Page 2 of Matched with Her Athlete Boss

Teenage me would definitely be jealous that I got to meet Trey Hatch now that he’s a professional hockey star. At this point, though, I don’t have the luxury of worrying about men.

I’d like to have enough money to eat in the coming weeks.

“Hey Mac, will you restock the gear that just came in?” my dad asks when I walk into the hockey shop near the entrance to the rink. He’s carrying a large crate of cleaning supplies to wipe up the counter and keep things in top shape here at the rink. Which is interesting because he doesn’t have the same standards at home.

“Dad,” I say, glancing around. “Remember, I go by Kenzie now.”

He waves a hand in the air. “Old habits die hard. I’ll try to remember, but I don’t know why you wanted to change your name, anyway.”

It’s the same old conversation. Once I got to college, I found it the perfect opportunity to reinvent myself. I’d dropped some pounds through the summer before my freshman year thanks to the grueling workout schedule and diet plan my college hockey coach had sent me. I’d gotten the braces off (yes, way too late‌) and contacts were more practical than the thick glasses I sported for nearly a decade at that point.

It was like my ownUgly Ducklingmakeover story.

“You named me Mackenzie, Dad. I’m still using part of that name.”

He scrunches his nose a bit and nods. “I know, but it doesn’t match you as well. Mac-Attack is catchy when you’re on the ice.”

“There are names that rhyme with Kenzie,” I say. When he opens his mouth to challenge me, I say, “But I’m not coming up with any good ones at the moment.”

He laughs as he uses a box cutter to slice through the tape on the top of the boxes. I walk over, grateful for the distraction from the well of self-pity I’d started spiraling into. Restocking is my favorite job. Seeing all the shiny new hockey gear hanging on the walls of the small hockey shop has always been a rush. Nerd status unlocked over here.

Dad wipes down the counter next to me. “What’s new in your life? I thought you were working at the drugstore.”

Shaking my head, I open the bag of pucks, dumping them into the large bin. “Nope. My co-worker, Betty, lost it a few days ago when the manager declined her request for a raise. She knocked down every item in four aisles before the cops came and took her away.”

My dad glances up, and I know his mind is turning this information over. “What does that have to do with you?”

I blow out a breath. Even though I feel justified in quitting, I’ve done something similar to the last ten jobs I’ve had.Find something small and then give my notice.

“I asked if the manager was going to help in the cleanup or bring in some other help to get the store ready for customers. He said no.” I pause, trying not to relive every moment with exact clarity. “I told him I was done.”

A soft smile forms on my dad’s face and he shakes his head. He focuses on adjusting some of the pegs that hold up the equipment, which means he’s trying to decide how to handle the situation.

“You know I love having you here, Ma–Kenz, but you need a plan for your life. I don’t know how you could keep things around the house so clean but struggle with something like holding down a job.”

“I do have a plan,” I say, my defenses rising.

He tilts his head to the side and purses his lips, letting me know he doesn’t believe that for one second.

“Someday I want to work for the Boston Breeze. Even if I’m the one who has to sit behind the goal and press the buzzer to let the ref know the puck went in, I’d be happy.”

Dad laughs at that. “You’ve been saying the same thing for fifteen years, pumpkin. Have you applied to work for their organization?”

I nod, biting back the frustration of another rejection email I’d received this morning. It was a pipe dream to work with the Breeze organization, but I’m not one to give up on things that mean a lot to me. “I’ve just got to keep trying.”

“Okay, what about in the meantime? How are you going to afford rent and the other living expenses? I know it’s not cheap, especially where you live.”

Gulp.

I hesitate, not sure if I’m ready to share my plans. I like to have things perfect before I share. I learned to have a thick skin with my hockey skills, doing my best to listen to coaches and put it into practice, but having something I have a passion for shot down because of how “hard it will be” to get things started isn’t something I’m ready to hear.

Blowing out a deep breath, I say, “I’m starting an organizational business. I’d come in and help people figure out where to put things and get their life in order. Right now, I’ll take any mess that needs to be cleaned up.”

Dad goes silent for several moments, and my stomach is in knots. Usually, I can read him like my favorite cozy mystery books, but he’s got everything on lock down. Finally, he nods, pausing his cleaning. “You’re really good at that. I know we would’ve drowned at the house if you weren’t constantly keeping things reined in while you lived there.”

We laugh, both of us remembering all the fights we’d had growing up. When your father is a hoarder, debates about what to keep and what to chuck are a daily occurrence. Most of the time, I’d have to hide whatever I was throwing out and put it in a dumpster a few blocks away so it wouldn’t magically reappear in the house.

“You always kept things interesting. Like bringing home that bike someone had made of pop cans.”

---