3. Wren #2
I can tell he wants to say more. He chews on his tongue, debating the words, before shaking his head. “Get upstairs. You’ll be spending the rest of the day with the admin team. Patricia is already waiting on you.”
He steps back, holding the door open with a dramatic little sweep of his arm, like he’s dismissing me from his presence.
As I squeeze past him, he delivers a final blow to my self-worth. “We expect more from our interns. Even from someone who walked in through the back door.”
That lands. Hard.
My pulse roars in my ears, and I can feel the heat in my cheeks as I step into the hallway. Without looking back, I half jog down it in a bid to put as much distance between Dean Carver and myself as possible.
When I reach the base of the stairs that lead to the Kings’ operations offices, my feet hesitate. I don’t want to go up there. I want to go home. I want to crawl under a blanket and pretend none of this happened—pretend today never happened.
But I don’t have that luxury.
By the time I push through the frosted glass door marked “Staff Only,” a woman—Patricia, presumably—is already waiting for me, standing behind a massive oak desk with a headset perched on her perfectly curled bob.
Other staff members are spread out across the large bullpen, headsets on or hunched over their computer screens.
“You’re late,” Patricia snaps when she spots me, barely sparing me a glance before grabbing a large stack of files from her desk.
“I—I know. Dean sent me—”
“Yes, I know,” she cuts in. “You’re the one who replaced Laura.”
I blink. “Laura?”
“The actual intern.” Her voice is level, but the words drip acid. “The one who worked her ass off all summer for this spot. The one who earned it until...” She finally glances up at me, her smile tight and fake. “Nepotism pulled rank.”
My stomach twists. “I didn’t know—”
“Of course you didn’t,” she says smoothly. “Why would you? Girls like you don’t need to work for anything. It’s all handed to you.”
My lips part, but no words come out.
God, this woman is even more brutal than Dean.
Patricia steps out from behind her desk, heels clicking across the hardwood floor.
The office is high-ceilinged, all stone archways and dark leather furniture—opulence that lacks any warmth.
She gestures toward a smaller desk shoved up against the wall, slightly removed from everyone else.
“You can sit there. Don’t touch anything unless I tell you to.
If the phone rings, don’t answer it. If you get a text, ignore it.
This is a professional workspace, not a sorority lounge. ”
I nod quickly, eager to make a better impression on her than I have on Dean so far.
She drops the files on the desk in front of me. “Start alphabetizing these by last name. And be careful with them—some of these players’ contracts are more important than your entire future.”
She disappears down the hall without waiting for a response.
For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the papers like they might rearrange themselves.
My heart is still thundering in my chest, and I feel like a kid who’s wandered into a classroom halfway through a test. I can feel eyes on me, but I refuse to look up.
I don’t need to see the judgment on everyone else’s face.
Nepotism.
The word sticks like gum to the roof of my mouth.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard it. Definitely won’t be the last. But today, it cuts deeper, because she’s not wrong.
If I were in her shoes, I’d see the same thing everyone else does: Entitlement in designer shoes. A rich girl playing at real life.
Except that’s so far from who I am.
I’m unaccustomed to working for a hockey team in an office setting, but I am not unfamiliar with hard work. I’ve worked behind a bar since freshman year, living off the tips I made so I didn’t have to touch my trust fund—and the strings that came along with it.
Blowing out a breath, I force the tension out of my body. Then, I focus on the task at hand. I flip through the files slowly, careful not to smudge the paper with my sweaty palms, before I begin sorting them alphabetically.
I don’t need to be liked here. I just need to survive.
Some time later, the creaking of the door announces Patricia’s return. I glance up, eyeing the coffee cup in her hand. She makes a beeline directly toward me.
“Are you finished yet?”
“Nearly.”
She studies me for a beat longer than necessary. “When you are, start cross-referencing the names with the medical clearance sheets in the blue folder. Make a note of any missing signatures.”
I nod firmly. “Okay.”
Grabbing the next file in the pile, I flip it open, feeling her eyes boring into the top of my head.
I don’t lift my gaze, not needing to hear any more today about how undeserving I am of this opportunity.
If only she knew, I don’t want this opportunity.
To be here. In this room, this stadium, on this campus.
But the life of a Winslow means rarely getting what you want.
The past three years let me believe I could escape. That I’d cut the leash and built something real. But it was always there, coiled around my throat, waiting for the right moment to yank me back.
Still, I’m not the same girl I was at eighteen, fresh-eyed and going off to college, tasting freedom for the first time away from the shadow of my family name.
She didn’t survive what came after.
So no, I don’t want to be here. And I’m sure as hell not wanted here.
But I am here.
And if they’re going to drag me back into this world, then I’ll make damn sure they regret it.
By the time I make it home, my feet are screaming.
I kick off my heels the second I walk through the front door, one skidding under the coffee table, the other slamming into the wall. I don’t care. They deserve it. So do I, for wearing them in the first place.
My blouse clings uncomfortably to my back as I reach for the light switch. Everything feels too tight. Too stiff. I strip it off in the hallway and toss it over the back of the couch, then tug my skirt down over my hips, stepping out of it as I pad barefoot into the bedroom.
Opening the top drawer of my dresser, I pull out my favorite hoodie.
It’s oversized, faded black, the cuffs fraying at the seams. There’s a tiny bleach stain near the hem that looks like a heart if you squint.
Pairing it with matching cycle shorts, I shuffle into the kitchen.
Grabbing a large mug, I fill it with milk and chocolate powder before sticking it in the microwave.
As the seconds count down, I go about my evening routine of double-checking the deadbolt.
Then the latch on each of the windows. Then I check again, just to be sure.
The microwave beeps as I finish with the last window, doing a quick scan of the quiet street below before pulling the curtains and turning my back on the outside world.
Retrieving my scalding hot mug, I add a hefty dose of whipped cream and marshmallows—definitely deserved after today. The scent hits me like a hug, and I wrap both hands around the mug, carrying it to the couch.