6. Wren #2
He’s broad, gray-haired, and wearing a gray quarter-zip with a purple PCU hockey logo on the left.
His desk is covered in forms, tape rolls, a label maker, and a travel mug that has clearly survived things.
He looks like he has spent years dealing with hockey players and has not forgiven them for it.
He stands when I walk in.
“Wren Calloway?”
“Yes.” I step forward and shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Donnelly.” He gestures to the chair across from his desk. “Please, have a seat.”
Donnelly glances at the paper in front of him as I take a seat. “Work-study sent your application over. You’re a junior this year?”
“Yes.” I have no idea what to do with my hands, so I start spinning the ring on my right pointer finger discreetly in my lap.
“Major?”
“Human development.”
His brows lift a little. “Planning on?”
“I’m still figuring that part out,” I say honestly. “Maybe family services. Maybe counseling eventually. Honestly, anything that doesn’t require me to take another statistics class.”
His mouth twitches. “Fair.”
I relax one inch.
“Tell me more about your availability. On here it says mornings, some afternoons, some evenings,” he says.
“Yes. I have classes, and I help with my younger siblings, so I’d need to work around school pickup some days. But I can do early mornings, some later evenings, and weekends depending on notice.”
He studies me for a second. “This job isn’t glamorous.”
“I assumed.”
“It’s laundry. Inventory. Hauling things. Setting up practice jerseys. Breaking down after games. Restocking tape, laces, towels. Labeling. Travel prep. You’ll be around equipment that smells bad enough to make you question every choice you’ve made.”
I can’t help the small laugh that leaves me. “I have two six-year-old sisters, a thirteen- and sixteen-year-old brother. I’m not easy to scare.”
That gets me another twitch of a smile.
“Good answer.” He leans back. “You know hockey?”
“A little.”
His expression says he knows that’s not the full truth.
I hold his gaze anyway. “My best friend’s brother plays.”
Donnelly taps his pen once against the desk. “Any issue working around them?”
“No.” My answer comes out fast. Too fast.
He notices, one of his brows raising.
I expect him to call me on it.
Instead, he says, “The players won’t be your bosses.
I will. You’ll answer to me, sometimes Coach, sometimes the assistant equipment staff if we get another hire approved.
You won’t be alone in the locker room with the team, and you won’t be expected to tolerate anyone making your job harder. Clear?”
Relief moves through me before I can hide it.
“Yes. Clear.”
“I mean that,” he says. “Some of these guys are good kids with loud mouths. Some are idiots. Occasionally, one is both. If any of them gives you a problem, you tell me.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t handle it yourself.”
I almost smile.
Handling things myself is most of my personality at this point.
But he is being serious, so I nod. “I understand.”
He looks back at my application. “You wrote household responsibilities under experience.”
I fight the urge to cringe. “I wasn’t sure how to phrase it.”
“Tell me what that means.”
“It means I manage a lot at home.” I keep my voice even. “School drop-offs, pickups, meals sometimes, laundry, homework, schedules. My mom works at the hospital, so everyone pitches in.”
Not a lie. Not all of it either.
Donnelly hears the missing parts. I can tell by the way his face changes.
He doesn’t pity me, which I appreciate.
He just nods.
“Equipment work is in the details,” he says. “A lot of repetitive details nobody notices unless they’re wrong. If a guy’s missing a jersey, he notices. If his skates are where they should be, he doesn’t. You okay with doing work most people only see when something goes wrong?”
I think about lunch boxes. Permission slips. Grocery lists. Gas. The twins’ socks. Justin’s poster board. Mom’s bills. Holden’s quiet worry.
I know invisible work. The things that most would think nothing of, yet if it wasn’t done, chaos would ensue.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m okay with that.”
Donnelly watches me for another second. Then he nods once, like he decided something.
“Can you start Friday?”
My heart rate spikes; I didn’t think it would be that soon. “Yes.”
