Page 1 of The Slapshot and the Single Mom
CHAPTER ONE
Maggie
“Maggie!”bellows my asshole boss from down the hall. “Where’s that dick? He’s supposed to be here by now! You haveonejob …”
“I have a helluva lot more thanonejob,” I mutter to myself, charging down the hall, phone in hand and a pack of Red Vines tucked under my arm. Some people call them Twizzlers, but Red Vines are clearly the superior candy. Twizzlers’ll do in a pinch, I guess, but if I didn’t like the convenience of the smaller packages for tossing in my bag, I’d buy Red Vines in bulk.
“That dick is right here,” answers a smooth voice from behind me, and I whirl around, a half-eaten Red Vine dangling limply from my hand. I tend to stress-eat candy, and this job is nearly as stressful as my divorce.Very nearly. After working in sports media for years, you’d think I’d be accustomed to being around attractive athletes. I’m not sure if it’s just the fact that I’m exhausted from my son waking me up at two in the morning with another nightmare or the fact that I’m exhausted fromworking myself to death for the biggest douchecanoe in sports media, but my jaw hangs open at the sight of Jack Bouchard, one of the Seattle Emeralds’ most notorious D-men.
Snapping my jaw shut, I motion for him to follow me. “He’s right here, Brock,” I shout so Brock doesn’t keep going, as much for my benefit as Jack’s. From the way he responded and the smile he gave me, he doesn’t care about Brock calling him names. Hell, based on his womanizing reputation, Jack Bouchard and Brock Savage will get along famously.
“It might be a good idea not to refer to your guests as male genitalia when you know they’re due to arrive,” I chirp sweetly at Brock as Jack gets settled in the guest chair.
Brock laughs obnoxiously from his spot behind his desk that’s covered in sports memorabilia, plus a digital keyboard that he uses to make stupid sound effects throughout his show. When I turn to leave, Brock stops me and waves me back over. “Grab me a water, sweetheart. And get one for our guest as well.”
Grinding my molars, I force my lips to curve into something that might pass for a smile and give him a curt nod. “Course.”
The mini fridge where he keeps bottles of water is less than five feet from his desk, but this is a power move to put me in my place after correcting him in front of a guest. We both know this isn’t my job. This is his assistant’s job. But he fired her last month after sleeping with her—which he’s been bragging about to anyone who’ll listen ever since.
I’m the social media manager, which means I’m supposed to be planning our content calendar for the next month, scheduling the videos I edited yesterday, and keeping on top of all the sportsnews so Brock doesn’t miss anything important that he should include in a show.
But since he fired Kaedie, he’s decided that I’ll be filling in for her. Which means I’ve been the one coordinating with the PR team at the Seattle Emeralds to get one of the players here for an interview. They’re less willing to deal with us since Brock’s show is really an indie online-only production. He’s on YouTube plus all the major podcast stations. He started up a few years ago, just him and his brother. He and his brother have since parted ways—no real mystery as to why, if you ask me, though “creative differences” is the term Brock uses—but people find his shock-jock style take on sports appealing for some reason because he has millions of subscribers and makes enough from ads, merch sales, and sponsored content to live off of, rent this studio space, and pay staff. Like me.
And an assistant.
Heneedsto hire a new assistant. Like yesterday. And it needs to be someone he won’t sleep with. A man, maybe—though with Brock’s taste, I’d hate to think who he’d hire for a male assistant. Kaedie might not have been the brightest bulb in the box, but she was at least nice. If he hired another asshole like him … uggghhh.
I’d have to quit. Or at least I’d want to quit even more than I do now. I can’t afford to, though. And with the way my ex and I split up, I can’t get a job at a reputable news station around here. He successfully burned all those bridges for me.
I got all my experience doing this forhisshow. He started off the same way as Brock—a YouTube podcast, though less douchey—and got picked up by the big sports network. He always creditedmy work running the show’s social media and my organization skills for helping him achieve the level of success he managed.
