Page 9 of Let It Be Me
“You know I don’t live in this city,” he says like I don’t already know.
“You have a car, right?”
“And a motorcycle. If you ever wanna ride again,” he replies cockily as a smirk teases his lips. His innuendo is not lost on me and the memory of me doing just that hits me full-force.
I won’t lie when I say that Riley is handsome. A fact that was not lost on me that night. But he’s a young athlete, making money he never dreamed of, with his tousled dirtyblond hair, tattoos climbing up his neck that I know covers the majority of his body, and his dark blue eyes that sparkle with mischief when he looks at me. But I won’t fall for it. At least not again. Not even as the cedar wood scent from his cologne fills my office and takes me back to that night.
Because as a woman in a mostly male-dominated field, I’m already at a disadvantage as this career has presented some not-so-friendly men in this field. Some athletes felt they had a say in what I can do because they were men. But with my icy persona when it comes to this job, I’ve fended off their quips, jabs, and come-ons in the most effective way that I could.
By becoming the second highest paid public relations agent in the United States.
Riley is no longer the exception to every other athlete in this country. So it’s now my job to look at me as a sort of sister to him and not a friend. I have to remind myself that because the thoughts that were just running through my head weren’t very sibling-like.
I copy and paste his email from Jeff and pull up another email. The sound of outgoing mail breaks up the silence.
“I just emailed you events to attend for the rest of the year,” I say, ignoring his quip about the motorcycle. “I’ll get in touch with your coach to work in a mandatory skate with kids either here or near home base. Either way I’ll be there.”
I look up and see him looking around my office and I follow his wandering eyes. Since I’m here a lot, I realize I’ve made it my second home. Pictures of my family and friends fill the walls and shelves. Along with my degrees showcased by pictures with my team here and my clients. I have an area rug that is woven with blues and oranges to break up the cold interior that this office originally presented. A candle warmer gives my space a cozy feel to it and Riley getting aglimpse into my life has me wanting to take the pictures down and unplug the candle warmer so he has to earn the right to know me.
Riley’s gaze comes back to me and I have to look away before I look back up at him. “You got it boss lady.”
“My number is also included in that email I sent you. Do not, under any circumstances, send me unsolicited pictures. Got it?”
He leans forward and the Tom Ford scent I know like the back of my hand, invades my senses. “What kind of pictures should I send you then?”
“Goodbye, Riley.” I dismiss him.
“Goodbye, Sarah.” He leaves with an arrogant chuckle.
4
RILEY
Unbelievable. I think to myself as I walk out of Sarah’s office and towards the elevator. My hot hookup six months ago is my new publicist.
And basically my babysitter.
I have a babysitter at twenty-three years old. I mash the elevator button more forcefully than I should and stomp in before pressing the G button. It’s not enough that my last agent and publicist were a box of rocks, but now this one seems like a real ball-buster.
It’s going to take a lot of effort on my part to not bring our time together in the hotel up. I could see it in her eyes as we sat in her office and I won’t deny that I looked for Sarah after that night. My internet stalking gave me nothing as I only had her first name to go off of. At least she gave me her real name. Whereas I used a shortened version of my middle name to protect my identity.
The elevator opens and I hurry out of the building towards my Range Rover. I didn’t lie when I said I have a motorcycle. But since I was needed here at the last minuteand my bike is at my parents place as it needs work done…well my Range Rover was the logical choice. When I get in, I start up and pull my phone out of my pocket. Checking my email, I see the one from Sarah. I scan it and am baffled with the amount of events she wants me to attend. Todd, my fuck face agent, always said he was “working on something” and then asked me what clubs we were going to that night. But almost a year into the league and I still had no endorsements to my name, hadn’t been to a single charity event, and saw maybe five people at our games last year wearing my jersey. So, in hindsight, maybe it’s a good thing I’m getting a whole new team.
I find my playlist of choice before I pull out of the parking lot and make the hour and a half drive back home. Does it suck that my agent is now based out of Cincinnati? Yes. But it doesn’t hurt that the city is beautiful. Maybe if Cincy revives their pro team, I’ll see about a trade. For now, I’m content playing at home in Columbus. In fact, I love playing in my hometown. It works as my parents still live there. Although they’ve made their opinions crystal clear on how I’ve fallen off track. I hate being a disappointment to them. They took me in when my birth parents were taken too early from this world.
Momma and Pops were college best friends with my parents. They were in each other's weddings and got jobs in the same city. And when my parents had me, Momma and Pops became my godparents. But they never could have predicted that they would have to raise me as their own. And so soon. I owe them more than I ever could imagine. So how do I repay them? By fucking up on and off the ice. I think my fuck-ups off the ice are more disappointing to them than anything.
No. I know it’s more disappointing to them. Gettingphotographed at a party with drugs spread out across the table like a feast was finally the wakeup call I needed. Actually, getting benched until I fired my team was the wakeup call I needed. Not being able to play hockey because of the choices those close to me made, put everything into perspective.
I’ve loved hockey since the day I got my first pair of skates. It’s my first love. Originally, it was something Dad and I bonded over. But when my skills far surpassed his basic ones, that’s when my parents decided to sign me up for a league. Oi, I remember those first days of tryouts like they were yesterday. The first day going home I almost told my parents I wasn’t cut out for hockey. I played for fun. So to have to abide by rules…well, that was an adjustment.
But I had a lot of good days once I learned how to accurately play hockey. But some days–some days I wanted to quit. Especially after the night of the accident. I don’t remember much. But I do remember that we were on the way home from one of my games, singing along to a song on the radio when out of nowhere a truck struck us. Like I said, I don’t remember much from that night. Matter of fact, I don’t really remember anything from that night. What I do know is that I woke up to Momma and Pops flanking me, with twin haunted looks on their faces, while I lay in the hospital bed. My leg was broken, I had a concussion, and no one would tell me where my parents were.
At ten years old, I just wanted my mom. Her comforting rose and fresh laundry scent that soothed me anytime I needed a hug. I needed my dad and the accompanying scent of sweet mint from the gum he was always chewing to stop his smoking habit. But what I got at ten wasn’t just a broken leg.
Now at twenty-three, memories of my parents are dulledby my own mind. Regression is what the doctors called it at the hospital and that it would be a possibility that as I got older I’d remember the night of the accident in its entirety. I’m not hopeful for that, because who wants to remember something like that? How can my mind pull out memories about two people who’ve been gone for more than half my life? Momma and Pops do their best to keep their memories alive when I do need it, but I think they’re terrified of rubbing it in my face that they knew them longer than I did. Speaking of, my phone rings with an incoming call and I answer it.
“Hey, Momma,” I greet and put my attention back on the road.
