1. Wren #3
Stepping into the office, that weight of expectation becomes even more potent.
I glance around at the sleek desk hosting dual computer monitors.
Yet another Valehurst Kings logo is printed on the back wall in the school’s colors of royal purple and matte gold.
It’s as if the university is concerned that its employees will forget where they work—or who they work for—if it isn’t shoved in their faces every minute of every day.
The man behind the desk doesn’t rise when I enter.
He’s middle-aged, square-jawed, with gray hair that’s gelled into something painfully precise.
His suit is tailored to within an inch of its life—crisp white shirt, pale gold tie, suit jacket unwrinkled.
He looks more suited for a boardroom than a hockey rink.
“Miss Winslow,” he addresses, barely sparing me a glance. “We’ve been expecting you.”
I nod once, attempting a polite smile. “Hi.”
“Take a seat.” He gestures toward the two chairs sitting opposite his desk, and I slowly lower myself into the nearest one, perching on the edge. I don’t dare relax into the buttery-soft leather while I wait for the man to shuffle some papers on his desk.
Not looking my way, he speaks. “I am Dean Carver. I oversee operations and team management for the Kings’ hockey team.” Clicking the end of the pen he was using, he finally lifts his head, meeting my gaze. “Which means, unfortunately, I’ll also be supervising your internship with us this year.”
His eyes rake over me. Not in a way that feels predatory. Just dismissive. Like I’m a clerical error that keeps showing up in his calendar.
My cheeks heat. I’d spent twenty minutes smoothing my hair into a perfect bun and applied just enough makeup to look polished but not fake.
The skirt is too tight. The heels pinch.
All of it is chosen by my mother in the name of appearances, but the moment Dean Carver looks at me, I know it wasn’t enough.
He sets the pen down with a click that feels like a verdict.
“I assume you’re aware that this internship was…arranged.”
I hesitate for only a moment before I give a curt nod. “Yes.”
“Not earned,” he adds, letting the silence stretch after the words land.
Something in my chest contracts, and my next words come out clipped. “I’m aware.”
Is he aware that I want to be here about as much as he clearly wants me here?
He sighs, folding his hands across the desk and leaning forward with all the weight of a man who wants me to feel very small.
He succeeds, even if just a little. “This program is the most sought-after internship on campus. Eighty-three students applied. We selected a candidate who was qualified, prepared, and eager. Then your mother picked up the phone, and here you are.” He finishes with a flourish of his hands.
I don’t say anything. What would be the point?
“Tell me, Miss Winslow—do you have any experience managing or assisting a collegiate-level team?”
“No.”
“Have you completed any sports-related coursework? Internships? Volunteer training?”
“No.”
“I understand you’re a transfer from BSU, is that correct?”
“It is.”
“And, what were you studying there?”
My teeth grind. If he knows I’m a transfer, then he likely already knows what my major was before my parents changed my entire life course with the snap of their fingers. This whole charade is to make me feel as though I’m two feet tall. Jackass.
“Applied statistics,” I answer, voice thin, brittle.
He snorts softly. “Numbers.”
The way he says it, you’d think I’d bummed around in some pointless major. I’ve heard of some colleges offering eclectic courses, such as one solely encompassing Taylor Swift or a degree based on pirates.
To Dean Carver, a statistics degree is on the same level as that.
“I like numbers,” I retort, refusing to feel ashamed for not doing something business or sports-related that would meet his snobby, close-minded standards.
“Well, I like candidates who don’t waste my time,” he replies, the smarmy smile dropping from his face. “However, I wasn’t given a choice, so let me make a few things clear.”
He stands, rounding the desk slowly like a man stepping into the center of his own stage.
I go rigid when he stops beside me, arms folded, his voice lowering.
“The Kings are not just any hockey team. They are the cornerstone of this university. Our reputation. Our pride. The reason Valehurst gets the attention and funding it does. We don’t have time for vanity projects or spoiled legacy favors.
So if you’re going to be here, you’ll earn your keep. ”
I swallow hard.
“You’ll start at the bottom. Coffee runs. Data entry. Gear inventory. Filing.” His tone sharpens with every syllable. “No one on this team owes you anything, and if you think your name gets you a shortcut, you’ll find out just how replaceable interns are.”
“I don’t think that,” I’m quick to argue, my tone just a tad too defensive.
“Good.” He smiles, but there is no warmth behind it. “Then we’ll get along just fine.”
He walks back to his desk, picks up a clipboard, and hands it to me. “Report to Equipment Manager Bo Larsen. He’s downstairs in the gear bay. Ask him what he needs and do it. No complaints. No questions. Clear?”
“Clear,” I say, standing on shaky legs.
“Oh, one more thing,” he adds, already turning back to his computer. “Lose the glasses. They make you look like a mouse that just wandered into a pit of vipers.” Shaking his head, he tacks on, “The guys will eat you alive.”
My hand flies to my frames instinctively. I don’t wear glasses over contacts because I think they make me appear cute or innocent. It’s got nothing to do with how I look. Never has been. I wear them because they help me keep the world at a manageable distance.
Unable to conjure a response, I turn on my heel and leave.
Back in the hallway, I stare at the list clipped to the board in my hands. It’s all logistical grunt work. The stuff no one wants to do. And still…part of me wonders if I even deserve that much.
I might not have liked what Dean Carver had to say, but he wasn’t wrong.
I don’t have the right experience.
I don’t want this job.
And I didn’t earn it.
But I also didn’t ask for it. And that, somehow, makes all the difference.
I turn left toward the stairs, the clipboard pressed tight to my chest. My shoes click softly on the polished floor.
Welcome to hell.