Chapter 8 #2
“Pretty much.” And I know for a fact that Gramps hates it, too. It’s probably harder for him than most since he’s been so physical for most of his life. Even in his eighties he’s still been able to skate.
Until now, that is.
“How are you finding her boyfriend’s dating app?” I ask.
Rachel groans. “I forgot all about it until Monday. She pleaded with me to fill everything in so I did and then nothing. Like no matches at all. How about you?”
“I’ve had a few,” I tell her.
“WHAT?” She sounds outraged. “How many exactly?”
“Um, five I think.” I got the fifth through last night. They all seem like nice guys. Two of them are insurance, one runs his own business, one is a lawyer, and I have no idea what the other one does.
“What are they like?” she asks. “I can’t believe I haven’t had one.”
“You only just downloaded the app,” I point out. “And anyway, these aren’t real matches. We’re all just beta testing it, right?”
“Of course they’re real matches,” she says. “It’s only the women who are beta testing it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the guys are real sign ups. Didn’t she tell you?”
I frown. “No.” There are five messages in my inbox that I’ve ignored because I assumed they’re generated by the app. “She didn’t send me any instructions on what to do.”
Rachel laughs. “Maybe that’s because she assumed you’ve used a dating app before. You’re supposed to be chatting with them and providing feedback.” Rachel pauses. “Hey, you could go on a date.”
“She said nothing about a date.”
“I know. But if you want Mr. On His Knees to get the message that you’re definitely not interested then going on a date should spell it out to him.”
“A minute ago you seemed intent on me letting him get on his knees again,” I point out.
“Yeah, but I know you. You never would, you’re too straight laced.”
“I’m not,” I protest. “I’m just professional.”
“Sure,” she says smoothly. “And to make it clear how professional you are, go on this date. You said it yourself that you’re lonely. What’s wrong with going out for dinner with somebody? When you get back to New York you won’t have time again, so do it now while you can.”
The sad thing is, she’s right. I’m usually okay with my own company but coming home every night to an empty house has been difficult. I miss having friends around to catch up with over a coffee, or colleagues to grab a bite of dinner with after work.
After three years of working our asses off, this free time in the evening is making me feel antsy.
“I’ll check with Allison if that should even happen.”
“Funnily enough, we’re working late tonight and Allison is sitting about three feet away from me,” Rachel says, sounding smug.
“I’ll check with her myself. Wait.” So I do and she’s back in an unseemly short time.
“She says yes. She’s ecstatic that you have matches.
Her boyfriend wants to know how good the matching algorithm is, and the only way to do that is for you to meet up. She’ll want a full report afterward.”
“Let’s hope none of them are serial killers,” I say.
“It’s okay, her boyfriend has all of their details. I’ll run a background check.”
“Don’t run a thing. That’s illegal.”
“Yeah, but it’d be fun,” Rachel says.
“How about you just let me take care of it?” I’m not an idiot, I know to not meet them anywhere unsafe.
“And you go find your own matches.” I check my watch.
I need to get going anyway. I have to prepare myself for our family chat in twenty minutes.
And it won’t be good. I’ve already sent them an interim report.
There’s no money to be found. I can’t even change the damn towel service without there being major heartache.
“I have another call to take. I’ll catch you later. ”
“Yes, you will. Now reply to those messages. You’ll be Allison’s star pupil.”
“That can’t be right,” Dad says. He’s looking casual in a hoodie and a cap.
He’s in Toronto with my brothers who had a game tonight.
My mom and Isabella are on another screen, both in white fluffy gowns with their hair in curlers.
They’re having a mom and daughter spa day on their day off from filming for their reality show.
“It is,” I tell them. “There’s no money and no way to save anywhere near enough,” I tell him. That’s the truth of it. Yes, I can scrape around and find some minor savings, but that won’t pay the IRS bill. “Maybe we should look at putting the team up for sale.”
“What about the Razors?” Dad asks, referring to the NHL team the Mavericks are affiliated to. “We could ask them for a loan.”
“They already gave one last year.” They have a good reason to want to keep the Mavericks going, since we’re the team that feeds them new players.
But they’re also a business and they’re not going to inject any money into the team without getting something back for it.
I take a deep breath. “We could look at offering to sell at least part of the team to them.”
“That would kill Gramps,” my dad says, looking pensive.
“I know, but our options are limited. I can make some savings, turn some things around. Enough to make it profitable in the future. But to pay that IRS bill we need cash flow now and that’s something that takes time to make.”
My dad’s head drops into his hands and I know he’s genuinely upset. He may be a pain in my ass at times but he always idolized his own dad, the same way Brad and Johnny idolize him.
And I’m frustrated that I can’t make this work. But unless he pays that bill, Grandpa will have to sell the team, declare bankruptcy, or – and this worries me the most – go to jail.
The thing is, he wouldn’t have to. There are ways to pay this bill. But he’s stubborn as a mule and he won’t sell the team. I know it.
“Maybe I could take out a loan,” my dad says.
My mom sighs. “But who will pay it back?”
Neither of them have been great with money over the years. Or rather, they don’t save a lot. They get it and they spend it. Which is great until you need a lump sum.
“How soon do we need to pay the IRS?” Mom asks.
“I can negotiate it,” I tell them, relieved that at least that’s something I can do. “If we can show them we have a plan, they may give us a few months.”
“Okay. Then that’s what we need to do.” My dad nods. “I’ll work out how to raise the money.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, because I hate being the bearer of bad news to them. Yes, they drive me up the wall but nobody wants to hear that your father’s team is about to fold.
“It’s not your fault, honey,” my mom says.
Yeah, but sometimes it feels that way.