Page 8 of Racking Up Penalties
“Focus, Tessa,” I whisper under my breath, trying to will myself back to reality.
A surge of pride wells up inside me as I hoist the freshly sewn garment into the air. I can’t help but smile, a slow, spreading warmth that mirrors the contentment blooming in my chest.
“Look at you,” I murmur to the creation now hanging before me, “ready to take on the world.”
With gentle hands, I set the piece down on the worktable. I step away, ready for the next phase of this journey; it’s time to introduce my labor of love to the digital universe.
My fingers find their rhythm, tapping out a staccato beat across the keyboard as I navigate to the inventory page of my website.
Images of the piece flash through my mind, a parade of potential buyers modeling it, each bringing their unique flair to the design. I imagine them clicking through the gallery, their expressions shifting from curiosity to admiration. The thought sends a thrill through me, an electric pulse that propels my actions.
This was the final size I needed before I had enough inventory to list it. I already modeled it in my size so I have a picture ready for the listing.
“Let’s see how you do out there,” I say to the screen.
As I update the inventory, I’m meticulous, ensuring everything is just right. This isn’t just about selling clothes; it’s about sharing a piece of who I am. I’m building my future in fashion with each listing.
I have a decent-sized following that’s been growing for years as I build my company.
“Here goes nothing,” I whisper, hovering over the ‘Save’ button. With a decisive click, I release my creation into the wild, and for an instant, I’m exposed, vulnerable—until I remember that this is what I live for.
Of course, the nerves return immediately. I am a confident woman and I do not let men make me nervous. Something about Tristan always gets to me but I push it into a box in my mind and forget about all the stupid feelings I have for him.
It is never going to happen.
I close my eyes and reset when a knock at the door jerks me back to reality.
Emma comes out of her room and opens the door with a smile.
“Hey, Tessa,” Tristan’s voice reaches me on the couch as he comes inside.
“Hey, Tristan,” I say, back to my normal confident self even if the blue of his eyes is brighter than I remember.
Chapter 5
The phone weighs a ton in my hand, and the clamor of my thudding heart fills my ears as Dad’s voice booms from the other end. “Ethan, you know this is where you need to be. Eastwood has one of the top hockey programs around. Coach Benson personally recruited you. End. Of. Story.”
I pace back and forth in the parking lot of this school’s hockey rink, the frustration gnawing at my insides like a caged beast. “But it’s not where I want to be,” I bite out, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. “I don’t need to behereto go pro.”
“Eastwood is your best shot. Don’t throw away your future because you’re too stubborn to see that,” Dad retorts sharply, his disappointment a tangible force even through the digital divide.
My grip tightens on the phone, my knuckles blanching. The room feels stuffy, walls closing in. “It’s my career, my choice. Can’t you just trust me to know what’s best for myself?” The plea hangs heavy between us, veiling the unspoken truth: we both know he doesn’t.
There’s a sigh – weary and exasperated. “I’ve given you every opportunity, Ethan. You think talent alone gets you to the top? It’s about making smart decisions. Eastwood is a smart decision.”
“You know why this is a bad decision!” I lose my patience.
“I don’t want to hear about that,” he snaps back.
My dad hangs up and I get the message. I’m stuck here.
Staring at the silent phone, I feel a surge of rebellious energy coursing through me. Yes, I’m here at Eastwood; yes, Dad pushed me towards this. But it’s my hands that will hold the stick, my feet that will skate across the ice, my heart that will pump with the hunger for victory.
I’ll prove myself, not just to the team, not just to Eastwood, but to him. And when I go pro, it won’t be because of some university’s reputation or because Dad said so. It’ll be because I’m Ethan Matthews, I put in the work and I have the skill.
I shove the phone in my pocket, the silence after the call still ringing in my ears. With a deep breath, I push open the heavy door to Eastwood’s hockey rink, the chill hitting me like a slapshot to the chest. I’m here, finally, the scent of cold, sharp ice filling my nostrils.
I stride into the locker room like I own the place, every step oozing confidence.
