From Fling to Ring: A Hockey Romance (The San Francisco Aftershocks)

Chapter 2

LUCY

I am feeling good.Yes I am.

I don’t know about all the other women out there, but a new haircut makes me feel like I’ve won the lottery of life. Like nothing can stop me, any and all opportunities are mine for the taking, and that I’m going to be a huge success someday, doing something.

Not sure what, but I can tackle that on my next haircut.

I touch the fresh ends of my newly-dyed ‘choppy bob’ as my hair dresser called it, rejoicing in the unspoiled tips of my hair that will, if I know myself, end up rough and ragged and split before I pony up the bucks for my next hair appointment.

Looking good ain’t cheap.

But today, I’m going to kick some serious ass.

I bust through the doors of San Francisco Freekly, the city’s free weekly paper that’s considered the insider’s bible to all city happenings, and clomp across the old wooden floor to my desk. I nod at the writer who sits across from me, Sarge, and as I settle in, I’m not even bothered by the blob of pigeon poop resting on my desk next to my wireless mouse. We’re in an old San Francisco building, allegedly a former salami factory, and birds occasionally make their way in through a hole on the roof to help themselves to a warm, dry night at our expense.

Nope, not gonna bother me. Not today, Satan.

I flip open my laptop and an instant message greeting flashes, catching my attention.

Lucy, come see me in my office, won’t you?>>

Those are words that strike fear in the hearts of most anyone with a job and a boss they have to answer to. I know this because every friend of mine who does, dreads the boss IM ‘inviting them’ to come to their office.

You know it’s not an invitation. It never is. You will show up, and right away. Or else.

But my case is different. I love going to my boss’s office.

Because I love my boss.

She’s been good to me since the day I started at the Freekly. Actually, she’s good to everyone on our motley little team, but I like to think I have a special bond with her. She’s encouraging, provides constructive criticism without making you feel like shit, and doesn’t let anything rile her up, even when we have misspellings on the front page—we’re a free weekly paper after all, so there are times the proofreader is out driving the delivery truck.

Michaela’s also become a sort of mentor to me, thanks to our mutually shared interests and talents.

Her words, not mine.

“Michaela, how’s your day going?” I ask, bouncing into her office and making myself at home in the wooden garage-sale chair across from her desk.

Like I said, we’re a free weekly.

I sit ramrod straight, even though the seat on the ancient swivel chair I planted my ass on tilts at an uncomfortable degree. A notebook and pen are balanced on my knee, ready to record all the knowledge she’s surely about to throw at me.

“Your hair!” she says with an approving smile.

Once again, my spirits soar. It’s one thing to feel good about your haircut, but to have the woman you harbor a not-so-secret girl crush on also notice and approve—well, it doesn’t get much better than that.

I cup the edges of my new ‘do. “Thanks, Michaela. I’m really liking it,” I say with all the modesty I can muster.

Maybe next time I won’t let so much time slip by between hair appointments, expense be damned. This feeling is practically worth my yearly salary.

“I can see why you’re happy with it, Lucy. Now, let’s get down to business. This is going to be a busy week for you.”

I shimmy in my chair, waiting for my next assignment, knowing my great relationship with her could guarantee I get the pick of the best city happenings to cover for our faithful readers.

The pages of SF Freekly won’t be up for a Pulitzer Prize anytime soon—actually, ever—but we provide an important service to the city of San Francisco. I take that responsibility very seriously.

Another important thing I have in common with the boss.

I am hoping against hope that the days of shitty assignments are behind me, now that I have some tenure here. Not that I deserve better than Sarge, who’s been here even longer than Michaela, who is rumored to have, back in the day, dropped acid with the hippy founders of the Freekly. Regardless, I am feeling entitled to a nice little fluff piece on maybe the Union Square Dispensary’s newest edibles—rumor has it they are carrying delicious shortbread cookies now, infused with cannabis—or something like that. I really never indulge, but these are the talk of the city, at least among subversive crowds like the Freekly’s.

Although anything would be better than the assignment I got last May, where I was to not only cover the zany annual Bay to Breakers footrace across the city, but where I had to zero in on the old men who walk the race naked every year.

Nudity is a thing in San Francisco. You never know when you’ll see someone walking down the street like they forgot to get dressed after their morning shower aside from putting shoes and socks on. The city’s cracking down on that, though, excuse the pun. If you go out without your pants on, you are now required to sit on a napkin or some such to keep your bare ass off anything that might be shared by the general public.

Not even the nudists have a problem with that regulation.

But the old naked men taking part in Bay to Breakers have always attracted an extra bit of attention for several reasons, and Michaela decided I would be the person, at least on behalf of SF Freekly, to get to the, ahem, bottom of that.

The men I interviewed were very nice and polite and explained this was part of their self-expression, something encouraged in San Francisco”s culture of funky eccentricity. I get that, doing your own thing, but I don’t plan to join these guys anytime soon, preferring to keep my private bits covered. Even though a couple of them invited me to.

In the end, I managed not to look at any wrinkly ball sacs, so no one was harmed in the making of my article.

But, please God, don’t make me do that again.

“What do you have for me, Michaela?” I say, literally on the edge of my seat for balance.

She flips her long, straight hair behind her shoulders, and, folding her hands on the desk between us, smiles benevolently at me. “I think you’re going to like this one, Lucy.”

Oh my God. If she doesn’t hurry up and tell me, I’m going to pee my pants.

“How about a story on the worst public restrooms in the city? You know, we’ll do one of those listicle things. People can download it from our app and carry it with them at all times in order to avoid the most notorious ones.”

Um. What? I’m sure I didn’t hear her right. Restrooms? Public restrooms? The worst public restrooms?

No, no, no, no. Please, no.

I’m friendly with Michaela, it’s true. But she doesn’t know everything about me, and the important piece of information she’s lacking at the moment is that I don’t even use public bathrooms unless it’s a dire emergency.

I can’t. I won’t. They creep me out. Even the nice ones in Neiman Marcus.

“Um, Michaela,” I say, my voice croaking. I cough and try to clear my throat a couple times to avoid choking, that’s how violently my body is reacting. “Did you say public restrooms?” I squeak. I can’t help it.

She either doesn’t notice or is ignoring my distress.

And I thought this woman liked me. Cared about me. Maybe even looked at me as her favorite.

That’s what pride will do for you. Leave you expecting special treatment when there is none coming your way.

She nods with enthusiasm. “Uh-huh!”

I am such a fool.

She continues explaining how this will be such a cool piece for the paper, and won’t it also be wonderful to add to my portfolio. I don’t hear much of what else she has to say, even though I nod politely, because the words public and restroom are echoing in my ears and bouncing around the inside of my skull like those balls they have in the lottery machines.

I thank her and return to my desk, the boner I had for my fresh, new hairstyle now completely limp.

Sarge knows something’s wrong the minute I return to my desk.

“Daley,” he says.

He often speaks in one and two-word sentences. Rumor has it that’s from all the drugs he’s used, but I’m not sure I believe that.

I do know one thing, though. He only calls you by your last name if he likes you.

“Hey Sarge.”

“So?” he asks.

I slump in my chair and, the birdshit on my desk, which was not bothering me a few minutes ago, is really grossing me out now. “I just got a new assignment from Michaela.”

“What?”

I take a deep breath. It hurts to even say it. “I have to write up the most disgusting bathrooms in the city.”

He leans back in his squeaky chair and grins. “Awesome.”