Chapter Two
TWO
HAILEY’S DAILY RULE FOR SUCCESS:
Always be early. On time is late.
Late, I pull my convertible into the parking lot of the posh private high school in a rich area of town where I absolutely did not live ten years ago. My mother stretched the truth on the school application—specifically our zip code—to ensure I could attend. Then she held three minimum wage jobs to pay the lofty tuition fees. She firmly believed that a good education would break our family’s “curse” of bad financial luck, even though she never fully explained what that meant and made sure I stayed away from anyone who could. Growing up I never knew any other family besides her and I respected her enough not to go seeking. I knew she had her reasons and I trusted them. She was the only person I needed in my life anyway. Strong, independent, and fearless, she taught me to trust my own instincts, follow my goals, and never let anyone tell me I don’t belong.
My job was to keep my nose down and grades up.
I delivered.
And now my zip code reflects the status of this high school. Unfortunately, after a valiant battle with breast cancer, my mother hadn’t lived long enough to see it.
I take a deep breath as I stare at the “Career Week” banner draped across the front door of the school. A bell sounds and teens wearing school uniforms—altered to reflect their individuality—swarm inside the building. Ten years ago, the wrong shade of tights would have sent a student home with a detention warning. Now the skirts are shorter, worn with fishnet stockings or knee-high socks. Blazers are adorned with patches and the expensive, flashy runners are definitely a newly permitted accessory.
I lower the visor and stare at my reflection in the tiny mirror.
Deep breath in, deep breath out...
You belong here.
Inside the high school, nothing has changed. It even smells the same—a slightly nauseating combination of gym socks, pencil shavings, and disinfectant. Hallways are lined with lockers thick with generations of painted-over graffiti and stickers. An impressive trophy case displays the school’s athletic achievements. On the walls are posters about next year’s student council elections and the upcoming prom.
I round the corner toward the gymnasium and nearly collide with...
Warren Mitchell.
He swiftly dodges me as though I might set him on fire if our skin touches.
If only.
“Hailstorm.” It’s a mix of heavy disdain and physical pain.
I fold my arms across my chest and narrow my eyes at the old nickname. “I’m pretty sure I’ve asked you to stop calling me that.”
“I’m pretty sure I don’t give a shit.”
Still the most immature person on the planet. “What are you doing here?” Please let him be coaching the high school football team or something. Unfortunately, he’s not wearing athletic gear, but a pair of dress pants and pale blue dress shirt open at the collar and rolled at the sleeves. In my gut I know what’s coming.
“I was invited to give a career week speech,” he says as though it’s the greatest honor of his life.
I knew it, but still, no fucking way. “Today?”
His smug expression is wiped from his face as his gaze flickers over my own professional-looking attire. “That’s why you’re here too?”
“They usually only ask one speaker a day. You must have gotten your date wrong.”
Warren folds his arms across his chest and yeah okay, the muscular forearms are definitely his best feature. His only redeeming feature. Would I like to touch one? Absolutely. Will I? Never. I learned my lesson about touching Warren Mitchell the hard way. I mean if I was dangling from a cliff and he was the only person around to save me, would I consider letting him wrap those arms around my body? Perhaps...
“Maybe you got your date wrong,” he says, bending slightly at the knees to jerk my attention to his face and away from the muscles that were holding me hostage.
“No, see, I put my appointments on a calendar, not on the back of my hand.”
Warren opens his mouth to argue then notices ink smeared on his hand. I take a step closer and squint to read what’s written on his tanned skin. The last two digits of a phone number are smudged and unreadable.
“I guess Sasha won’t be getting a second date.”
Warren shrugs. “One date was probably enough.”
“For her, absolutely.”
Warren starts to retort but Mrs. Miller, a twelfth grade teacher, approaches us. She looks overworked, exhausted, surviving on caffeine and teen angst. I have no idea how teachers do it. They are real-life heroes. I like kids well enough—from a distance. Zero desire to have any of my own. Risk passing along this...condition? No thanks.
Somehow, Mrs. Miller still has enough energy to greet us with a warm smile and genuine excitement. “Wonderful. You both made it!”
“Hello, Mrs. Miller. Great to see you,” I say politely. “Um, question—isn’t there usually only one guest speaker?” I cast a side-eye at Warren.
