The Other Side of Wild
Chapter 1 – Hannah
“If you can pull this off, you’ve got my recommendation for the Sports Marketing Director position.” My boss's words hit me like an arrow to the chest.
Before I can find my voice, Nora leans forward on her desk, her gaze confident as she continues, “I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t think you could do it, Hannah.” My heart is hammering in my chest. Everything I’ve ever wanted is dangling like a steak in front of a rabid dog. The problem is I’m not a marketing expert. I’m a sports journalist. I walked in here to ask Nora what she wanted from the interviews I’m doing for the Tampa Bay Hawks later today.
“Umm, can we circle back to that?” I ask while an epic game of pinball takes place in my brain. A part of me has been feeling a bit lost lately, like my life is lacking direction, which is ridiculous because I got promoted not even a year ago. Now, here we are talking about not only another promotion but a move to a department I don’t know much about but have always been interested in. My teeth cut into my bottom lip as I fight to keep my smile at bay. I mean, this is big. Scary big, I want to cry and shout for joy at the same time, big.
“Yes we can. I know that was a lot for a Monday morning. As much as you shine in your current role, you were made for this.” She smiles, and a knot forms in my chest. Grief is a fickle thing, and regret is a heavy burden to carry.
Most people on their deathbeds spend their last moments on earth telling their family how much they love them or how sorry they are for XYZ and all the things they could have done better. But not my father. Nope, Dennis Lowery spent his final moments on earth making it clear that I would never be enough.
“You’re a weak woman, Hannah. You’ll never make it in a career that’s meant for men. It’d better serve you to find a job that doesn’t require you to open your smart mouth. For Christ's sake, women are meant to look pretty and be quiet. Two things you are not.”
You’d think after 18 years of that, I’d be used to it. But knowing his spite followed him to the grave hurt. The man could have said, “Hey, Han, I know I’ve been a colossal ass your entire life. I just want you to know regardless of my behavior, I do love you.”
That would have been way too much to ask for, but it lit a fire in me to be the best Sports Journalist I could be. It pushed me to climb the ladder as quickly as I could. Other than my best friend, Abby, I have zero friends. No social life and zero distractions. My life mission? Prove my father wrong from this side of the grave. Is it healthy? Probably not, but this is it. All that work, all the fun I’ve passed up, it’s so close, I can taste sweet, sweet victory.
“You have me interviewing the Hawks today; what are you looking for, exactly? There have been a few trades since last year, but is it the whole team or the new guys?” I ask as I unsnap my Apple pencil from the side of my iPad. Opening my notes app, I wait for her instructions. We had a few mid-season trades last year, plus two additions between last season and the upcoming one. The fans have been writing into the magazine asking how the newer players are fitting in with the alumni, an inside look I’m excited to give them.
“It’s a get-to-know-the-team interview. We’re going to be doing this for all the teams and their support staff this year. Our goal is to build familiarity between the teams and their fan base. So I’ll need everyone involved. That means the equipment managers, physical therapists, team doctor, and their PR director, if she’s around, too.” I nod. This is a direction she’s wanted to take for a while now.
“Okay, got it. I’ll head that way in a bit. Let’s touch on the bomb you dropped on me when I got here. You want me to plan this year’s charity event?” I pick at the skin on the side of my thumbnail, a nasty habit I picked up in high school and haven’t been able to break. My nerves are getting the better of me. I’m usually the cool, calm, and collected type when it comes to my job. But there’s a lot riding on this.
“Yes, it’s to benefit the youth sports programs around the Tampa area. Our goal is to sponsor 200 kids, paying all their expenses for whatever sport they participate in for the year. It’s going to be at the end of October. There needs to be a silent auction, food, and some fun activities. I want you to take the lead in planning it. Involve some of the players you interview later, and I’ll see if I can get Dylan and Caroline to involve some of the guys they’re interviewing, too.” Dylan is reporting on the local soccer team, The Tampa Bay Strikers, while Caroline is on our pro football team, The Tampa Bay Pirates.
I write her requirements down on a new notes page. My imagination station of a brain has already started concocting ideas. “Ohh, sounds fun! Do I have creative freedom on this? Or does it need to be a normal gala-like event? I can’t imagine young kids would be excited about that.”
