Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Josie
“She said to tell you she’s sorry she had to work so much and that she loves you more than anything.”
I sit up in bed with a gasp, my alarm waking me from a dream. After pushing a button on the screen to stop the alarm, I heave out a sigh, wishing I could fast-forward to bedtime.
It’s March 11. Three years ago, on this day, my mom was killed by a drunk driver. I didn’t make it to the hospital in time, so her final words to me were relayed by a nurse. Those words have haunted and comforted me since.
If only I could have told her not to feel guilty over working two jobs from the time I was in fourth grade until I finished high school. My dad took off and left her as a single mom, and she did whatever it took to care for me, even though it left her very little time for herself.
I didn’t get it as a child. Why she couldn’t be at my dance recitals. Why we never took vacations. I get it now, and I admire my mom’s resilience.
Dane walks out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, a white towel wrapped around his waist. I force myself not to look because I don’t want to get busted again.
“You need the bathroom?” he asks.
“Yes.”
I gather my toiletries and clean clothes, trying to erase the mental image of the last time I saw my mom. The nurse told me seeing her body would give me closure, but it also gave me nightmares.
“I’m going down for breakfast,” Dane says. “Are you coming to the morning skate?”
“Might as well.”
“Bus leaves in thirty minutes.”
I walk past him and into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I press my back to the door and close my eyes, tears sliding down my cheeks.
The flight to Boston was a little better than the Tampa flight, but I still threw up once and felt sick for most of it. We got to our hotel around four a.m., making the seven a.m. wake-up time feel downright offensive.
And now we get to do it all over again. After tonight’s game, we’ll fly to Seattle. I have to perk up because it’s going to be a long day. Hopefully coffee and concealer will get me through.
I take a quick shower, dry my hair, put on light makeup and dress in black leggings, a maroon cami, a gray cardigan sweater and black flats.
I’m taking part in a Zoom meeting with everyone at my office later this morning, and this is as professional as I can look while living out of a backpack.
After packing my things, I walk down to the hotel dining room, where most of the team and staff are eating breakfast.
Dane is sitting at a table with two other players and I take the remaining seat. He’s signing something for a little boy who’s smiling at him like he’s the greatest thing ever.
“Marco,” the boy says.
“Marco, what position do you play?” Dane asks as he writes on a piece of paper.
“Defense and sometimes goalie,” Marco says.
“Awesome. Keep your grades up, okay? And listen to your parents; they know what they’re talking about.”
Marco nods and a man waiting nearby asks if he can take a photo. Dane stands up and stands next to Marco, smiling for several photos.
“I guess we look like his assistants,” Aiden mutters when Dane sits back down.
Dane grins. “Hey, if you want kids to ask for your autograph, try to suck less.”
Aiden scoffs and glances at me. “Feeling any better, Josie?”
“Better than last night,” I say. “Thanks.”
I look at Dane, who has half a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him, the other half of the plate loaded with bacon, sausage and fruit. “Did you ask the housekeeper how Mr. Darcy’s doing?”
Dane shrugs. “He’s alive.”
I glare at him across the table. “Is he eating? Does he seem anxious?”
“How’s my housekeeper supposed to know if your cat is anxious?” He scoops a forkful of eggs into his mouth, sounding completely uninterested.
“I told you what to ask her, and instead, you asked if he’s alive.” I shake my head.
Aiden gestures toward the breakfast buffet. “You better eat. We’re out of here in five minutes.”
I grab a muffin and some yogurt from the buffet and head for the bus, not in the mood to watch Dane feed his face.
The bus takes us to a small arena where the team does a pregame skate and then to the downtown Boston arena where the team is playing tonight. Dalton and Dane are both stopped by reporters shortly after stepping off the bus, and I linger nearby so I can hear Dane’s interview.
“Dane, Boston has a four-game winning streak going. How will you approach playing them tonight?”
Dane grins at the beautiful female reporter. “We beat ’em last time we were here. If we stay focused, I think we’ll walk away with another win.”
“Have you heard about Abigail Matthews, the fan who’s trending on social media with the hashtag datemedane ?”
“No clue about that.”
“She’s a law student at the University of Chicago who wants you to take her out on a date.”