Mrs. Miller nods and looks apologetic as she glances back and forth between us. “There was a scheduling conflict, but we know how hard it was to get you...”
She’s referring to me.
I catch Warren’s look from the corner of my eye and I know what’s going through that judgy mind of his. I think I’m too busy and important to give back to the next generation. He doesn’t know me, so I don’t know why I let his opinion—his very wrong opinion—affect me.
“My schedule’s a little tight,” I say to Mrs. Miller.
She nods. “We didn’t want to reschedule either of you when we realized the mix-up, so we thought a joint presentation would be perfect.”
In an alternate universe, maybe.
“Perfect,” I say with a tight smile. I won’t let this unexpected run-in with my arch nemesis derail me. I am a confident, successful business owner. I belong here. My daily affirmation seems to lack conviction the more I repeat it.
Another bell signaling the start of first period and Mrs. Miller checks her watch. “We’re just bringing the students into the gymnasium now. Give us a minute to get them all settled. This close to summer break, they turn into assholes.”
Ah, right there. Pure, unfiltered truth.
As she heads into the gymnasium, Warren turns to me. “Seems as though we’ll be sharing the stage.”
“Or you could offer to come back another day.”
“Afraid a professional athlete will be more popular with the kids?”
“ Former professional athlete.”
The minute the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. One run-in without dredging up the past would have been too much to ask.
“And whose fault is that?” Warren asks wryly.
Shit went down two years earlier...
I was walking through LAX, dressed in travel chic, pulling an expensive carry-on behind me as I weaved through the travelers in the departures lounge on my way to a life coaching conference in New York.
Warren was walking in the opposite direction, a football logo’d duffel bag on his shoulder. Head down, looking at his cell phone, he bumped into me as we both entered the security line.
“Hailstorm! Haven’t seen you since high school,” he’d said.
“I dropped that nickname back then. And for the record, you were the only one to use it,” I’d reminded him. I’d never figured out why he called me that. It’s not exactly flattering and up until that day, I’d never done him any harm.
Warren gestured for me to enter the line in front of him. “Tough break about you and Liam.”
I cringed internally at the mention of my ex. The breakup a few years before had made sense, but it still hit me hard and Warren being Liam’s best friend, I suspected he’d heard the dude’s version of the story, which most likely included phrases like: “She’s too obsessed with her career.” “She’s guarded and closed off.” “She’s too stressed and busy for sex.” That last one in particular wasn’t a rumor I loved circulating.
“High school relationships rarely last,” I said, giving the same excuse I’d repeated to myself while I recovered from the toughest disappointment I’d had to face since my mother’s death.
Desperate to change the subject, I nodded toward his duffel bag. “Headed to preseason?”
Warren shook his head. “Try-outs for the Rangers. I went free agent this year.”
“You gave up the security of a contract? That’s brave,” I said with genuine admiration. I wasn’t too knowledgeable about the world of pro sports, but going out on his own—backing himself—was actually a sexy trait. Not that I’d ever looked at my boyfriend’s best friend in that way, but anyone with eyes could appreciate Warren’s six-foot-three muscular frame and dimples for days. His easygoing, carefree demeanor combined with his stardom was a lethal combination for those women inclined toward athletes...which I absolutely was not.
“Isn’t your company motto all about taking risks, backing yourself?” he asked as we moved along the security line.
“You follow me on social media?” He didn’t strike me as the scroller type.
“I’ve caught a post or two,” he said flirtingly.
I didn’t take the flirting personally. Warren was charming, charismatic, and as emotionally unavailable as he was gorgeous. I couldn’t remember him ever having a serious girlfriend. Even “casual dating” was too permanent a description of his relationships. Football was his only obsession.
The line moved again and we shuffled forward. A kid, playing with a stuffed animal bumped me and I fell forward. Warren caught my hands against his and our lifelines connected.
Let the record show that I was not at fault for glimpsing into his future or the disastrous aftermath, but what I saw in that brief clip rocked me to my core.
Warren, dressed in his football gear, training with the Rangers. A few great plays...then a linebacker collided with him, leaving him seriously injured. Medics rushed out to the field and everyone looked devastated.
Then, he was lying in a hospital bed, hooked to monitors, fighting for his life.