The smile on her face grows into what I can only describe as a look a proud mom would give her kids. “This is why I put you on this. You’re a dang good journalist, Hannah. However, your creativ ity would be better utilized in a role that requires you to dream. You have complete control over this; I’ll need weekly check-ins. Send me your ideas as they come. You have a budget, but I completely believe you can create something amazing for these kids. I’ll send you all the outlines and budget info when I get it later today.”
Yeah, I can do that . “Sounds good. I’ll get right on that. Can we catch up on Wednesday or Thursday?” She taps her pen on the stack of papers she was reading when I walked in, a sparkle in her eye as she watches me. A curt nod is all I get. “Great! See you then. I’m off to the arena.” I say as I gather my things and wave over my shoulder.
Her laugh carries down the hallway, and I can’t help but feel proud of myself. I made my boss laugh. I have the opportunity of a lifetime in front of me. It’s time to laser in, no distractions, no monkeying around. Only three things stand between me and ‘making it’ in the sports world: interviewing some hockey players, getting them to agree to help me with a charity event, and executing the event. Heck, I’ve got this in the bag.
“Hi, Mama.” My mom calls every day at 9:02 AM. It was the time she’d call me almost every day while I was in college. My earliest classes started at ten. I was usually eating and had a minute to talk right around nine. The first few times she called at 9:02 was by accident, but then it became our thing .
“Hey. Is everything okay?” The concern in her voice pulls at the depths of my soul. Man, I miss her. It’s been a few months since she’s come to visit. She started renovating the house this summer, which took her time away from traveling. She comes to Tampa way more than I go home to Alabama. In fact, I haven’t stepped foot in that state since my dad died eight years ago.
“Yeah, I’m good. I just had to go into the office before heading to my interviews for the day. Get the specifics from Nora on this article.” Her soft chuckle on the other end of the line makes me smile.
“Always the overachiever, aren’t you? Your brother and I miss you. We were thinking of coming down for Christmas. What do you think?” Uhh, yes please.
“Wait, for real? That’s a great idea! I miss you guys too. We could drive down the intercoastal and look at all the ridiculously decorated, larger-than-life houses!” I hear my brother’s deep roar of laughter in the background. “Hi, Eli!”
“Hey, Sis. Miss your face.” Yup, I’m going to cry before 10 AM. My not-so-little brother is starting his sophomore year of college. He’s too cool for me these days, so I cherish the moments he acknowledges my existence.
“Miss yours more.” We talk about Christmas plans and ideas, his classes, and the renovations my mom is doing to the house. All too soon, I pulled up to the arena and had to hang up. I let my head bounce off the headrest as I try to tell myself it’s okay that I haven’t been home in eight years. No matter how hard my head tries to convince my heart, I know it’s wrong.
“Do you think the penguins in Antarctica wish they had fuzzy socks too?” I ask as Abby looks at me from across her office with a look of exasperation – the kind of look a best friend gives you when they’ve had enough of your antics. I changed into layers of warm clothes and pulled a pair of fuzzy socks on when I got to Hawks Arena. The stadium itself is magnificent. From the outside, you see four levels. The third level is made up of solid windows that span the length of the building. The top and second levels are open, patio-like spaces. A giant staircase cuts through the middle of the first and second levels, creating wings on either side, which is fitting for a team with a bird as their mascot.
The inside, though, good golly Miss Molly. There are three levels of seating, with suites at the top of the lower and middle seating areas. During games, the lights turn it into a scene that rivals a rock concert. But when there’s no one here, it’s intimidating. It echoes when you walk, the silence is eerie, and it’s freaking freezing.
It looks like a typical high school locker room inside Abby's office. The walls are painted gray with blue and white stripes around the top of the walls. There are four therapy tables out and an array of exercise bands that I can’t wait to move around when she gets distracted. Her computer sits on the corner of her desk, looking like it could topple to the floor at any second. Various pieces of Physical Therapy equipment are thoughtfully placed throughout t he room. “How about you stay out of trouble today?” She asks as she arches a perfectly manicured, blonde eyebrow in my direction.
