10. Bethany
Chapter ten
Bethany
My cute boots sink three inches into unplowed snow the second I step onto the outdoor rink.
The practical boots were right by the door. I looked at them.
My early morning self chose style over function.
The gate hangs at a drunken angle, half its hinges rusted into delicate orange lace. The netting sags. The boards bow outward in several places.
Somewhere beneath my irritation, the competent part of me sits up straight.
This is not a vague emergency or someone asking me to just swing by.
This is a real problem.
A complicated, expensive, structurally questionable problem.
Something I can fix.
Probably.
The clipboard rests against my hip.
I pull it free and uncap my pen.
A small thrill runs through me, which is embarrassing considering I am standing ankle-deep in snow beside a collapsing gate.
This is a real assignment. Not just taking care of towels. Not folding chairs. A genuine mess with load-bearing consequences.
The kind of project people might actually remember.
Grant crosses the ice-crusted lot toward me, hands buried in his coat pockets. His dog Major moves at his left knee in a plain service vest, matching Grant’s pace.
Neither of them appears concerned that the rink looks one strong gust away from collapse.
"Give me the honest version," Grant says.
I fight the urge to beam.
Professional women do not light up because someone has asked for their honest assessment of a maintenance project.
They especially do not beam at billionaires.
Even when the billionaire in question is engaged to their mother.
I start walking the perimeter, rattling off hazards as I go.
There are warped boards, missing bolts and a net that's basically decorative. Grant nods along.
“Best-case scenario?” Grant asks.
I look at the sagging net and warped boards. “No one gets injured while we replace half of it.”
I reach the gate and give it an experimental tug. It shrieks like a horror movie extra and jerks sideways, sticking at a diagonal no gate should ever be capable of.
Major’s head snaps toward it, alert but unmoving.
Grant gives a quiet, “Leave it,” and Major settles instantly, though his eyes stay fixed on the gate.
"We may need a new gate," I tell him, deadpan.
Grant studies the gate's tragic new angle.
I crouch by the boards and scrape snow away with my glove to check the wood beneath. It crumbles a little too easily against my thumb.
"The boards?" he asks.
"Needs to be replaced."
Then the real questions start. Contractors. Timelines. Rough costs. He fires them off one after another, and I answer each one steadily, bracing for the moment he realizes I'm winging half of it.
Except. I'm not winging it.
I know which work needs a licensed contractor. I know which materials will survive the winter. I know what can wait and what will become dangerous.
I am not winging this.
I know what I am doing. I let myself enjoy that for a second.
Then I start adding up expenses in my head, and I brace for pushback. This is usually the point where someone asks whether I can find a cheaper shortcut. Or what work I can do myself.
"That pole should be an electrician's job," I say, already prepared for him to argue with me about it.
"Agreed. Let's get someone out to fix it."
I blink at him.
Boots crunch behind me. Timothy is crossing the lot with a shovel balanced against one shoulder.
My brain short-circuits into one unhelpful thought.
Why is his face outside right now?
Looking like that?
"Grant asked me to come," he says, lifting the shovel. "Player perspective."
I grip my clipboard a little tighter.
Grant, unbothered, asks Timothy how the players actually plan to use the rink. And Timothy answers. Pickup games. Practice drills. A place for the guys who aren't getting enough ice time to put in more work.
When he finishes, he shifts slightly away from us and tucks both hands into his coat pockets.
Like saying even that much has exposed more than he intended.
Grant turns back to me. “I want you to coordinate the restoration.”
My pen stills against the clipboard. “The entire thing?”
“Start to finish.”
I nod, pushing down the thrill of excitement.
“Okay.”
The word sounds much steadier than I feel.
"Timothy can be your player contact. He knows what the team needs from the ice."
Timothy goes very still beside me.
I open my mouth.
I am not sure whether I mean to decline, clarify, or ask Grant whether he understands what he has just done.
Nothing comes out.
Grant looks between us. “He’ll help with inspections, decisions, and anything requiring a player’s input.”
“I want this usable as soon as possible,” Grant says to Timothy. “More ice should give you the repetitions you need.”
He claps Timothy once on the shoulder.
“Make the most of it.”
This isn't cleaning up a mess anymore. This is a project. With my name attached to it. And apparently Timothy's.
“You’ll both need to check the site daily,” Grant says. “At least until the structural work is underway.”
Daily.
Beside me, Timothy nods. “Whatever you need, tell me.”
This is work, I remind myself firmly. Only work.
A real project for a real client, with real consequences for my business.
Timothy is simply part of the assignment.
A tall, broad-shouldered, inconveniently attentive part of the assignment.
I pull the clipboard up and start writing. Boards. Gate. Lights. Contractor calls. Anything to keep my pen moving and my face from revealing that my professional opportunity has just become an emotional hazard.
Timothy waits beside me, shovel planted in the snow.
When I glance up, he is already looking at me. He looks every bit as cornered as I feel.
I underline daily site visits at the bottom of the page. Then I just stare at it.
There is no version of this job that doesn't involve seeing Timothy constantly. Worse, there is no version where I can pretend he is only in the way.
If this rink works, it helps my business and his spot on the team, which makes avoiding him unprofessional, inconvenient, and tragically impossible.
The pen hovers over the page. Well. At least I'll have a very detailed record of exactly how this went wrong.
I cap the pen and tuck the clipboard beneath my arm with as much dignity as I can manage in snow-filled fashion boots.
Then I look at the broken gate.
At Grant.
At Timothy.
And accept that I have just signed up for my own undoing.
Professionally, of course.