Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
Olivia
I’m fifteen minutes into my job interview with some tech bro and I’ve already zoned out twice. He’s talking an awful lot about
himself for my interview, so much so that he’s got a sudsy white froth gathering at the corners of his mouth. To avoid bringing attention
to it, I keep my eyes fixated on the embroidered company logo stitched over the heart of his Patagonia vest. No matter how
deeply I stare, I can’t seem to picture myself in fleece.
Dax Newton, principal data scientist at Harvest for the last ten years, where they do software solutions for farming—I think?
I don’t know. The whole thing is putting me to sleep.
Oh, no, now he’s quiet. The glare of his computer screen projects on the lenses of his thin-framed glasses, but behind the
screen saver his beady gray eyes are locked on mine, his mouth drawn in a thin line. He’s waiting for me to say something. What did he ask?
Panicked, I ask, “What type of projects would I work on in this position?”
He pauses before launching into another long-winded spiel about Python.
Relieved, I retreat back into my mind. Recently, I got word that Felix is nearing a full recovery, which means my time in the mascot suit is coming to an end—and with it, the extra paychecks.
Which would be fine, if I hadn’t spent the entire season neglecting my data research business.
While Brody has stolen my heart, I’ve been bleeding out clients and hemorrhaging my savings.
My hopes of moving into my own place are just a fantasy if I don’t land another big client.
After a bunch of dead-end emails, Harvest replied, looking to schedule an interview. Except they aren’t looking to hire a
freelancer; they’re trying to fill an open full-time position. A year ago, this was exactly what I always wanted. Today, I’m
bored.
Even falling asleep wouldn’t be enough disassociation to remove myself from this situation. I’d need to hurl my body out the
window to end the misery. I can’t picture myself enthusiastically waking up every morning to work in this sterile lifeless
office building. Like a lonely fan for the opposing team surrounded by home team spirit, I feel terribly out of place sitting
here. It’s painfully quiet. There’s no energy in this building. No one’s offered me a high five. The uniforms suck. What’s
the point of having a job if you can’t yell, “Let’s fucking go!” at the top of your lungs. Screw a keyboard, give me a drum.
“We’ll be in touch,” he says, shaking my hand, and I hope he’s lying.
Outside the office building, I search the streets for Brody.
He’s meeting me and together we’re going to watch the Barn Muckers in what will be Tori’s first game back from injury.
A championship showdown and I’m coaching.
Since it appears I’m going to be stuck in her guest room awhile longer, this is the least I can do to get on Tori’s good side before I have to tell her this interview was a bust and I’m extending my stay indefinitely.
I spot Brody across the street, wool sweater and all. It’s been spring for weeks and yet he’s still dressed ready to fight
a deep chill. I used to make fun of him for it, but now it’s endearing. He’s always got a warm hand to put on my bare shoulder—plus,
this is Minnesota, after all; snow in April isn’t uncommon.
I wave him down enthusiastically.
“Olivia!” someone shouts from behind me. Before I can turn around, they’re shouting for me again. “Olivia Hinckley!”
The sound of my last name feels like a fist squeezing my lungs. With Brody in earshot, I turn around to find Dax hailing me
down.
“Hi,” I reply tightly, hoping there’s no need to repeat my full government name—like ever again. Brody’s at my side. He’s
standing politely while I stand guard.
“You!” Dax says. “It didn’t hit me until after you left the interview. I was a huge fan of your dad growing up,” he gushes.
Right when I was finally free from his long-winded spiels, he finds me again. I thought data scientists were supposed to be
quiet introverts. And why does everyone in this goddamn state love hockey so much?
“Thanks.” I don’t look over at Brody. I keep my answers short, willing this conversation to end.
Dax keeps going. “Killer Kev? That was your dad, right?”
I nod once, holding my lips together and pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth so I don’t vomit.
Dax’s eyes dart between Brody and me until it finally clicks. “Oh, my God,” he gasps. He’s as passionate about the Freeze
as he is about farming corn data.
“Most people just call me Brody.” Brody does that thing where he ducks his head and averts his eyes like he’s trying to go unnoticed in the background. As if that’s ever possible for someone so recognizable, so handsome, so noticeable. Either way, it’s too late. He’s been spotted.
I get it. This is my interview, and Brody wants to be respectful of that and not overstep by taking anything away from me.
Which is why he needs a push—because I’m going to need him to take that step. This is my out.
I give Brody a firm backhanded smack to the chest. “Just Brody? Please, this guy is so humble. It’s the Brody!” I say, hamming it up.
Brody stiffens, thrown for a loop by my charisma. I give him a shove forward, wedging him between me and Dax.
Brody takes Dax’s hand and makes Dax’s whole year by giving it a shake, then taking a couple selfies together. It gives me
the opportunity to hang back while whatever’s left of this uncomfortable conversation drags on. Time moves slowest when all
you want is a whistle and yet . . .
“Look, I don’t want to string you along,” Dax says to me. He puts his phone away but can’t get rid of the smile on his face
and giddiness in his voice as easily. “The job’s more than likely going to our CFO’s idiot son who was kicked out of his fraternity
for a beer butt-chugging incident. But I’ve got contacts in the industry who are always looking to hire out for various projects.
I’ll pass along your contact info.”
“I’d like that.” I remain polite and professional, despite having just dodged two bullets. “The freelance work, not the butt
chugging,” I add.
