Chapter Seven
Sadie
I descend the spiral staircase from the third floor to the first, clutching the worn wooden banister in one hand and the bottom of my gown in the other as I take each step carefully.
One misplacement of my feet in these towering heels could send me and my pride tumbling at best, and straight to the ER at worst.
I’m sure the press would love that headline: Coach Eats It Before Home Opener.
Casual air of danger aside, I’m obsessed with my house. I love it in that ardent way Gen X loves John Stamos, specifically in his role as Uncle Jesse on Full House, or the way millennials love Pedro Pascal, or Gen Z loves…still Pedro, actually.
When I saw this house on the market for rent—and the 215 bookmarks on the post—I did the thing most people only have nightmares about: called the number on the listing.
No one answered, but the outgoing message sounded like a kind older man, so I left a voicemail asking if he’d be willing to hear my plea to rent his home in person over a meal.
Robert “Bucky” Talisman is actually quite crochety, but was tickled enough by the invite—“no one knows how to pick up a phone anymore”—that he accepted.
We ended up talking for hours at The Wharf Diner over coffee and my first ever Maine lobster roll.
Turns out he’s a huge hockey fan and despises everything the Fury has done the last few years.
He had plenty of suggestions about what we need to do to turn the ship around.
Needless to say, I got the house, and permission to add a roommate when Vivi officially got the job. And a diner buddy in Bucky.
Some places feel like a perfect pair of skates, broken in exactly right, and I knew from the second I stepped over the threshold onto the maple-planked floor that this was it for me.
Offbeat and vintage, the dark paneling and focal staircase located dead center of the octagonal foyer makes the whole place feel like the inside of a captain’s quarters on a boat.
In a nautical city, this place fits in and stands out all at once.
My fears about leaving the life I’d built in Minnesota and my friends and coworkers from Team USA faded to a dull hum once Vivi and I moved in together. So far, Maine feels like home.
If only the team didn’t own me and I had spare time to explore it.
“Finally!” declares Vivi, who finished getting ready before I did and made herself a Smirnoff and soda while she waited for me to get my makeup just right. “You really know how to make an entrance.”
“It’s impossible to go down these stairs without being a little dramatic about it,” I say. “I still can’t get over your dress. You look great.”
It’s red and sparkly, the perfect mix of devilish and sweet. Very Viv. Her blond curls, usually a force to be reckoned with, are slicked back and twisted into a chic bun at the nape of her neck.
“Yeah?” She strikes a few poses. “I figured it was fitting for casino night.”
“Like the ace of hearts,” I offer.
“Or the ace of diamonds.”
“Good point. You’re definitely a diamond.”
“And you are a sexy little sapphire.” She takes a quick sip from the glass she’s stained with her dark lipstick. “That color couldn’t be more perfect. Let me guess: you reverse image-searched your eyes and found the best match?”
“No. But that’s a brilliant idea, actually.
” I smooth my hands over my dress. It’s strapless, and tight through my hips and thighs, with a generous slit up my leg.
I tried to find something conservative since it’s a work function, but the heart-shaped neckline does show a little cleavage.
I opted to leave my hair down for a change, though it’s swept up on one side and pinned with a silver barrette to give me an Old Hollywood sort of glam.
“What time is the car coming again?” she asks.
I glance at the clock on the wall, a musical collector’s item that sings “All My Loving” by the Beatles at the top of every hour.
It’s one of the few decorative things I brought into the partially furnished rental when I moved in, a hand-me-down that survived my parents’ divorce purge.
“The driver should be here at five-fifteen. So any minute now.”
She follows my gaze to the wall. “What if that thing goes off when one of us has a man over? Do they automatically get all our loving?”
“Ha-ha,” I deadpan.
“I’m serious!”
“That’s all you. Let me know how it turns out.”
Because personally, I have no plans to invite a man into my space for a long while, not so long as I’m this busy. It hasn’t worked out well for me in the past.
She gives me a pointed look but is kind enough not to force the issue. My friend knows me all too well.
Vivi and I met in college at the University of Oregon, when we both requested to room with a student athlete on our dorm applications.
We were both so absorbed by our separate training schedules that we promised we’d hold each other accountable for one normal night of college co-ed fun per month so we wouldn’t wind up with regrets.