Until we got divorced, anyway. At that point, the show was all his idea, plus he didn’t own the rights to it anymore. The judge ruled that my contribution to the show’s success was already fairly compensated by benefiting from the money it made before it got picked up and also the salary I was paid by the network for the last two years of our marriage after it got picked up. Of course, that disregarded the fact that once Kyle decided we needed to split up, I couldn’t work for his show anymore. It would be too uncomfortable to continue working together, he said, and while I never disagreed, I figured I’d be able to transition to a different position at another show in the network. But he tainted that well so badly, spreading lies about how difficult and unreasonable I was being and what a terrible mother I am, that none of the other talent wanted to work with me. Well, that’s not entirely accurate. I did get an offer to work with a show out in the Connecticut office that’s headed by a woman, but I had to turn it down. There was sort of an offhand offer from another connection who works in the California office, but again. I can’t just up and move like that.
I have a ten-year-old son. His school, his friends—the only home he’s ever known—are all here. Plus, my parents are here. My friends are here. Our entire support system ishere. And Kyle would’ve fought me hard for custody if I’d tried to take Liam anywhere else.
As it was, he made a whole lot of noise about fighting for full custody, but when push came to shove, agreed to fifty-fifty. While the divorce was still in process, he pretended to be the best dad, showing up for everything, showering Liam with gifts, taking him on a shopping spree to redecorate his room—becauseof course Kyle got to keep the house while I had to move into an apartment, living off savings and the severance I got from the network while I scrambled for another job. Sure, Kyle officially paid child support since even before I had to find a new job, he made more than me. But with our on-paper even custody split, it’s not much.
And now? Now I’m lucky if he shows up at all. When he does take “his” parenting time, he usually tries it on what’s supposed to be my week, but since he hasn’t come around in about a month at that point, I always let him have it. It’s easier to cave than upset my son even more. And if I say no, there’s no telling how long it’ll be before he’s not too busy to see his own son. And of course, it’ll be all my fault. Because everything’s always my fault according to Kyle.
Lucky me, now I get to deal with the same shit from my boss. The difference being, he and I both know he’d have a hard time replacing me. I have the experience he needs to take his show from an internet-only podcast and YouTube channel to a nationally syndicated sports talk show, which is what he wants more than anything.
Well, maybe. I think fucking just about anyone between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five might be a higher priority.
Or at least bragging about it. With a guy like that, his stories are eye-rollingly exaggerated to the point I wonder if there’s any amount of truth to most of them. I know the story about Kaedie is true, or at least the fact he slept with her is, because when she came to collect her things, she tearfully confessed as much to me.
After I pass him a bottle of water and take one to the guest, I give them both an expression that could arguably pass for a smile and go back to my little closet of an office to do my actual job.
“Maggie!” Brock calls after me, but I pretend I don’t hear him. Thankfully, he doesn’t follow me or yell more or do anything else.
Holding my breath, I sit at my desk and wait a few seconds to see if he texts me whatever he was going to say, but when nothing happens, I get to work.
I manage to plow through a lot in the time it takes Brock to interview Jack Bouchard, though it doesn’t feel like a lot of time has passed before Brock knocks on my door and steps inside, arms crossed over his chest.
Scooting away from my desk, I rub my gritty eyes and reach for my water bottle, taking a sip as I wait for Brock to say whatever he came in here to say.
He scratches the edge of his sad, fuzzy mustache with one finger, giving me what I’m sure he thinks is a glare, but it’s hard to take this overgrown frat boy very seriously. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at him. He sighs heavily, dropping his arms to his sides. “You know, Maggie, we need to have a talk about your job performance.”
Raising my eyebrows, I nod and swallow my mouthful of water. “Great. Yes. I’d love to go over the social media metrics with you. Hang on, let me pull them up.” As I reach for my mouse and click through the tabs to show the metrics on each platform, I press my lips together to suppress my grin as he sighs heavily again.
