Page 69 of The Slapshot and the Single Mom
Chuckling, I put my phone away so I can hurry and get showered and changed to head home. I don’t want to call Maggie back from the locker room. My asshole teammates would for sure start clowning in the background, and while that might be funny under different circumstances, when she just lost her job and is faced with so much uncertainty, it wouldn’t be funny now.
She seemed pretty relaxed when we went out for ice cream last night, which was a relief after the roller coaster of emotions leading up to that. I think feeling like she had a way out of the blackmail her boss was trying to pull that didn’t mean she had to break up with me—though based on the fact that he fired her for putting in her two weeks’ notice makes me think he’d’ve fired her for breaking up with me too—made all the difference. Liam and I had fun taking turns shooting baskets until she finished, and she let me hold her hand while we were walking into the icecream shop. Since Liam knows we’re a couple—and seems okay with it—she feels more comfortable with low level PDA.
On my way out to my car, I hit her name and press my phone to my ear. “How does it feel to be free?” I ask when she answers.
She laughs, though it’s that anxious kind of laughter she does sometimes. “Terrified? But also really good.” This time her chuckle sounds more genuine. “Brock’s threat has been hanging over my head for so long now. It’s a relief that he doesn’t have power over me anymore. I mean, I’m sure he won’t give me a good reference, but that’s why I didn’t put him down as one on the resume I sent to Molly. My friend Sadie from my old network will give me a good reference. Even though Kyle did a good job making it so no one there wants to work with me on any other shows, the people that actually worked with me there know the truth.”
“I’m glad of that, at least,” I murmur. “What are you gonna do with all your free time now that you’re not working?”
“Well, like I said, I’ll be applying to anything that looks promising. I know you’re sure Molly will come through, but since the position doesn’t even actually exist, I’m less confident. Not confident enough to bet on it without having some backup, anyway.”
“That makes sense.”
“Otherwise, I guess I can finally clean the house?”
“Boo. Who wants to do that? If your house needs cleaning, I can ask my cleaning service to swing by for you. How often do you want them to come?”
She splutters out a laugh. “Jack. Seriously. I’m not letting you hire a cleaning service for me.”
“Why not? It’s not that expensive.”
“For you, maybe.”
“Sure. I’m the one in charge of my budget. If I want to hire a cleaning service to make my girlfriend’s life easier, what’s so wrong with that? Do you actuallyenjoycleaning toilets?”
“Well … no. Not really.”
“Great. It’s settled, then.”
She hums. “I’m willing to put a pin in this discussion, but I wouldn’t call it settled.”
“Okay, fine. How about I take you out to dinner tomorrow night. I’d stick with Friday, but we have our first preseason game on the road that day.”
“Actually, that works perfectly. Kyle’s supposed to be having dinner with Liam that night.”
“Awesome.” Hopefully the asshole follows through this time.
She laughs lightly. “Don’t worry,” she says, assuaging my unspoken concern. “With mediation and court coming up, he’s flaking a lot less.”
“Less?” I clarify. “That means he’s still flakingsome.”
“Well, it’s Kyle, so yeah. But less is still better than nearly always.”
“I guess,” I grumble. “I’m gonna be pissed if he cancels.”
“Yeah, well, me too.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Maggie
A womanwith a sleek dark bob pokes her head out into the waiting area, the walls painted a tasteful cream with emerald green accents and furnished with pretty but uncomfortable minimalist chairs. I’m perched on one chair, my hands clutched tightly around my good tote. Normally I just use a canvas tote that says, “My sports team is vastly superior to yours,” that my best friend in college got me for my birthday to schlep all my stuff around—when I carry a bag at all. But when I want to look nice and put together, I have a black faux leather one that’s more like a purse but carries as much as my tote.
“You must be Maggie,” the woman says, stepping forward and holding out her hand.
Standing, I unwind my fingers from the strap of my tote and shake her hand, hoping mine isn’t too clammy. She doesn’t wipe her palm on her pants leg when we finish, though, so I’m taking that as a good sign.
“I’m Molly,” she says. “The head of the Emerald’s PR team. Let me show you around.”
