Page 10 of The E.M.M.A. Effect
He opens the door and we turn as I instructed. Luckily no one is going in or out of the bathrooms so we are able to pass through unnoticed and step outside. A hard wind whips us, as if trying to blow my professional ambitions away. But I can’t force him to stay.
“It would be cool if you didn’t tell Brooke about any of this.”Gale slides the sunglasses from the top of his head down over his eyes, shutting me out. “She’ll worry.”
“Remember those confidentiality documents you signed? That protection goes both ways. I’m legally not allowed to gossip behind your back. But that doesn’t matter. Morally, I never would. Your privacy is number one.”
His posture relaxes slightly, but his eyes remain guarded. “I’m sorry, Harriet. It’s just... all that stuff with Dad hits too close to home.”
I pause, choosing my words carefully. “Can we talk more about it? Your reaction was intense.”
Gale’s jaw locks, his expression harder than steel. “That machine crossed a line.”
“I know, and that’s on us. We’ll fix it. But if even mentioning your dad causes this much distress, maybe that’s something worth exploring? Not with E.M.M.A., but with someone qualified.”
He barks out a bitter laugh. “Now you sound like my sister. Always pushing therapy.”
“Come on, that’s not fair,” I protest, hearing frustration creep into my tone despite my effort to control it. “You can’t think your reaction was okay.”
Gale sighs. “I know it wasn’t. But whoever said I was okay to begin with?”
His vulnerability surprises me, but it’s gone in a flash as his face hardens.
“Let’s just forget it,” he continues. “We can meet up again at another holiday dinner and pretend this never happened.”
I stand frozen as he stalks off to his truck. I’m torn, wanting to call after him, to make one last attempt to get him to change his mind. But the haunted look in his eyes tells me it’s useless. Pushing now would only backfire.
The rumble of his truck fades into the distance before I pivotto face the building. My stomach twists, anticipating the mountain of damage control looming ahead. I pull out my phone, wondering how long Gale actually lasted in there. My horoscope still glares up from the lock screen:
Brace for a thunderous new chapter in your life, not a gentle awakening.
I scoff and shake my head. Why do I even bother with horoscopes—it’s just playing cosmic mad-libs.
I stumble as a wind gust slams into me, my hair whipping across my face. Damn Texas weather—always keeping you on your toes. Before I can duck for cover, thunder cracks overhead, vibrating through my chest like I’ve swallowed a bass drum.
Okay, so it’s a bit of a weird coincidence. But I can’t shake the feeling that this storm might be more than just the weather.
“Boss!” Amir emerges from the building, umbrella in hand, and Hana hot on his high-tops. “A severe storm alert popped up. Could be hail.”
“I saw you go out with Gale,” she says apologetically as Amir opens the umbrella, sheltering the three of us. “And we thought you might need this.”
Right on cue, rain hammers down, each drop exploding against the parking lot. The air fills with the sharp, earthy scent of water on pavement.
“Thanks.” My throat’s a minefield, and I don’t dare risk another syllable. One wrong step and I’ll detonate into a mess of tears and trembling consonants.
“I’m assuming it didn’t go well?” Hana pushes, concern lacing her words.
“He, well, he...” I lightly clear my throat. “He expected a different process and decided to bow out.”
“No beta tester,” Hana says blankly.
“No beta tester,” I confirm.
“Fucking hell.” Amir’s groan is pure frustration. “Tony is going to lose his shit.”
Thunder booms again as my phone buzzes with an incoming call. I see my boss’s name flash. “Guess we’ll know in a minute,” I mutter, my voice barely audible over the howling wind.
Chapter Four
The arena hummed with anticipation, a coliseum of steel and ice. Gale’s nostrils flared at the crisp, cold air tinged with sweat, refrigerant, and adrenaline. The thunderous stomping of feet in the two levels vibrated up his skates, through his bones, settling like a war drum in his chest. He tightened his grip on his stick, the familiar grooves of the tape rough against his palms. The whistle blew and just like that his mouth went dry, tongue sticking to the roof as he watched the Regals’ veteran center, Piers Brandon, settle into position for the face-off. From his spot on the wing, Gale’s muscles coiled, ready to explode into motion the moment that puck dropped.
