Page 9 of Married As Puck
All I manage to say is, “I can do better, I promise,” which sounds pathetic. Such a typical phrase to say.
“Promises don’t pay bills. Results do. Prove you can handle pressure. Starting today.”
She shoves a giant folder into my arms. It’s so heavy I almost drop it. “Finish this by the end of the day. Do it manually, no excuses.”
“Yes, ma’am.” My voice cracks as I feel a sob stuck in my throat.
“And one more thing, Sparks. If this ever happens again, I’ll be forced to send you to the audit department where you’ll be more useful.” She gives me one last deadly glance and struts out like a peacock on heels.
The second the door closes, I collapsed in the chair. “Oh my God, she hates me even more now.”
And maybe she was right before. Maybe I’m not cut out for this. I couldn’t even cut straight lines in kindergarten. And now here I am, twenty-five, already late to the most important meeting, about to drown in work that three people would struggle to finish.
I stare at the folder like it is going to bite me. My stomach growls, but no way am I going for lunch. Not with this shitload of work. Mrs. Randolph will find out from three floors away if I’m eating instead of working. Damn, pancakes.
Okay, Brie, you survived worse. High school gym. That haircut in sophomore year that made you look like a mushroom, living with the Wilsons, you can survive this too.
I open the folder and see spreadsheets. There are notes in handwriting that might as well have been ancient Greek. I sigh wearily and drop flat on my desk.
Hours pass on a blur as I tend to the work. My back aches, my eyes burn and time ticks faster as if daring me to race it to midnight.
During lunchtime, half the cubicles are empty with everyone else laughing over sandwiches and other snacks while I chew on a pen cap like it’s food. By five, my notes are filled, my fingers cramping, my brain beaten into submission.
I’m finally done by 7:00pm. I haul the folder back into Mrs. Randolph’s office. She doesn’t even look at me, just flips through the pages and mutters, “We’ll see if this is acceptable.”
That’s it.
No thank you, or anything.
I shuffle out with my shoulders sagging.
At least I made it through the day alive…
Or without losing my job.
5
I’m pounding the shit out of this bag like it personally suspended me from the league. Sweat burns the cuts on my knuckles, my shoulders scream with each impact, but I keep hitting because standing still means thinking and thinking means remembering how badly I screwed up.
The chain squeals in protest as the heavy bag swings back at me, demanding revenge for the beating I’m giving it. I don’t give it the chance. Right hook, left jab, another right—each strike uglier and more violent than the last. My form is garbage, all rage and no technique, but I don’t care. This isn’t about boxing. This is about survival.
I should be on the ice right now, channeling this energy into something that matters—into hockey, the only thing I’ve ever been good at. Instead, I’m here, beating up gym equipment like some washed-up has-been who never made it past minor league.
The irony tastes like blood in my mouth.
Sweat drips off my chin and seeps into the cuts across my knuckles, making them sting. I swipe at my face with the back of my forearm, but it’s just as soaked, so the gesture is pointless. The whole gym reeks of disinfectant trying to mask the smell of old sweat and desperation. My lungs burn, craving clean air, but I’m not ready to leave this self-imposed prison yet.
Behind me, someone’s working the weight rack, metal plates clanging against each other in a steady rhythm. I don’t turn around. Can’t risk making eye contact with anyone who might recognize me, who might want to talk about what happened in that locker room. The last thing I need is some gym rat asking for my autograph or, worse, telling me what they really think about Seattle’s fallen hockey player.
I throw another punch, then another. The bag barely moves now—I’m too exhausted to put real power behind it. But I keep going because the alternative is going home to that apartment where she’s probably making coffee in my kitchen, humming some cheerful song while I fall apart.
The voices in my head are getting louder now, cutting through my exhaustion like blades.You’re nothing without hockey. You’re exactly like him. You destroy everything you touch.
I grit my teeth until my jaw aches and hit harder, ignoring the jab of pain up my wrist when I miss my target. I should stop now and tend to my hands, but I can’t. The shame, rage and pain still has me in its claws.
My career is dangling by a thread. Everyone sees it, hell, I see it. The worst part? I’m the one sawing through it. My own scissors, my own hand. Every outburst, every fight, every time I can’t keep my damn mouth shut. Jack taunts me, I snap. Reporters poke, I bite. Coach lectures, I storm off the pitch. Most peoplemistake it for pride but it’s just a demon in me that I can’t control.
It’s like my existence is cursed and everything I touch burns. My father was right, I’m not fit to live but if I take my life, there’s no victory there either.
