replace Tim the Tank Simmons, who just resigned. We agree I’ll play the next game, which is Tuesday, but after that it’s the all-star break and I won’t have another game until January 30. I’d booked a trip to Aruba with Cora and some of the guys and their girlfriends. I’m not sure if that’s going to work now. I should fly back to Dallas to pack up my stuff and ship it here instead of lying on a beach somewhere.

Fuck. I’d really like to go lie on a beach. And possibly bury my head in the sand.

But I need to be a warrior.

Chapter 2

Sara

“Okay, I’m making chocolate chip cookies for ‘Cooking with Sara’ today. But…” I pause dramatically. “I had adisasterat the supermarket down the street when I went to buy the chocolate.”

I’m talking to my camera, which sits on a tripod on the counter in my Manhattan apartment. My show isn’t really called “Cooking with Sara,” I just call it that the times I make a video in my kitchen. The truth is I’m a pretty terrible cook, but that’s okay.

“You all know I love my chocolate chip cookies. And I’m super picky about the chocolate I use. Maybe snobby even. But I’m on my period, and you know when youneedchocolate, you have to have it, and I needed chocolate chip cookies, and the market near herewas out of chocolate. So I had to buy chocolate chips instead of chopping up a bar of chocolate like I usually do.”

I talk with my hands, so I’m waving them around and showing the package of chocolate chips to the camera. And to my millions of viewers who will see this on YouTube once I’ve edited and uploaded it.

“I like soft and chewy cookies,” I continue. “I’ve tried different combinations of brown and white sugar to get that just right. Now, I don’t know how these are going to turn out with different chocolate, and with these mini chips instead of chopped chocolate, but we’re going to find out!”

I continue talking as I follow the recipe, my kitchen ending up in a disaster as it usually does when I try any kind of cooking for my video. When I screw up, the video keeps going. I usually leave those in because that’s my brand—honest and unfiltered.

“This is my mom’s recipe, but I added nutmeg and just a hint of coriander to update the recipe. And I’ve experimented with all kinds of chocolate over the years.” I display the cookie sheet I’m using. “Today I’m trying this new silicone thing.” I roll it out onto the pan. “I’ll just spray it with a little cooking spray…it’ll be much easier to clean up.”

I stop recording when the cookies go into the oven and resume when they come out.

I open the oven door and pull out the cookie sheet with a flourish. To my horror, the silicone mat and all the cookies shoot off the pan like a kid on a waterslide and scatter all over my kitchen floor. I stand and stare at them in dismay, holding an empty pan.

I turn my head and stare at the camera. I blink slowly. “Obviously, that wasn’t supposed to happen.” I drop the cookie sheet onto the range with a clatter and crouch to survey my mess. I pick up one cookie from the floor and stand to inspect it. Then I shrug and take a bite. My eyes widen as I chew and then I do a little dance. “Oh my God! This cookie is the best fucking cookie I’ve ever tasted!” I pump a fist into the air. “Success!”

I stop recording to retrieve the cookies from the floor. Some broke, but I pile them all onto the cookie sheet and set it on the counter. I resume filming. “Well. They aren’t Instagram worthy. But they taste damn good! Because honestly, that’s what matters, right? We’ll just pretend they weren’t lying on my floor.”

I’m not the perfect Insta girl. In fact, I’m the opposite, and that’s why I’ve been so successful. People call me “relatable.” I’m not wearing makeup, my hair’s in a messy ponytail on top of my head, and I’m wearing a sweater I picked up at a thrift shop.

“Okay, so if you’re using one of these things”—I pick up the silicone mat—“be careful! Anyway, thanks for tuning in! I hope you had fun hanging out with me. I’m going to pour myself a big glass of milk and sit on my couch and binge eat these chocolate chip cookies. And next time you see me, my face will be full of zits! Probably. I love you all!”

Okay. Done.

Now I just have hours of editing to make that perfect and on-brand.

Good thing I love what I do because I have no life other than this. Holy shit, things have taken off the last few years and I barely have time to sleep anymore.

I ignore my messy kitchen and carry a plate of cookies (checked for any obvious dirt) and a glass of milk into the living room. I need a rest. After this I have a lunch meeting with my publicist and then I’m heading to the studio where I record my podcasts.

I rest my feet on the glass coffee table and gaze out my apartment window. Despite paying over a million bucks for this apartment, I don’t really have a view. Fucking New York. But I love it here.

I down the cookies and wash them down with the milk while looking at social media on my phone. I have to remind myself not to read the comments on my last YouTube video. Too many haters out there. That’s the price of success apparently. I don’t handle it very well, so it’s best if I avoid it.

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