I gasped as I stepped back from him. We’d reached the front of the security line. I had mere seconds to talk him out of these tryouts. “Are you sure this is the team you really want to play for?”
“It’s my dream team, so yeah, pretty sure.”
“Right, but what about home team loyalty and all that?”
“I go where the rings are,” he said.
A guard motioned us to keep moving and I took my time putting my stuff into the bins on the conveyor belt. He motioned for me to hurry up, but I ignored him. Time was ticking.
Warren filled his bin and waited behind me with blissful ignorance. I tried to appear calm, but inside I was losing my shit. I couldn’t let him get on that plane.
“I just think you should think about what you really want,” I said. “Maybe when I get back from my conference in New York, we could meet...”
The flirty smile was back. “For drinks? Sure. For life coaching—pass. I’m good.”
I needed to level with him. “Look, if you keep playing football you’re going to get hurt.”
“Part of the job.” He said it like several concussions in a career were expected and some sort of rite of passage. He wasn’t getting it.
“No, I mean, really hurt.”
Something in my voice gave him pause. His grin faded and worry crossed his seafoam-colored eyes. “How do you know?”
The absolute toughest part of having this ability is knowing no one would take me seriously if I answered that question truthfully. “Just a feeling...”
“Like some Final Destination shit?”
If that’s what it took to convince him. “Something like that.”
He looked concerned for a brief second and my hopes rose, but then, “You’ve always been a bit of a weirdo, Hailstorm,” he said teasingly.
The guard flagged me toward the metal detector.
I reluctantly passed through, but as Warren followed behind me and started to gather his things from the conveyor belt on the other side, I panicked.
All out of options...
“That guy is trafficking drugs!” I yelled, pointing a finger at him.
Warren scoffed, then his eyes widened as two overzealous guards grabbed him. Chaos followed until the next thing I knew he was pinned to the floor. He looked up at me. “Hailstorm—what the hell? She’s kidding guys,” he told the guards sitting on his back.
Apparently not something to kid about as one guard radioed for airport police.
From the floor, Warren shot me a desperate look for help, but there was nothing I could do. I’d just saved his life even though he didn’t know it and I refused to overthink or regret my actions. This was for his own good.
I mouthed “sorry” with a sincere look, then grabbed my things and started to head to my gate but...
“That woman has a bomb!” Warren yelled after me.
Another set of guards chased after me with a large, menacing looking canine. I have an irrational fear of dogs, but this time it seemed warranted. The thing was snarling and foaming at the mouth as it approached.
So, naturally, I ran.
I didn’t get far before the dog gripped my bag between its sharp fangs and the guards tackled me to the airport floor. Arguing was futile as the dog started sniffing me—my belongings, my ass...
“Hey! Cut that out,” I told it. Who’d hide a bomb up their ass? I glanced across the room and saw another dog sniffing Warren’s butt. That made more sense.
Moments later, after excruciating embarrassment, where I kept my head low and prayed no one recognized me, Warren and I were both escorted into a search room, where things happened that I will never forget or reveal. I watched the time tick away as we missed our respective flights and received a six-month travel ban for the “prank.” I wouldn’t be making it to my conference, but Warren wasn’t in danger anymore.
But did he thank me?
Now, as we stand in the school hallway and glare at one another, it’s clear I’m still not going to get any appreciation.
Mrs. Miller pops her head out through the gymnasium door, interrupting the silent stare-off. “We’re ready for you both.”
Showing up Hailey Harris wasn’t on my agenda for today, but I’m more than happy to rise to the occasion.
As soon as this wave of nostalgia passes.
Maple High’s mascot—a Teen Shark—and team colors have been freshly repainted on the gymnasium walls, but other than that, it still feels the same. The same excited energy of the Friday night crowd at the basketball game hits me. The thrill of the competition and the cheers from the home team fans. I spent so many high school nights in this gymnasium.
Now I’m back in a different way. Hundreds of students sit in their cliques on the bleachers. Faculty sits on the gymnasium floor behind the podiums and mics set up for the speeches. And every last person in attendance is waiting for me to impart some words of wisdom.
I’d have said no if it wouldn’t have made me feel like an asshole. Truth is, I’m much better on the field offering support and guidance than wearing dress clothes and needing to stay on script—minding my p’s and q’s. Getting through this without dropping an f-bomb will be a miracle.