He smiles. “I’m flattered, but right now, I have to focus on tonight’s game and the ones we have coming up. We’ve got a tough stretch ahead and we need to keep our eye on the ball.”
“Thanks, Dane. Good luck tonight.” She flashes him her million-dollar smile and he nods.
If anyone’s ego wasn’t in need of a boost, it’s Dane. But of course, as I trail behind him entering the arena, I’m searching the hashtag the reporter mentioned.
FFS. Abigail Matthews is a stunning redhead. She’s pictured in one of the posts at a Mammoths game, looking radiant in a jersey with Dane’s number on it.
Dane stops walking and turns around, waiting for me to catch up.
“Hey, could you drop off some dry cleaning at a one-hour place for me today?” he asks.
“I don’t know...could you pick up some tampons and lube for me?”
“Fuck no,” he says, wrinkling his nose.
“I’m not your assistant.”
He rolls his eyes. “I know. I just thought since you’ll be here for the next ten hours or so, you could do an errand for me.”
“You thought wrong.”
He scowls. “You come off all cute and helpful, but you’re kind of a viper, Nosy.”
Better a viper than a doormat. But more importantly...he thinks I’m cute?
“I’m here to do the job I was assigned.”
He arches a brow. “Do you really need lube? Do you have an issue with dryness down there?”
My face burns with embarrassment. “No. I don’t need tampons, either. It was just an example.”
“Sure it was.” He winks at me. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”
I want to shove him aside like the annoyance he is, but if I tried, it would be like trying to push over a brick wall. He walks into the locker room and I follow.
Gina said she’d help me find a room for my Zoom meeting, so I find her and put Dane out of my mind. I’m looking forward to my meeting, where I can be reminded I have job skills other than shadowing an obnoxious hockey player.
The Mammoths lost to Boston, 3–2. The mood on the bus to the airport is gloomy. Most of the guys have headphones on.
This bus is small, and nearly every seat is filled. I have to sit next to Dane instead of sitting alone, and he’s spent the entire ride so far texting. His jaw is set and his expression is pissed off as his fingers fly over the phone screen.
Who is he texting? I’m dying to know, but I can’t get even a peek at his screen.
He passed me a Dramamine when he walked out of the locker room, not saying a word. I’m assuming he’s angry about losing the game like the rest of the team seems to be.
It’s like a completely different group than last night. No one is talking or laughing.
I thought I’d be exhausted after getting so little sleep last night, but I was busy all day at the arena and I’m still running on adrenaline. I had my Zoom meeting, caught up on work emails and helped a Mammoths PR person who needed me to coordinate some things with the Boston PR people.
Keeping busy was a blessing because I didn’t have time to think about my mom. Even after three years, it still hurts. I hope the day comes when I can remember the good times and smile when I think about her.
Dane turns the power off on his phone, sighing heavily.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Fucking awesome,” he says angrily.
“Great.”
He glares at me. “The reason I needed my dry cleaning taken in is because you puked on my shirt the other night.”
“Oh yeah? Is that why you’re so pissed off right now?”
It takes him a couple of seconds to respond. “Might be.”
“So if I take your dry cleaning in tomorrow, will you stop being such a dick?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re projecting. You’re mad at someone else and you’re trying to make me think it’s about your shirt.”
“Thanks, Dr. Phil.”
My stomach turns as I think about getting on an airplane yet again. I don’t have much fight in me right now.
“I’ll take your dry cleaning in tomorrow. Only because I don’t have a busy day and because I’m a nice person. It doesn’t mean I’m your errand girl.”
“Thanks.”
I glance at him. “So I looked into that hashtag thing the reporter mentioned, and as your PR representative, I feel like I should tell you it’s trending majorly. And since I’m here to help rebuild your image, I think you should consider taking that woman on a date.”
He groans. “No. I don’t have time, and I don’t like clingy women.”
“Just one date. One dinner. You show up in a suit with flowers and take her out to dinner and that’s it. The internet would love it.”
“I’ll think about it,” he says, his tone indicating that he won’t.
The bus stops at the airport and everyone starts gathering up headphones and bottled drinks.
Whether or not my stomach is ready, we’re heading to Seattle.