Chapter Eighteen The Interview
HADLEY
Just one day after applying, I score an interview at Millie's skating rink. I can't believe it was that quick.
As I pull into the parking lot of the rec center, my hands are clammy against the steering wheel, and my stomach is doing a series of high-velocity flips.
I am a ball of jittery, wired energy, but underneath the nerves, there is a strange rush of relief.
For the first time in months, I’m not waking up to the anxious monotony of scrolling through a digital syllabus or staring at a textbook about a career I don't want. I’m actually doing something about it.
As I cut the engine, the reality of the situation hits me. I have never had a real job. I have certainly never had a job interview.
When I was pulling my resume together last night, I felt like a total imposter.
It was a pathetic single page cobbled together from high school volunteer hours, my personal history and family history when it came to skating, and my coursework.
I had stared at the blinking cursor for an hour, terrified that the hiring manager would take one look at my empty employment history and laugh me out of the room.
Why would they hire someone who has never earned a single paycheck?
When I arrive, I take in the large, modern-looking rec center. It has tall windows along its front and maintains its minimalist aesthetic with its steel facade.
I make my way inside and check in at the reception desk. The lady manning it points me toward the rink. When I step through the doors into the space, the cold air hits me, and I suck in a deep breath.
This place feels completely different from the arena I’ve grown used to.
It’s just a community rec center in a Denver suburb.
Groups of parents are huddled together on the bleachers with steaming travel mugs.
A few young girls are sitting on a bench gossiping as they lace up their skates.
Younger kids are running past the lobby windows, laughing.
Peeking over the boards, I watch a handful of kids going through various group lessons. On one end, a line of toddlers is carefully weaving around bright orange cones, while closer to me, an instructor is helping a little boy back onto his feet after a harmless wipeout.
Seeing the sheer, unpretentious fun of it all makes a knot in my chest uncoil.
There's no pressure here. No one is scouting these kids, and no one is evaluating their metrics. It’s just people learning to love being on the ice, and for the first time all day, the tight, jittery nerves in my stomach start to give way to genuine excitement.
“Hadley?”
I blink, startled at the sound of my name, and turn to find a middle-aged woman in tight leggings and a gray pullover walking toward me. She has a short brown bob cut and a friendly green gaze. Her smile is wide.
“Hi,” I reply. “Are you Becky?”
The woman nods, and I offer her my hand to shake. “That’s me. I manage the youth skating program here. Are you ready for your interview?”
I smile at her. My stomach flutters with nerves. “Yep!”
“Follow me.”
She leads me away from the rink and back out into the hallway, then to a set of small offices. We enter one. She closes the door behind me.
“Take a seat.” Her tone is friendly as she moves to sit behind the little metal desk. The office is small and somewhat plain, with exposed brick walls that give the small space an industrial feel. Overhead, a fluorescent light fixture hums with a steady buzz that cuts through the quiet.
Becky studies me for a second, then begins. “So, Hadley, tell me a little about your skating experience.”
“I grew up skating,” I answer without hesitation. “My grandfather is the coach for the Night Hawks, and my dad was a semi-professional player for a short while. I was on the ice almost as soon as I could walk, and am a trained figure skater.”
She nods. “Knowledgeable about proper technique and performance, then.”
“Yeah,” I answer with a small smile. “Very.”
“Good,” she says, making a quick note on a notepad in front of her. “We get a mix here. Some people come in never having stepped on the ice before, and others are trying to refine their technique. We need people who can adjust to both.”
“I can do that.”
“What about working with groups?” she asks next. “It can get a little chaotic out there, especially with the younger ones.”
I consider my answer for a moment. “I’ve never worked with a group before, but I know you can’t really control everything on the ice, so it’s more about managing the energy than trying to shut it down.”
Her mouth lifts into a satisfied grin. “That’s a good way to put it.”
There’s a pause as she makes more notes, and I sit and try not to let my nerves or eagerness be too obvious, fighting against the urge to bounce my leg up and down. Every second she spends reviewing my one-page resume feels like a lifetime for her to realize I have absolutely no real-world value.
“What made you apply here?” she questions, raising her head and meeting my gaze, her expression warm.
“I love to skate and want to work with kids…” I pause, the generic answer not sitting quite right.
For some reason, I think of Julian. He wouldn’t just give some cookie-cutter response.
He’d be honest. Genuine. Thinking of him makes me want to be just as honest and genuine.
“I missed being on the ice,” I continue at last. “I’ve been studying abroad the past few years, and only recently got back to the States.
I’m still in school, but my studies aren’t satisfying me.
I want to do something I’ll actually care about. ”
Becky doesn’t respond right away and just gazes at me thoughtfully. Oh, fuck. Was I too honest? Did I just screw this up right before the finish line?
“You’re allowed to have more than one thing,” she comments, her tone sympathetic. “People forget that.”
The words settle in my chest, causing an ache. I just want to be allowed one thing I choose for myself.
She glances back down at her notes, then flips the page on her notepad. “Alright. Let’s talk logistics. Availability?”
I walk her through my class schedule and the times I’d be able to work. She asks a few follow-up questions about weekends, early mornings, and my flexibility if something changes.
I answer everything without overthinking, pushing any uncertainties I might feel away as best I can.
“Responsibilities would be a mix,” she explains. “Assisting with group lessons, occasionally leading beginner sessions once you’re comfortable, and helping with public skate if we’re short-staffed. Nothing too complicated, but we do expect reliability.”
“Oh, if I can do one thing, it’s being reliable,” I nod, then giggle awkwardly. Becky gives me a confused look, but it shifts in a moment.
