Page 22 of The Overtime Kiss

Still, it’s hard not to regret it just a little. Especially when I think about how tempting he is. Just once wouldn’t have hurt, right?

But there’s no use dwelling on that—not when the crowd is calling, and I’ve got another few innings of sweating my way through the summer heat to go.

When “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” wraps up, I do a goofy, mascot-style dance on the pitcher’s mound, earning cheers for the San Francisco Cougars. My time’s up for this inning, so I grab a stray ball and toss it into the stands. A kid catches it, and the crowd roars. Then I hustle off the field before I melt completely.

The moment I hit the corridor, I rip off the furry head, panting an inhuman amount. Reese—the team’s publicist—greets me with a smile and hands me a fan.

“You’re almost done,” she says sympathetically. “Sorry the costume isn’t air-conditioned.”

“It’s great. I don’t mind,” I gasp between breaths, fanning my face as if that’ll actually make a difference.

And honestly, I don’t mind. Not really. Not when this job is part of the strange patchwork quilt that is my summer.

Yes, I sold my ring. I made five figures off it, but some of that went back into my skating business, the rest into savings. Shockingly, summer isn’t exactly peak season for ice-skating. No shows, no cruise ship gigs. And getting work as a female athlete? Practically impossible. So here I am, cobbling together a living with odd jobs like this one.

I’ve auditioned for holiday shows and reached out to both local hockey teams to see if they need help with their ice crew, but hockey pre-season doesn’t start again until late September. I even landed some freelance accounting work with a company that makes tiny homes. Since I live in a micro-studio, that feels fitting.

What Ihaven’tdone? Seen my parents. Talked to my parents. Visited my parents. I haven’t seen Chad, either, though I’ve stalked him on social media, of course. He and Madison look disgustingly pleased with themselves, happily using the blenders, napkin rings, and pasta makers they kept. Seems they didn’t mind receiving regifted items; I recognize a lot of them from the registry Mom set up for my wedding to Chad. They used them for their wedding, held the next week. I don’t get it, but they deserve each other.

No doubt, Chad convinced my dad that Madison healed his broken heart and so will the bonus he’ll earn too.

But there’s good news. Furby, the kitten I fostered before and after the breakup, has been adopted, but I haven’t takenin another. My situation feels too…unstable. My heart aches a little for that. Then a little more every time I trek to the nearby gym for a shower. Sometimes I even work at the gym, cleaning equipment at the end of the day to make a few more bucks.

It’s not that I’m afraid of hard work—I’m used to it. It’s just…things made more sense before. When I was performing as a skater, even if the gigs were patchy. Cruise ships, shows, and accounting for my parents was a bizarre but functional combo.

Now? It’s all gone and I’m truly starting over, since I only launched my business as a coach several months ago.

When the game finally ends, I store the mascot costume in the equipment room, change in the ladies’ room, and catch a bus home. I reek of sweat and garlic fries—a special kind of indignity.

I head back to the Garlic Palace, my new name for the micro-studio above the hot dog place, missing the soft companionship of a kitten and wishing, just once, that things would fall into place a little easier.

The summer isn’t without bright spots. I see Tyler a few times—not intentionally, but not entirely by accident. Luna is one of the few summer regulars, and Tyler still brings her to weekly skating lessons.

Tyler and I do as we promised. We act like nothing happened that night of my almost wedding. Like I didn’t spill every dirty fantasy I ever had about him. He never brings it up, and I pretend I don’t wake up sometimes, hot and bothered and alive just from the memory of his kiss on my forehead and the things I begged him to do to me.

Sometimes his nanny, Agatha, brings Luna to her lessons.Agatha is this sweet little old lady who I bet Rhonda would adore. She’s lovely and seems homesick too—she chats about her family in Los Angeles and how much she’s missed them since she moved here last summer. But mostly Tyler brings Luna himself. My pulse always seems to kick up the second I see him. I do my best to ignore it, and we exchange polite smiles.

We talk about hockey, his summer training program, or old figure-skating videos we send each other for Luna to watch, while she ties her skates or rushes off to play arcade games. During most lessons, Tyler sits casually in the bleachers, watching us. I’m keenly aware of his presence even as I focus on teaching. When the lessons end, sometimes we talk about neutral things, like how Luna’s improving or the weather. It’s maddening and strangely comforting all at once.

I’d like to think I’m over the Night of a 1000 Confessions. But then he’ll flash me a crooked grin, and for one stupid second, I’ll forget how to breathe.

But any comfort I’m feeling vanishes when I make the mistake of going to my parents’ house to pick up boxes of old skating costumes. I take a deep, steadying breath as I get out of the car and walk the long circular driveway, then up the steps framed by columns to their enormous front door. They might as well have a butler in full livery ready to answer it.

Their stately home gleams white, and their lawns are immaculately trimmed, with hedges that could win competitions and roses that my mother grows—which absolutelydowin competitions.

I’m a little surprised they would leave something as unsightly as boxes of my clothes on their front porch, but then again, they probably don’t want to have anything to do with me. My dad, of course, has neatly stacked them there, as though to ensure I don’t step inside.

He opens the door just as I’m hauling the last box to mycar. He’s crisp and cool in tailored slacks and a perfect Oxford shirt, like he’s incapable of sweating despite another hot summer day.

“So you’re still clinging to those costumes?” he asks, the question sharp enough to slice through bone.

I steady myself. I’m an adult. I shouldn’t be affected by his criticisms. “I made most of them myself,” I remind him. I taught myself how to sew my own costumes, tired of hearing, over and over again, how expensive skating was. As if my parents didn’t have all the resources in the world to support me if they wanted. As if it wasmyfault that it was an expensive sport.

“I need them for my business,” I reply, keeping my voice steady.

“Business. Right. I suppose they’ll come in handy now since skating didn’t work out for you.”

“I made it to the Olympic trials,” I say, my throat tightening. I hate the hurt and anger welling up inside me.

---