Dax leaves too enamored with Brody to give my dad another thought. He got his selfie and I got away.
“That was weird,” Brody says once he’s gone.
“Not really.” I shrug it off, hoping he does the same. “Having a well-connected parent really opens up a lot of employment doors.”
“I’m well aware of nepotism,” Brody says. “I meant what he said about your dad. What was that last name he used? Hinkle?”
Brody uses his deep-thinking face, which I usually find incredibly sexy. I’ve never seen someone so terrifying. Good thing
all that loud pump-up techno music has left him hard of hearing.
“I’m not sure. Those tech bros drink a lot of coffee and smoke even more weed. It’s a delicate upper to downer balance. They’re
like kids on a seesaw and he’s clearly off-kilter.” I use my hand to shade my eyes, checking up at Brody to see if he buys
it. He laughs and we move on, walking on the sidewalk under intermittent shade from business awnings.
“You hardly talk about it,” he says, grabbing my hand.
“Substance abuse in the tech industry?”
“Your dad.”
I knew what he meant. “It’s sad.”
I drop his hand, wiping off my clamminess against the thigh of my pant leg. I fiddle with the strap of my handbag. It’s way
too hot for wool today. The type of spring day where you get overzealous—drunk off the hot sun—and jump into a lake only for
your lips to turn blue five minutes later. The type of sunny day when enjoyed in the spring gives you hope, but when faced
in the fall, lets you know winter’s coming.
“What about the good memories?”
I could tell Brody that my dad used to take us to the Minnesota State Fair every summer and we’d see who could eat the most deep-fried Oreos.
How when I was seven, I scaled up the giant cherry spoon at the Sculpture Garden, and despite his debilitating fear of heights, my dad climbed up after me.
Or my personal favorite, the time he lost Tori and me in the Mall of America amusement park for hours and had to bribe us with ice cream so we wouldn’t tell Mom.
Instead, I tell Brody, “You would have liked him, and he would have really liked you.”
I wish coaching my sister’s hockey team paid the bills because I’d be earning my salary tonight. The team is already up 3–0
thanks to a few line changes and the new face-offs I’ve implemented. Not to mention the League of Their Own–inspired pregame pep talk I delivered before warm-ups was moving to say the least—someone cried. I might not be able to make
a living standing back here, but I’m earning my keep tonight.
Minnesota rinks are famously cold, but I’ve been pacing back and forth on this bench long enough to warm myself up. The team
is hot and has been applying pressure all game. Skates carve into the firm ice, pucks snap between tape-to-tape passes, and
fog seeps out of the mouth of every winded player as they miraculously back-check.
The turnout tonight in the fan section is incredible. A beer league record attendance. Ivy and four other girlfriends make
up the passionate cheering section. I’m the exact amount of delusional to believe it’s because of my incredible coaching and
not the fact that Minnesota’s biggest hockey star is in attendance. I mean, it’s got to be at least 50 percent because of
me.
We’re on the penalty kill and there’s a commotion at our end of the rink. Like any good coach, I start shouting. “Muck! Don’t
be scared to get in there and muck!” Several players on the bench turn, giving me a look; some are surprised, while others
start laughing. “Not my fault you guys can’t stay out of the box.” The ref whistles the play dead. “Aaaand, I just heard myself.”
Hockey is so sapphic.
I send out the next line. While both teams line up for the draw, I spot Brody in the crowd. Standing right behind the glass in the same spot my dad used to watch me play. His dorky thumbs-up makes me blush.
He’s been so much lighter since cutting off his dad. Now when someone calls Brody’s name in a crowded room, he doesn’t jump.
On the ice, he skates with a newfound freedom. Having fun is the most underrated skill in professional sports because the
better you get the harder it is to hold on to.
The thing plaguing both of us is finally gone, so why aren’t I having fun? If Brody and I can finally live happily-ever-after,
then why do I still feel so terrible? Like the big horrible unspoken thing between us isn’t Erik and it hasn’t been for a
while.
Cutting corners in youth hockey drills. Lying to my high school secretary about unexcused absences. Crying in my professor’s
office using whatever excuses stick for an extension. Have I always been horrible? I was a kid trying to survive. Young shenanigans;
my stories are endless. They were funny. It’s who I am. Let’s all laugh about it, and then heavily sigh before the silence.
I’ll make you feel better about yourself by proxy. Isn’t that why my dad’s old teammates were still checking in on him toward
the end?
Brody’s already seen the worst in a person who was supposed to love him, and yet there he is at the end of the rink smiling
over at me through the plexiglass like I’m not capable of worse, like I haven’t thought about it. I want to wrap him up and
shield him from any pain, but I’d be shielding myself because I’ve been playing for both teams.
I’m getting too old to be living this carelessly.
I’m loving too hard to be this reckless.
I want a do-over, but my dad taught me that you can spend years locked up in the dark waiting for one of those.
They never come. Even in death, my dad remains locked up in the dark.
Tucked away in the back of my mind and out of harm’s way.
I want to tell Brody all about him—all of it.
I don’t want his legacy to die while my lie lives.
After the playoffs, I remind myself. The timing is wrong right now, but I’ll sort everything out once the playoffs end. The
Chilly gig will expire, I’ll tell Brody about my dad, and even confess that I might have tried to Icy Hot his balls into playing
poorly. We’ll laugh about it while riding a float in the Stanley Cup parade. We’ll skate off into the sunset together.
We have to because I can’t survive another loss.