Page 3 of Checking Mr. Wrong
“Well, it’s not. It’s mine.” I glare at him, my hands on my hips, daring him to argue. It’s a little lie, but only a small one.
“Right. My bad.” He steps back and gestures to the trolley, as though the whole ordeal is no big deal.
But I’m not done. “Do you make a habit of wandering off with other people’s stuff, or is today just special?”
He chuckles—the nerve—and shrugs. “Guess I’m off to a bad start this morning.”
“You don’t say.”
Before I can deliver another biting remark, he raises a hand in a casual wave and walks away, disappearing into the crowd like this is some normal occurrence.
I stand there, gripping the trolley handle like it’s the last thread of my sanity. “Welcome home, Mabel,” I mutter to myself. “This is going to begreat.And yes, I will certainly want to leave.”
I wheel the trolley through the terminal, weaving in and out of heaving crowds, my eyes scanning the sea of people holding signs. Some signs are professional, neatly printed, while others are handwritten scrawls in shaky black marker. My name has to be here somewhere.McCluskey, plain and simple.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fish it out, barely managing to answer before the call drops. “Hello?”
“Mabel! Finally.” My editor, and the man I answer to at the magazine I work for,Athletic Edge,is in a good mood. I’ve worked as a freelance reporter for them off and on for years, but more on since I lost the job on TV, of course. A girl has to pay her bills. Frank’s voice barrels through the line, louder than the overhead announcements. “How was the flight?”
“I made it,” I mutter, sidestepping a cluster of people arguing over the proper way to fold a stroller. “What’s up, Frank?”
“What’s up?” he echoes, like the idea of casual conversation offends him. “What’s up is that we’ve got deadlines, and I need to make sure you’re hitting the key players for this piece. Got a second to review the list?”
I dodge a suitcase rolling dangerously close to my ankle. “Sure, why not? Let’s hear it.”
“First off, the mayor. You’ve tried him, right?”
“So many times. No dice. He’s more elusive than Bigfoot. I’ve left three voicemails, emailed his office, and even tried a LinkedIn message. Nothing.”
Frank grumbles something about small-town politics and clears his throat. “Okay, well, keep trying.”
“In the fun way small towns work, he also lives across the street from my mom, so if I have to knock on his door this week, I will.” Yep, #smalltownlife is real.
“That’s my girl,” Frank shouts as he moves on. “Next: the head coach. Make sure you sit down with him. We need his perspective on building a team from scratch.”
“I already had a pre-interview with him earlier this week,” I say, mentally noting I need to call his assistant when I get to my mom’s. “He’s also answered some questions over email already, so we’re good there.”
“Good. Now, the players. Jamie Hayes, the captain—don’t miss him. He’s the heart of this team, and the readers will eat that up. Then there’s Clément Rivière, our fancy Frenchman, we for sure want a quote from him. Oh, and Cade Lennox from Chicago…definitely get some face time with our resident party boy.”
“Got it,” I say, taking mental notes as I weave past a family having a meltdown near baggage claim. “Do you have anyone else in mind for this?”
Frank pauses, and I can practically hear him shuffling through papers. “Yeah. There’s someone coming in from an AHL team in Virginia, The River City Renegades. He’s Canadian and is going to be a star, mark my words…I’m just blanking on his name.”
Finally, I laugh. “That’s the Frank I know and love. ‘Baby, you are a star! I just can’t remember your name.’”
“Oh stop it, McCluskey,” Frank chides me. We’ve workedtogether for so long, bickering is our love language. “You’d forget too if you were my age and reading names off like doing roll calls for the army.”
“The day you forget my name, I’ll be worried, though.”
“McCluskey, I’m serious. This kid has heat. I’ll dig up his details and shoot you a bio and a headshot.”
“Send it over, and I’ll work him in,” I say as I mentally add him to the ever-growing list.
“And this is exactly why I wanted you to be our person on the ground for the Ice Breakers inaugural game,” Frank says, sounding pleased. “I want this piece to shine, McCluskey. You’re the best we’ve got for this.”
“I know,” I say dryly. “I’m also the only one who is from Maple Falls, so why not send me home for torture, right?”
“As a man who clawed his way out of his own small town and lived to tell the tale, I get it. However, at the end of the day, it’s a free flight to see your family. Appreciate it.”
