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

Chapter 4

LUCY

Because we haveto be at work early, I make sure to get to the office by eight-fifty, baked goods in hand. Lucky for me, there’s an old-school donut shop on my block, the kind that isn’t outrageously expensive, and which gives you your purchases in one of those pink boxes I love so much.

I am the first one in the conference room, so I set the donuts in the middle of the table, as well as a pile of napkins next to it, and take first pick.

I just love a chocolate old-fashioned.

With the smell of fresh baked goods floating through the office, the conference room fills and before long, the pink box is empty.

That’s a good thing, though. I don’t want to be chowing on leftover refined flour and saturated fat all day.

Michaela bustles in, long hair billowing, her perfume filling the room. Notwithstanding the turd she laid on me yesterday, I sit up straight in my chair, pen poised on paper, ready to jot down anything important. Sarge, seated just across from me, is amused like he pretty much always is. I don’t blame him. He’s been at this so long, he’s as cynical as they come. Me, on the other hand? Corny as it sounds, there are days I still come to work with a spring in my step.

“Welcome, everyone,” Michaela says. “And thank you to whomever set aside this donut for me.” She points at the jelly-filled concoction I put in front of her regular seat.

Yes, that was me. But I say nothing.

“I want to thank you for getting here on time. I know we’re not used to early mornings around here, but I wouldn’t have asked you to come in if it weren’t important.”

She takes the time to look around the table, greeting each and every one of us with her gaze. It’s one of the things I like best about her, and if I ever get to be the boss of anything, I’m going to do that too, look my employees in the eyes and make them feel special.

“I’m going to dive right in, if nobody minds. I recently met with our accountant—I’d like to never think about such grown-up matters, just like you probably would not. It’s a drag. But duty calls and so we discussed, among other things, the paper’s expenses, circulation, ad revenues, etcetera.”

The two people who run our ads department are huddled at the end of the table. They know something, I have no doubt, because they are avoiding looking at any of us.

“In a nutshell, folks, we’re spending more than we’re taking in. As you know, the pandemic reduced our ad revenues a great deal, and we are still trying to make up for that loss. Even as we’ve shifted to mostly online, we’re still in the red.”

She looks around the room at the now-pale faces. Sarge, stuffing the last of his donut in his mouth, is the only person who looks like he could give a crap about anything.

“Soooo… what does that mean for you, you might be asking?”

Michaela pauses, but we all know where she’s going. It’s simple, logical, and straightforward.

If you are spending more than you are taking in, you need to either spend less… or take in more.

Basic math.

And I bet she’s on the path of spending less, which means some people on the staff will be going bye-bye.

I know this from the looks on the faces of the ad sales guys. Pretty sure she’s wrung out of them all she can get. So, without increased revenue, somebody or somebodies sitting at this table are gone.

I shouldn’t jinx myself, but I sincerely doubt my head is one of the ones on the chopping block. Yes, that sounds arrogant, but Michaela loves me. We are kindred spirits. I imagine always being at her side, no matter where she works. Especially if she can promise me no more assignments having to do with old naked men or dirty bathrooms.

She goes on to explain that layoffs are in the works, and that they will be handled as kindly and gently as possible. She will do all she can to make sure anyone who’s out of a job gets all the introductions she can make in order to keep their careers on track.

I eventually zone out on listening to her and flick the ends of my newly-cut hair, while I stare out the window at the fog blowing over the rooftop next door. Like a lot of people who grew up here, I find the low-lying clouds that hover above the city comforting. Most newcomers find it depressing and unsettling. It definitely takes some getting used to.

Before I know it, the conference room is pretty much cleared out, and scattered crumbs and crinkled napkins mark the places of the slobs who never clean up after themselves. I don’t feel like going back to my desk just yet, so I grab a trash can and make my way around the conference table, scooping the mess, as well as the pink pastry box, into the bin.

“I know you left me that donut,” Michaela says, startling me.

“Oh yeah. Well, I know what you like. They’re so good, aren’t they?” I say, finishing my tidying job.

I love cleaning.

She smiles at me. That’s either the I would never lay you off because I like you smile, or the even though I like you, I have to lay you off smile.

As confident as I am, something is feeling distinctly uncomfortable and I know things could go either way for me, just like everyone else on staff.

So I decide to make a pitch. Be invaluable. Secure my position here.

“Michaela, if you have a sec, I have an idea for us.”

I never say ‘me.’ It’s always ‘us,’ to prove I’m in this for the Right Reasons.

She props a butt cheek on the edge of the table. “Tell me,” she says with all the encouragement she always does.

“Well, first of all, I am lining up an interview with a hockey player from the Aftershocks, Tyler Brooks. The focus will be his on his volunteer work with local kids.”

She nods. “Yeah. I like it. Upbeat and positive. A nice contrast to the BS going on with the mayor.”

Oh yeah. The mayor. Andy Stackhouse. My bestie Petal’s former fiancé. Somehow the douchebag got elected and is now embroiled in some controversy about getting in trouble in college for plagiarism. If he hadn’t offended so many people, no one might have ever dug into his past to expose him.