99 percent of my bad life decisions happened on those nights, and a beautiful friendship was born. One that endured long past graduation and our moves to separate cities—she to figure skating headquarters in Colorado Springs, and I to hockey HQ in Minnesota.
“It’s smart not to invite a man here,” she says.
“It’s much easier to figure out if a guy is married or in a relationship or otherwise shady if you refuse to invite them to your place first, because it forces them to invite you over.
” She lifts her hands. “Not that you’re dating right now, nor am I pushing. Just thinking aloud.”
The idea of dating agitates a shallow pool of sadness that lives deep inside me. Or maybe it’s one of those puddles that never fully evaporates. It doesn’t consume me, doesn’t drown me anymore, but remains there no matter how much time passes.
I had a man. I loved the man.
Letting Robbie go when I accepted the job coaching Team USA was the only way I could show it.
And now, years later, he’s happily married to someone else who’s giving him the life and babies and weekends at Lake Piccola that he always dreamed of.
I want a family of my own. Some days, I want it so bad it feels like they already exist in a parallel universe and I can’t reach them, an empty yearning that can’t really be compared to anything else.
But I’m not sure how to do this job and not half-ass every other area of my life.
How selfish would it be to try and have the dream job and the dream life?
To let my kids be taken care of by other people around the clock as I give hockey everything I have?
In this world, a woman can have it all, but it’s nearly impossible to have it all at the same time. And I made my choice. I’ve made it many times over, all to get me here.
Vivi downs the rest of her drink and sets her glass in the sink. “It’s a gorgeous night. Let’s wait on the porch so we can see the car coming.”
I transfer my necessities from my regular purse into my fancy velvet clutch. “I’m very curious how this event will go. Will the men behave?”
“Will there be actual gambling?” she counters. “Waiters with tailcoats? A fight instigated by Ivan the Terrible?”
I have no idea what to expect, frankly. The head of marketing and PR, Isla Keane, planned this whole fundraiser for Maine’s largest children’s hospital.
Hired at the start of August, Isla is still new to her role and immediately jumped headfirst into preparing this event.
I’ll be curious what she was able to pull off with rather short notice.
It’s at the Fury Dome in our largest event space, Glacier Hall, so hopefully it’s ritzy enough to inspire large donations to the cause.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” I say.
All I know is it’s my first formal event in this role, and I can’t misstep. So in a sense, the spiral staircase was exactly the practice I needed.
They rolled out an actual red carpet leading from the valet drop-off to the front doors.
“Well, cheers to Miss Isla, event planner to the stars.” I carefully climb out of the Mercedes SUV behind Vivi. Several cars have pulled up behind us in the thirty seconds we’ve been parked. A small crowd has gathered at the entrance, which bodes well for attendance tonight.
Even though I’ve been to countless meetings at the Dome, I can’t help but peer up in wonder at the large, impressive building, the fortress of steel and glass where our first game will take place in mere days.
A group of inordinately tall, suited men walk about fifteen feet ahead of us.
Callum, Nic, and Gabriel, who all live in the condos at Chandler’s Wharf, were likely picked up together.
The Wharf’s owner has a deal with the Fury, and she’ll do just about anything to keep us happy—so long as we keep throwing high-profile NHL players her way.
Several people with cameras are lined up near the door, though whether they’re actual paparazzi or hired by Isla I cannot say. The effect is the same; I fix a smile I don’t really mean on my face and pose when they ask me to, first alone and then with Vivi by my side.
“Hope we look as bangin’ as I feel,” Vivi murmurs as we walk on.
Unease prickles my skin. “Those are going to wind up on someone’s page, and people will use it as an excuse to pick apart—”
“Fuck ’em.” She hooks her arm through mine. “They won’t have a bad word to say about you in that dress, and if they do, it’ll be a lie.”
I’m not worried about their opinions on my dress, though I’d rather be in my coaching uniform.
It’s the discussions about how I’m running the franchise even further into the ground—before we’ve even had our first game—that I’d like to avoid.
But if Isla posts a photo of me on the Fury’s main page, that’s exactly what will happen in the comment section.
She’s the biggest mistake they’ve ever made.