And now there’s the added pressure of sharing the spotlight.
Hailey isn’t struggling at all with a lack of confidence. Dressed in fitted, fashionable dress pants, a loose-fitting blouse, and wedge heels, she’s casual yet professional and looking cool as a cucumber. This is her thing. She lives for the sound of her own voice.
She does look good though. I can begrudgingly give her that. Not the same adorable team mascot desperate to fit in that she was ten years ago. Success agrees with her, I guess. I’d be happy for her if she hadn’t stolen mine.
Mrs. Miller stands and addresses the loud, rowdy crowd. “Settle down...okay everyone...”
The students continue to ignore her. She wasn’t kidding about teenagers being assholes. But who could blame them? This time of year, I’d been itching to be outside too, not stuck in a classroom. I’d never been studious...unlike Cliff. Valedictorian, top of his class, ambitious and driven, my brother was going places. He should be standing here delivering an inspirational speech.
Coach Green, dressed in a team logo’d tracksuit, stands and lets out a long, loud whistle. Everyone settles.
Mrs. Miller sends the man a smile that looks like a little more than just gratitude. Something definitely going on under the bleachers there. “Thank you, Coach Green,” she says.
He winks at her and she blushes.
“Continuing our career week festivities, we are lucky to have two of Maple High’s very own alumni here today for a special double presentation,” Mrs. Miller says, gesturing for us to take a podium and mic. “We have Warren Mitchell, professional football player and winner of two championship rings...”
Jocks in the crowd cheer and I can’t resist sending Hailey a look. That’s right. They love me.
“And we have Hailey Harris, influencer and life coach to the stars, to provide some inspiration.”
Of course, the social media–obsessed cheer for her. Which is arguably double the crowd. She shoots me her own smug look and I can admit it’s warranted. The applause is definitely louder and goes on seemingly forever.
Kids these days are brainwashed.
“Who’d like to start?” Mrs. Miller asks, looking back and forth between us.
I gesture Hailey forward. “Ladies first.”
“In other words, you have nothing prepared,” Hailey mumbles under her breath as she reaches into the pocket of the curve-hugging pants and takes out what looks like a dozen pages.
Most likely a snore-fest. I’m not stressing.
“Or just saving the best for last.”
Hailey shoots me an icy glare, then smiles confidently as she turns to address the crowd. “Hello, students and faculty of Maple High. It’s an honor to be back in these old familiar halls. I think we all know the impact social media has on our lives...”
“Stress, anxiety, self-confidence issues,” I mumble behind her back.
Hailey ignores me but her spine stiffens as she continues. “With so many people vying for attention and recognition these days, any successful business or professional requires that their brand be distinguishable from the competition.”
“At the cost of putting their entire personal life on display.” I tried to shut up. I did. But I have this inability to not call out bullshit when I hear it.
Hailey swings toward me, a fiery look in her light blue eyes.
Uh-oh. I’ve angered the beast.
“Online personas are usually avatars of ourselves,” she counters.
Okay, for the record she started it.
I approach the mic but keep my gaze locked on her. “So, it’s all fake?”
I hear her teeth clench so hard, I’m expecting a tooth to fall out when she speaks. “No,” she says slowly, as though I’ve had too many concussions to comprehend the single-syllable word. “It’s deciding how much of ourselves we want to reveal, how vulnerable we choose to be. It’s up to us to decide what aspects of our lives the public has access to.”
“I’m just saying people—especially young adults—need to be more active, interact with others in real life, not through altered personas.”
“Real life requires an edge. It’s not all fun and games. Even athletes need the exposure that social media provides.”
“Then why are you having such a hard time adding sports clients to your roster?”
One point Mitchell. Zero Harris.
The crowd acknowledges the sick burn and as much as I’d like to revel in the win, something in her expression makes me feel a tad guilty for calling her out like that. Just a tad. Or maybe it was the burrito I ate late last night after dropping Sasha at home, making my insides churn. Either way, my sympathy capacity for Hailey Harris is not enough to give it another thought.
Hailey checks her bajillion pages, skips a dozen or so, composes herself and continues. “Excellence is something we can all achieve. It just takes hard work, commitment, dedication, and perseverance.”
