Page 20 of Her Goal
Three guys walk in wearing Knights-branded gear, but they’re fans, not players. Emerson tells them to seat themselves and she’ll be right over.
Heidi says, “You’ll make some extra money that you could put toward the Happy Hockey Days fund.”
“I’m pretty rusty. I haven’t flexed my figure skating muscles in years.”
“What about three months ago when you subbed for me during the Ice Maiden’s intermission show?”
“No one was looking at me in that short skirt.”
“What are you talking about? Everyone was ogling your long legs.”
I tuck them under the chair.
“Leah, not only that, I happen to know for a fact that you skate at least once a week.”
I hedge. “But not serious skating. Just noodling around.”
“Landing axle jumps. Don’t deny it.” She arches an eyebrow.
“But I don’t teach.”
Emerson brings Heidi a soda.
I start to get to my feet.
My coworker pushes down on my shoulder. “I got this.”
“You have nine tables.”
The corner of her lip lifts. “I had a work dream last night, but it was like a video game and I got points for all my different server tasks. At the end, I won a trip to the Bermuda Triangle.”
“Who’d want to go there?” Heidi asks, having recently recommended a documentary on all the missing planes and calamities associated with the area.
I say, “But this is real life.”
“Let me gamify it if I want to. Plus, it’s kind of fun.” Emerson bounces a little from foot to foot like she’s gearing up for a boxing match.
“Our idea of fun differs. More like drudgery,” I mutter.
Heidi taps my hand. “Which is exactly why you should say yes. The Fish Bowl isn’t your forever job.”
Only, I’ve been here for the last eight years. Ten? I’ve lost track. All this time, I’ve just been waiting. Waiting tables. Waiting to figure out my future, my life, and my dreams.
Just waiting.
Exhaling with puffed cheeks, I nod along to my thoughts.
“You’ll do it?” Heidi asks.
I squish up my face.
“Technically, you already said yes, and I quote, ‘Anything.’ Anyway, I don’t know Coach Badaszek that well, but I think he just wants Robo to loosen up, to move more fluidly. You can talk to him yourself.”
“Badaszek? No way. He terrifies me.”
“But you’re Leah Smith. Nothing scares you.”
Then something else she said slaps me in the face, a walloping from the ongoing din in my mind that includes making sure to bring table twelve separate checks, restocking the soup crackers, and double-checking my credit card statement for a refund from that weighted, heated blanket gizmo I bought. It smelled like burning hair when I plugged it in.