Not my problem, though, and I’ll thankfully never be assigned to ‘cover him’ because Michaela knows I have ties to him. Such as they are. Being a bridesmaid in a wedding that fell apart at the altar gets you excused from certain things.

Yes, right there in front of God and everybody, Petal realized the guy was a cheating scumbag. She cussed him out and left him standing there, with Gilly and me trotting after her back up the aisle she’d just walked down. Our expensive bridesmaid dresses never even made it to the party.

All that wasted money.

“So Michaela, I was thinking that since I’ll be spending some time with this Brooks guy, maybe I can take things a step further.”

Michaela tilts her head. “Meaning?”

I take a seat in the chair closest to where she’s sitting on the table and lean back, all confidence. “I was talking to him at some hockey party my girlfriend invited me to, the one who’s married to one of the Aftershocks players. And while I was talking to him, he was looking around the room. Like he was trying to find a pretty girl, or at least someone better looking and more interesting than me. Or maybe someone who’d be an easy pick for a booty call.”

Michaela nods.

“What I’m saying is that the guy is a fuckboy. He thinks he’s hot stuff, and from the looks of the women fawning over him, there could be an interesting story about resisting his type. You know, kind of like the ultimate anti-romance guide. How to defy the approaches of a guy like him, the player, rather than succumbing to them.”

I smile like this is a done deal and all the smug I can muster surges through my veins. I have no doubt Michaela will think this is the best idea she’s heard all year. Maybe even ever.

I could not be more wrong.

“Lucy, I love how you’re always thinking. I wish everyone on the Freekly staff did that.”

Damn right.

“But… we don’t do relationship type stuff here. We’re not… Glamour magazine. We cover things like dirty bathrooms. Naked men at Bay to Breakers. Where to find the best weed and the kinky stuff that goes on at the Folsom Street Fair.”

Well, shit.

She had to mention the bathroom assignment. Of course. My hard-on for my brilliant idea goes from raging, to limp and shriveled. Just like the old naked men at Bay to Breakers.

I touch my haircut like a security blanket I am hoping will make me feel better.

“Don’t look so disappointed. I may have another idea for you, Lucy,” she says, tapping her temple with a finger, her gaze on the swirling fog outside.

I force my face to perk back up to where it was before she reminded me of dirty bathrooms. “Really? Whatcha thinking?”

“This would be an interesting… book.”

Book? I don’t write books. I write thousand-word articles for a free weekly paper. I’m glad she sees potential in my idea and, of course, in me, but is she serious?

“Lucy, this could be perfect for the self-help genre.” She gets up from the table and crosses her arms, walking slowly around the room.

“You won’t remember this Lucy, you are too young, but in the 80’s and 90’s, there was this popular saying—I guess today we’d call it a ‘meme’—that a woman of a certain age was more likely to be hit by lightning than to find a husband.”

I laugh. “Oh yeah. I’ve heard that. Those decades must have been so weird.”

She side-eyes me. “Those were my formative years. Anyway, it stemmed from women resisting the historical pressure to marry young. More and more of us were rising through the ranks in our careers, and were in no hurry to land a man. Gender roles were evolving.”

It had been a long time since Michaela had given me one of what I call her ‘history talks.’ I loved this shit.

She walks to the window and stares, apparently lost in thought. “The media and others were pushing this negative bullshit associated with being single and older. It applied to women, not men of course.”

Of course.

She waves her hand like she’s dismissing the idea, which I know is the whole point of bringing it up. “It was debunked, and just kind of fell out of favor. The stigma around older women finding love faded. Just… wilted on the vine.”

As interesting as this is, and as much as I love hanging out with Michaela, I’m still not sure what this has to do with Tyler Brooks.

“So women became comfortable with the thought of marrying later—or never, as is the case with me. Women are more selective now. Less likely to put up with shit. Or so we’d like to think.”

To emphasize her point, she spins around to face me, her hair following her in a cascade. “We can take our time now. We don’t have to take the first guy to come along. Problem is, that hasn’t necessarily made it easier to pick the good ones. And more importantly, jettison the bad ones.”

As she returns to pacing the room, I realize she and I are on the same page. As always. She just had to think things through, which I am happy to wait for her to do.

Women can marry later without stigma. Right.

But… we could use some help with weeding out the… undesirables. Or, even recognizing the undesirables, the ones who blind us with their charm, the ones who make us think we can’t live without their attentions, no matter how fleeting they might be.

She claps her hands together so loudly, everyone turns to see what’s going on, as if they weren’t stealthily watching us through the conference room’s glass walls already. “I can see it taking off, this book, getting press, interviews, Good Morning America. All that jazz.” She’s pumped now.

And I’m getting pumped too.

But what did she say about a book?

I nod with great enthusiasm, and try to chase away the doubts causing my nervous laughter.

I’ve never written a book. I mean, I’ve written enough articles to fill a book. But a book… no.

Not yet anyway.

“You… you think, like people would be into it?” I stumble.

She nods with such conviction I want to hug her. “I have an agent friend I can put you in touch with.”

And just like that, I once again have the biggest fucking hard-on for the future of my career, confirming that all is right with the world.

For a moment, I don’t even mind that I have to write about dirty bathrooms.