Page 54 of Say It Isn't Snow
Good things always happen for me when I bake this, so I got up early this morning to make it for you. Ignore what it says, I always write the same thing because it’s this specific version that has the magic effect. I’m superstitious like that, but I hear you hockey players understand superstitions.
She sends a photo of a small heart-shaped cake with elaborate frosting. The glazed, neat script on it readsyou’ve got this, you magnificent bitch.I grin like an idiot, thrilled beyond belief.
“Oh, shit, no way.”
A kid walking by with a family decked out in I-heart-New-York tourist memorabilia stops in his tracks. He tugs on the sleeve of the older teen next to him as I’m typing out my thanks to my girl.
“What?” the teen grumbles.
“Look. That’s Caleb Adler,” the kid hisses.
“Is not.” The teen squints at me. “Shit, it is!”
I plaster on the professional persona I slip into when I engage with fans, bracing for this to go south if they’ve read the articles online from the last couple of weeks. To my relief, they’re both genuine when they approach me and ask for my autograph in awestruck stammers.
“No problem.” I accept the pen they offer and scrawl my signature across their t-shirts. “You guys big hockey fans?”
“Hell yeah,” the older one says. “You’re our favorite player.”
Something warm and gratifying ping-pongs around my chest. I wasn’t sure I’d hear any fan say that about me again.
“I liked you first,” his younger brother insists. “When you played for Chicago. But I followed you after you were traded. You’re so cool! None of my friends are going to believe I met you.”
A huff of laughter escapes me. “Yeah? Thank you.”
Their parents snap photos of us together. I wave goodbye and head inside feeling lighter and more energized.
Trevon meets me at the elevator bank once I’m through security. His braided locs are pulled back in a loose tie, and the silver rings on his fingers catch the light as he smooths them down the front of his crisp tailored suit. We clasp hands and he pulls me in to pat my back.
“That mountain air must be a hell of a thing. You look much less like death warmed over,” he says.
I smirk. “Something like that. I’m feeling good.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
We take the elevators to his agency’s floor. One of his assistants catches us on our way by the front desk.
“Mr. Hill, the guests you were waiting on for your next meeting have arrived. They’re in the conference room.”
He nods in thanks. I stop Trevon in the hall before we enter.
“Anything else you want to fill me in on about who we’re meeting with? All you’ve told me is it’s a retired player from your time in the league involved and that they’re setting up here.”
“I’ve got your back. I wouldn’t be so optimistic about this if I didn’t think it was the right call for you,” he says. “You trust me?”
My shoulders relax. “Of course. You’ve never steered me wrong.”
“Then let me work, man. Come on.” With one of his wide winning smiles, he pushes the door open.
“Hilly,” a tall bear of a man with a stubbled jaw looking out the window greets energetically.
“Jonesy,” Trevon responds like he’s back in the locker room before a game.
My spine straightens. Micah Jones is one of the top hockey players to grace the ice in the last fifteen years. He’s around Trevon’s age with eleven years on me. I followed his record religiously once I first saw him play. Elijah’s going to be so jealous I met him before he did.
I vaguely recognize the other two people in the room, too. Sonia Holloway commands a powerful presence in her sharp tweed business suit. She’s organized a few of the league’s charity events I’ve attended. The other man is her brother, Reid. He entered the NHL at eighteen, but an injury forced him to retire early in his third season.
“Look at his face.” Trevon chuckles, slapping me on the back. “Caleb, I’m sure I don’t have to introduce Micah to you. Jonesy, this is Caleb Adler.”