I roll my eyes; I may be many things, but trouble isn’t one of the words I’d use. “Bye, sister! Try not to make any grown men cry today!” I say as I pick up my iPad and iced coffee, also known as the Hannah Lowery starter pack. Laced with sarcasm and fueled by caffeine, now that is the perfect way to describe myself.
Stop one is Coach Stevens’ office. The team has practice in about half an hour. I need to check in with him, and maybe if he’s feeling kind today, he’ll answer some of my questions.
The walk to his office from Abby’s isn’t far. It’s just down one of the internal tunnels. The halls are gray with the Hawks logo painted every 10 feet or so. Thin blue and white lines in the middle of the walls run the length of the hallway; it smells like snow, crisp and earthy, with an undertone of sweaty men.
I’m almost to his office when the locker room door swings open, and I’m knocked to the ground by the end of a hockey stick and the massive player it belongs to. “Watch where you’re going.” His voice is cold and rough, his eyes stay trained on the open door to the ice, and he doesn’t stop.
Not today, my dude, not today. “Pot meets kettle,” I growl right back. His head snaps to me down on the floor, stopping dead in his tracks, face softening like he’s just realizing he knocked someone over.
“Crap on a cracker. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” What in the mood swing is happening here?
I look at the undisturbed coffee cup in my hand, then stare up at the mountain of a man in front of me and say, “My coffee is safe, so I guess you are too.” A breathtaking smile breaks out across his face, and my heart skips a beat. “My butt might be numb for the foreseeable future, but yes, I am okay. Thank you for asking.”
He takes one of his gloves off and offers me his hand. “Greyson Wilder.” Wrapping my free hand in his, he pulls me off the floor with way more ease than I expected him to.
“Well, Greyson Wilder. I should find you a bell, so I’ll know to be more cautious next time.” He grimaces before nodding and walking away. The second his skate hit the ice, he’s flying. I’ve never seen someone skate that fast. I watch him for a minute before I start to feel like a creep. I bend down to pick up my iPad, send a silent thank you to the good Lord above for my coffee not spilling all over me, and continue toward the coach’s office, smiling to myself as I go. A bell, good one, Hannah.
I knock on the door frame of Coach Stevens' office. He raises his head and smiles. “Hey, Hannah, I heard through the grapevine that you’re on hockey duty for the rest of the season.”
“I sure am!” I say as I sit in the big leather chair in front of his desk. Crossing my legs, I smile at the older gentleman before me. Nodding, he smiles, making the creases around his light brown eyes more pronounced.
“If they give you too much trouble, you let me know. I know they’ll do anything to avoid the threat of burpees.” Yuck, I’m positive I, too, would do anything to avoid the threat of burpees.
“I’m sure it will be fine. It’ll be like a fun game of twenty-one questions.” This earns me a full belly laugh, one that warms my insides like hot chocolate on a snowy day or when you’re in an ice rink.
“Listen, Coach, you’re not exempt from my game either. ”
His eyes widen before they narrow, his finger pointing in my direction. “Now, wait a minute...” I smirk at the fact that he’s now trying to get out of my interview. Men, they’re all the same. Tell you what you want to hear except when it comes to them.
“Coach, you told me to tell you if anyone was giving me trouble. I have a 6-foot-something grizzly trying to weasel his way out of this.” His only response was a shake of his head to try and hide the smile growing on his face
“Fine, fine. But I’m not answering twenty-one questions. I’ll give you four at most.” Ah, yes, this is going to be fun.
“Abby, you’re up! Question one: When did you know you wanted to be a physical therapist?”
“You already know the answer to that, Hannah. Couldn’t you have asked me these at home?” She asks with a sigh as she busies herself with reorganizing the resistance bands that I moved around her office the second I realized she was stretching a player out. They’re organized in order by resistance level. The long looped ones are on hooks, while the wide, long, open-ended ones are folded nicely on her counter. Her OCD and need for control are noticeable at home, but here? Forget it; she’s the world's worst helicopter mom and needs everything to stay in its place.
