Page 100 of Arrogant Puck

“I need to speak with Mrs. Martinez about an urgent matter,” she says.

Mrs. Martinez emerges from an inner office within minutes—a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and the weary expression of someone who’s seen every workplace drama imaginable. She gestures for us to sit in the uncomfortable chairs across from her desk.

“I quit,” I blurt out before anyone else can speak.

Mrs. Martinez’s eyebrows raise. “Excuse me?”

Tanya jumps in, her voice crisp and professional. “I just caught Ms. Monroe in a compromising position with one of the hockey players. When I attempted to address the situation, the player became aggressive and threatening. He told me to walk away and pretend I hadn’t seen anything.”

Mrs. Martinez’s attention shifts to me, her expression neutral but not unkind. “Was this encounter consensual?”

Heat flushes my cheeks, but I nod. “Yes.”

“And you want to resign?”

I nod again, the word “yes” sticking in my throat. This was supposed to be my fresh start. My chance to build something real, something that mattered. Instead, I’m back where I started—running from the wreckage of my own poor choices.

“Who was the player involved?” Mrs. Martinez asks, though something in her tone suggests she already knows.

Tanya and I exchange glances. There’s no point in lying now.

“Slater Castellano,” I say quietly.

Mrs. Martinez doesn’t look surprised. If anything, she looks tired. “He has quite a reputation. Well then.” She turns to her computer and starts typing. “I’ll process your resignation, Sage. Tanya, thank you for bringing this to my attention. What a first day indeed.”

The words hit me hard, and I have to stop the tears from falling. Just like that, it’s over. Everything I’ve done to get here. Years ofschool, the luck of job searching, I only moved here because I got this job, hoping that I could finally build something stable—all gone because I couldn’t keep my hands off a man who sees me as nothing more than a conquest.

I walk back through the hallways on unsteady legs, every step feeling like I’m walking through quicksand. The equipment room where it all went wrong is empty. I gather my few personal belongings—a water bottle, some pens, the small plant I’d brought to make my desk feel more like home—and shove them into my bag.

My throat burns with unshed tears, but I refuse to cry here. Not where anyone might see. Not where it might become just another piece of gossip for people to whisper about.

The parking lot is a blur of concrete and cars, the late afternoon sun too bright and cheerful for the way my world is imploding. I fumble with my keys, my hands shaking so badly I can barely get them in the ignition.

As soon as I’m in my car with the doors locked and the windows up, the dam breaks. I cry like I haven’t cried since the night I left San Diego—great, heaving sobs that shake my entire body. For the job I just lost. For the career that feels over before it really began. For the stupid, naive part of me that thought maybe this time would be different.

For the way Slater looked at me when I told him he couldn’t understand. Like I’d physically struck him. Like I’d taken something precious and shattered it beyond repair.

But mostly, I cry because deep down, I know this is my fault. I let him in. I kissed him back. I wanted him just as much as he wanted me, and now I’m paying the price for forgetting that men like Slater Castellano don’t face consequences.

People like me do.

I drive to Slater’s house because where else can I go? The irony isn’t lost on me—running back to the very person who destroyed my life, because I have nowhere else to turn.

The house feels different. It’s less like a sanctuary and more like a prison. Every surface seems to mock me with memories. The kitchen where we made lunch together. The couch where we watched that stupid reality show. The bathtub I fell in.

I lock my bedroom door behind me and sink onto the bed, still wearing my work clothes that now feel like a costume for a role I’m no longer playing. My phone buzzes against the nightstand.

Unknown number. I almost don’t answer, but something makes me swipe to accept.

“Hi, is this Sage Monroe?” The voice is bright, cheerful—everything I’m not feeling right now.

“Yes.”

“This is Madison from Riverside Garden Apartments. You submitted an application for our one-bedroom unit? I’m calling to schedule a viewing. Would tomorrow afternoon work for you?”

Tomorrow.

“Um, yes. Tomorrow works.”

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