I should let it go. I’ve got one win. Still, my mouth is on autopilot. “Today’s society is putting so much pressure on people. This hustle culture isn’t healthy or sustainable.”
Hailey turns to face me again, her cool dissipating quickly. The front of my dress pants pulsates when her laser beam gaze tries to pin me in place. Riled-up Hailey is kinda a turn-on.
“Says the man who doesn’t get out of bed until noon.”
Oh, now it’s getting personal.
“I’m just saying failure is not a fatal flaw. If it takes a little longer to achieve one’s goals, that’s okay. Life is not a race.”
“You also can’t stand still. There is nothing worse than having a great idea or product and failing to bring it to market before someone else,” she says pointedly—to the crowd this time.
Damn, I cued her up for that one.
“We all know posting online is solely for praise and recognition,” I say, running out of fuel.
“Successful people post to inspire and encourage others,” she says turning to look at me again. “There’s no shame in bragging about personal achievements and I think we need to normalize being proud of ourselves and what I’ve achieved.”
And there it is.
Hailey realizes what she’s said and coughs. “What a person achieves...”
Every argumentative fiber in my being wants to keep this debate going. I’m getting more turned on as we go. By the fight, not Hailey Harris—just to be clear, but I notice that the teachers and students are staring at us and I don’t need a boner to fuel Hailey’s ego.
I clear my throat and address the students. “I’ll just say that sports are hugely important and not just for those of you hoping to go into professional athletic careers. Sports teach life skills and discipline. But it’s also meant to be fun. If you’re not enjoying it, what’s the point?”
“What’s the point?” Hailey scoffs. “Success, financial security... Some of us weren’t born into luxury.”
“Says the woman who lives in a multimillion-dollar mansion.”
Somehow, we’ve moved closer to one another as we’ve been speaking and Mrs. Miller quickly stands and moves us back toward our respective podiums before things turn physical.
Kinda a shame. I’d like to see what she’s got.
“Well, that was great,” the teacher says. “Really...insightful and informative. Right, students?”
Pretty sure this speech was scheduled for an hour. I check my watch. Hailey and I have failed at the task epically enough to be cut short by forty-six minutes. I lower my head and stare at the gymnasium floor.
A low rumble through the crowd and half-hearted applause confirm the kids thought the whole thing was complete bullshit. Not a token of wisdom to be had between us.
Hailey and I have the decency to at least look suitably embarrassed.
I can’t let things end this way. I lean toward the mic. “I’d like to conclude by offering a donation of five thousand dollars to the sports program.”
Now the crowd cheers for real.
Hailey rises to the challenge. “I’ll match that donation for the social and technology clubs.”
More applause.
“Did I say five? I meant ten.”
Hailey stammers slightly but, chin raised, she nods. “I’ll match that amount.”
Behind us, the teachers look flabbergasted by our generosity. Mrs. Miller steps forward, but Coach Green stops her.
“Wait, let’s see how high they’ll go,” he whispers.
Mrs. Miller shoots him a look and goes to the microphone. “On that note, let’s conclude today’s career week presentation.”
Smart. Cut us off on a high, before it goes sideways again.
“A special thanks to Hailey Harris and Warren Mitchell for their generous contributions,” she says, applauding us. “Early lunch everyone.”
I wave to the crowd as they quickly disperse from the bleachers. “If anyone wants an autograph...” No one’s listening.
Hailey stifles a laugh, but I don’t see anyone clamoring to meet her either. Kids are tougher to impress these days.
In the hallway a moment later, Hailey and I race toward the exit and try to leave at the same time through the same door, our bodies colliding again. She’s actually stronger than she looks. Her five-foot-three frame should have been sailing across the hallway with the body check I just delivered, yet she holds her own as we lodge ourselves in the door frame in our struggle to get through.
This is ridiculous. I know it. Yet something about her turns me into an immature dick. I begrudgingly, generously, stand back and motion for her to go first. I can be the bigger person.
Nose in the air, she pushes through the door.
I slide my sunglasses on, then quickly catch the swinging door she’s released before it hits me in the face. “Always a pleasure,” I say through gritted teeth as we step out into the sunshine.
Hailey simply flips me off as she heads toward her convertible.