“I figured,” she grins. “Any questions for me?”
I shake my head. “Nope, I don’t think so.”
“Great!” She pushes to her feet. “Well, I’ll be straightforward with you, Hadley. We’d love to have you.”
I blink, taken aback. “Really? Just like that?”
She chuckles. “Yep, just like that. Your experience is impressive, and if you think you can handle it, I’d like to offer you the job. What do you say?”
Excitement rushes through me, and I don’t even have to consider my response.
“Yes!”
Two days after my interview, I tell myself I can’t put off telling Dad about it any longer.
I sit on my couch, staring at my phone as if it’s a live grenade.
Part of me wants to keep my mouth shut, but the stress of carrying the lie is eating me alive.
Every time he texts, my stomach plummets.
I hate feeling like a coward, and I hate the paranoia that he’ll somehow find out on his own.
Maybe I can just feel him out. I don't have to confess everything. I can just test the waters, gauge his mood, and see if there’s a version of this where he doesn't completely lose his mind.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I tap his name on the screen and press the phone to my ear, my heart immediately hammering against my ribs.
He picks up on the second ring.
“Hadley?” He sounds a little surprised. “This is unexpected.”
“Hi, Dad,” I reply, tucking my legs up underneath me on the couch. “Do you have a minute?”
“For you? Always.” His voice is crisp, carrying that familiar, commanding undertone that makes me feel like I'm ten years old again. “I was actually just looking at your grades for your most recent exam. An A-minus, well done as always. I knew this move to be closer to me was the right decision. You’re finally focusing on what matters.”
I swallow hard, my throat tightening as the guilt and frustration collide in my chest. He thinks I’m thriving, but I’m suffocating. I grip the phone tighter, determined to rip the bandage off before I lose my nerve.
“Thanks, Dad,” I start, my voice wavering a bit. “Actually, that's kind of why I called. I wanted to tell you…I had a job interview this week.”
“Oh? An internship,” he interrupts, the satisfaction in his tone practically radiating through the speaker. “For law, I presume. Tell me, is it with one of your professors? Or did you finally reach out to that firm downtown I mentioned? My daughter, the future attorney. I knew you’d see the light.”
“No, Dad,” I reply, trying to cut him off before he spins the fantasy any further. “It’s not an internship. It’s just a part-time job at an ice rink near…”
“Nonsense,” he snaps, his voice turning cool, slicing through my sentence without a shred of hesitation.
“No daughter of mine needs some mindless, part-time job. You have one job right now, Hadley, and that is to excel in your studies so you can get into a top-tier law school. If you need extra spending money, just ask me. This is not something you need to, or should be, doing. Now, a good law internship, on the other hand…”
“But Dad, please just listen to me for a second…”
“You don’t need a job.” His voice is flat, and I know he means for his words to be final.
Usually, I’d fold at the sound of that particular voice, but I’m not going to this time. This job is too important to me.
“I know I don’t need one,” I agree. “But I want…”
“Hadley,” he cuts me off. “I’m paying for your education so you can focus on it. Not so you can waste time working at a rink.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “It’s not a waste of time.”
“It is if it distracts you from what actually matters.”
I close my eyes for a second. Here we go. Time to sell it.
“It wouldn’t,” I insist. “I can handle both.”
He lets out a frustrated huff of breath. “That’s not the point.”
This feels pointless. I’m not getting anywhere. It was a mistake to even try to talk to him.
“Okay,” I murmur. “I have to go, Dad. I have some homework to finish.”
“Good,” he replies, like this is a settled matter. “Focus on that. Everything else is just a distraction.”
My anger makes me bold, and I do something I’ve never done before. I hang up without replying. I stare at my phone long after the screen goes dark, my frustration sitting heavy deep in my stomach.
Fuck, what was I actually hoping for? That he’d suddenly decide to listen and give a shit about my opinion? About what I actually want?
I didn’t realize I was still so naive.
With a groan, I slump back against my couch, letting my head rest on the back of the couch to gaze up at the ceiling. What the hell am I going to do now?
Suddenly, my phone buzzes, breaking the suffocating silence of the apartment. I fish it out from the couch cushion, my heart doing a little leap when I see Julian’s name on the screen.
Julian: Hey, stranger, how was your day?
Usually, I’d fire back something quick and playful, matching his energy, but right now, with the sting of my dad’s words still fresh in my mind, I can’t bring myself to fake it. My fingers hover over the screen before I tap out a brief response.
Hadley: Ok I guess.
It takes him less than a minute to reply.
Julian: Wow. That great, huh?
I stare at the screen, a heavy sigh escaping my lips. I want to tell him everything about the interview, about my dad, about the terrifying step toward independence I’m trying to take, but doing it over text feels too monumental, and honestly, too exhausting.
Hadley: Meh...just a lot on my mind.
A few agonizing moments pass while the typing bubbles appear and disappear. When his message finally pops up, it’s like a lifeline thrown right into my pity party.
Julian: How about a distraction? Want to meet me at the rink? It'll take me about an hour to get there. I'm running errands down that way.
I don’t even have to think about it. The thought of sitting alone in this apartment for another sixty minutes, letting my dad’s disapproval echo in my head, makes me feel claustrophobic.
Hadley: Yes!! See you there.
I toss the phone down and scramble off the couch. Changing into a pair of thick leggings and a cozy, oversized sweater, I grab my skate bag from the closet and head out the door.
Leaving the apartment early means I’ll probably beat him there by a solid thirty minutes, but I don't care.
Getting out, driving, and being around the ice is exactly what I need right now.
I can just lace up, get a head start on clearing my head, and then, when he gets there, I can tell him everything.