Page 14 of Married As Puck
That kills his grin. He leans forward, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Cam. Listen. Your overzealous PR guy doesn’t define you. The asshole in the hospital does not define you either. Hockey doesn’t define you. And some squatter or flat mate, sure as hell doesn’t define you. You’re still you. You just gotta figure out who you are off the ice, man.”
I look away, jaw tight, throat raw.
Keith sighs, softer now. “Or you could start with step one. Ask her name and try to remember it.”
7
The blinking cursor is mocking me again. I swear it’s pulsing faster every time I stare at it, like it’s daring me to screw up another sentence. I’m sitting cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced on my knees, typing, backspacing, typing again. My draft looks like a battlefield, wounded words limping across the screen, half-dead. Deadline tomorrow. Miranda probably has hers printed, framed, and blessed by the Pope already.
I shift on the couch, cross-legged still, laptop now digging into my thighs. My back protests with a sharp ache, and I groan like I’m eighty years old. Maybe ninety. Definitely bedridden.Cause of death: terrible posture and bad life choices.
I hunch forward anyway because deadlines don’t care if you’re dying. My spine cracks in protest, and I wince, stretching my neck until it pops. Of course, that only makes it worse.
God, I’m exhausted. I can’t remember the last time I had a proper night’s sleep. My brain is fried, my eyes burn, and every time I close them, I dream about spreadsheets chasing me downdark hallways. Miranda probably sleeps like a baby, with silk sheets and angels singing her lullabies. Meanwhile, I’m out here losing vertebrae for the privilege of being underappreciated.
I groan and try as much as I can to concentrate without making a single mistake, but alas, that’s just wishful thinking.
“Ugh.” I tug at the hem of my oversized hoodie, chew my lip, then delete another line. The hoodie is three sizes too big, practically a blanket with sleeves, but it doesn’t protect me from the growing pit in my stomach.
My head is filled with thoughts of everything that will go wrong if I do not turn my work in before the deadline. My boss is probably going to have a celebration and will grant her sidekick, Miranda, the liberty to hand me my sack letter. I shudder at the thought and try to focus on what’s in front of me.
Right on cue, my phone buzzes on the coffee table. I lunge for it like it’s a lifeline. Julia. Saved.
I swipe to answer. “Please, distract me before I throw my laptop out the window.”
Julia’s voice filters through the distance, a little fuzzy from the time difference but bright as ever. “How’s Seattle’s most beautiful tenant?”
I snort. “Currently rooming with a caveman. A hockey caveman, no less. He grunts, he glares, and I swear, move a chair wrong and he’s going to grab his hockey stick and hit me with it. But I know he can’t do that because it’d be illegal, and he has no idea how strong I really am.”
Julia laughs, that carefree laugh that always makes me feel lighter. “You’re exaggerating.”
“No?” I sit up straighter, gesturing even though she can’t see me. “Picture this: shirtless this morning—yes, shirtless, like the world was begging for a calendar shoot—glaring at me like I’d set his car on fire. Refused my breakfast offer like I’d tried to poison him. And don’t get me started on the hushed phone calls. Always pacing, talking low, like he’s planning a hit job. Murder vibes. One hundred percent. Hockey sticks everywhere in this freaking place. God, sometimes I wonder if I’m living with a ticking time bomb, who knows? My body would be found on the curb and when the police investigates, do you know what they’d find?”
“Cupcakes and vanilla?” She tries to hold in her laughter.
“Incorrect, they’re going to see that it’s his disgusting macho man attitude that killed me.”
Julia bursts out laughing again. “Oh my God, Brie. You have the imagination of a soap opera writer.”
“It’s not imagination if it’s true.” I flop back against the couch, the cushions sighing under me. “He’s like this permanent rain cloud in human form. Just dark. Stormy. Broody. Meanwhile, I’m here making pancakes and playlists, trying not to be crushed under his thunder. I’m just a girl, I shouldn’t have to deal with all of this. It’s okay though, just six more days of this,” I whine, bringing a hand to my forehead in a dramatic gesture.
She wheezes through her laughter. “You’re ridiculous, Brie. I’m telling you.”
“No, I’m a survivor,” I counter.
My laptop dings, and Mrs. Randolph’s reminder email flashes across the screen. Meeting tomorrow at 10 a.m. Of course.
I groan, dragging my free hand down my face.
“What’s up?”
“My devil spawn of a boss, that’s what’s up. That woman just makes me regret my entire existence.”
“Oh boy.”
“We’re supposed to submit a pitch to her, and I haven’t even gone far yet. Bet she’s already given Miranda the answers. Probably sent her a cheat sheet in calligraphy.”
Julia hums knowingly, which is Julia code for brace yourself, lecture incoming. “That doesn’t mean you won’t outshine her. You always find a way, even when you think you’re drowning.”