One hand runs along the edge of a framed skeleton poster she’s had since college. It hangs right next to one of the anatomy of a knee, and next to that is a photo of her classmates after they finished cli nicals. My favorite part of her office, though, is the picture that sits on her desk. It was the first day we met in our dorm during our first year of college. I was terrified of having a nightmare random roommate situation. It turns out it was one of the best things that has happened to me. My eyes are closed, a tight smile on my face, dressed in an oversized sweatshirt. Abby is the sun reincarnated. Her light brown eyes were sparkling, her smile wide; she was wearing a yellow shirt with her favorite white shorts. It reminds me of the beginning of our friendship every time I see it.
“Yes, I could have, but this is for the official record.” Batting my eyelashes, I wiggle my pencil at her.
“I first knew I wanted to be a physical therapist when my older brother got hurt playing soccer. I wanted to take care of him, help him get back on the field.” She shrugs, and at the same time, she gives me a pointed look that gives me the impression I’m wasting her time.
“Question two: What is the funniest injury you’ve dealt with?” She thinks for a few seconds before she answers, hands flying like they do whenever she talks about something funny.
“Hands down, Quinten. He was a lacrosse player in college and decided he was going to ask one of the girls on the dance team to their banquet at the end of the season. He asked her teammates to teach him a dance to ask her. They taught him the Christmas dance from Mean Girls.” She smiles as she recalls the memory, picking up the updated charts from the counter as she continues.. “He ended up straining his hamstring in one of the moves he had to bend over for. It was hilarious. Although he complained about it for the two weeks we spent rehabbing it, she ended up say ing yes, and they are now married. In the end, it all worked out.”
How cute. I’m a sucker for romantic gestures. “Question three: What’s your favorite part of working with the Hawks?”
“Oh, I like this one. The guys are all intensely focused when it comes to game time, but when they aren’t on the ice, it’s comedy gold here. They’re hilarious, always cracking jokes at each other’s expense, but at the end of the day, they’re one happy family. And they ensure all of us on staff feel like part of the team too.” I love that answer. Oh, to belong somewhere. Something I’ve never truly felt. At home, my mom and my brother had each other, and I was alone. Well, I had Dennis, but Dennis lived up to the menace part of the TV show.
Once I’m done interviewing the rest of the available staff, Abby and I sit in the stands and watch the guys run through their drills. It’s cool to get a different perspective than the fast pace of game day. Watching them pass the puck back and forth with insane precision, you can see just how talented they are. The way they communicate with just their body language and stick taps is a testament to the leadership of this team. There is no disconnect between the guys that were here last season and the four that joined this season. I watch as Greyson picks up a puck, brings it down the right side of the ice, and sinks it into the top left corner of the goal. It’s seamless.
“The guy that just scored, he’s new, right?” I ask as Abby watches for any sign that a player might be hiding an injury or downplaying the severity of an existing one. Her head on a constant swivel, she’s got the eye equivalent of a police K9’s nose.
“Who, Wilder?” I nod. “Yeah, he’s newer. He came mid-season last year. He hasn’t been in my office for anything but routine knee and hip checks. He has a good sense of humor; at least, I think he does from our few interactions. Why?” Her long blonde hair swishes against her Hawks team jacket as she narrows her eyes, probably noticing some kind of wince or hesitation.
“He knocked me over with his stick this morning, then had the audacity to tell me to watch where I was going.” Abby cocks an eyebrow in my direction; the side of her mouth pulls into a smirk as she tries and epically fails to hide her amusement.
“Wow, what a way to start the day. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, no harm done.” I wave my hand dismissively through the cold air of the rink. I mean, my butt is still numb, but that could also be because it’s freezing down here. I can’t feel my toes at this point, either. Dang it, fuzzy socks, don’t fail me now!
“Hmm. Maybe he was having an off day. He’s a cutie, though.” I hum in response.
Cute is an understatement. That man is gorgeous. He’s at least 6 feet tall and a wall of solid muscle. At least, that’s what it felt like when he ran into me. I’ve never bought into Dream Guys, but this guy could be the male version of Pamela Anderson’s Baywatch posters. His chestnut brown hair was sticking out from the back of his helmet, and those eyes. They could give the Caribbean Ocean a run for its money. Stubble coated his cheeks in a way that accented his already sharp jaw. There’s a good possibility he could cut glass with that thing. What had me questioning my sanity was his smile. His teeth were so white and impossibly straight. And here I thought all hockey players were missing some teeth. I stand corrected.