“Paperwork has to clear through work-study, but I’ll tell them I want you. Friday would be shadowing. Mostly walking you through how we do inventory, laundry flow, all of that stuff.”
That means I have at least two days to become a person who can be normal around Kai Mercer.
And maybe warn him.
“Friday works,” I say.
“Pay is through work-study. Hours will vary, but I can give you as much notice as I can. I run a tight room. Be on time, ask questions, don’t pretend you know something if you don’t, and don’t let the guys talk you into doing their personal laundry.”
I blink. “That happens?”
“Once.”
“Should I ask?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
He stands, so I stand too.
“Welcome aboard, Calloway.”
My eyes sting. Not because I’m overjoyed about hockey laundry.
Because for the first time since the financial aid office, there is one problem with a partial answer. Not a full answer. Not enough. But something.
Something I earned. Something I can do.
“Thank you,” I say, and my voice only shakes a little. “I appreciate the opportunity.”
He nods toward the door. “Work-study should email you by tomorrow morning. If they don’t, call them. Don’t wait.”
“I won’t.”
“And, Calloway?”
I pause with my hand on the strap of my bag. “Yeah?”
“You look like someone who’s used to carrying too much.”
My throat tightens, making words impossible.
His voice stays gruff. “Don’t carry the hockey team too. That’s their own job.”
I leave before my face can betray me.
The hallway is colder than the office. I walk straight past the rink doors without looking through the glass because I don’t trust myself not to search for him.
Kai is probably not even here, not that it matters. My brain has never needed facts in order to be inconvenient.
Outside, the air hits my cheeks and helps. I stand near the side of the building, one hand wrapped around my phone, and pull up the group chat with Mom and Holden.
Wren: Got the job. Start Friday.
Mom replies first.
Mom: Oh honey! That’s wonderful. I’m so proud of you.
Holden replies three seconds later.
Holden: stinky sweaty hockey socks. glamorous.
Wren: Jealousy is ugly.
Holden: so is hockey gear probably.
Mom: We’ll celebrate tonight. I can grab ice cream on my way home.
Wren: Don’t. We have ice cream.
We do not have ice cream.
Mom: Let me be proud with sprinkles.
My chest aches.
Wren: Fine. Sprinkles accepted.
I close the messages and stand there for another minute.
Then I open Harlow’s thread.
Wren: Got it.
Her response comes instantly.
Harlow: I KNEW IT! Congrats girl. So now are you going to tell Kai? Or should I? Do you want me to?
I laugh under my breath.
Wren: Please do not text your brother about my employment status like a town crier.
Harlow: Fine. But he should hear it from you.
I stop smiling. The part I’ve been trying not to think about since the second I applied.
If I actually got the job, how would I tell my ex that we are now going to be seeing even more of each other?
Regardless, Kai should hear it from me.
Not from Harlow. Not from Grayson. Not when he walks into the rink and sees me labeling practice jerseys or hauling a laundry bin.
From me.
Wren: I know. I’ll take care of it.
Harlow sends back a heart.
I stare at the screen until it dims. Then I unlock it again and open my contacts.
I don’t have to search hard for his number.
That annoys me.
Three years of not using it, and I still know exactly where it is. I never deleted him. Deleting felt dramatic. Keeping him felt worse. So I removed the heart from his contact, hoping that would help.
It didn’t.
My thumb hovers over his name.
I can still picture the last text thread we had before everything went quiet.
Our breakup wasn’t dramatic. That was part of the problem.
No huge fight. No paragraph that explained why we were done. No final line that could be screenshotted and dissected later.
Just shorter replies. Longer gaps between said replies, not just from him, but from both of us.
A promise to call that turned into tomorrow, then next week, then silence.
I tap his name before I lose my nerve.
The old thread opens.
There are no recent messages, obviously. Just old ones I should have deleted years ago and never did.
Kai: got out of practice late. call you in ten?
Wren: I’ll probably be asleep but try anyway.
Kai: you say that like you won’t answer half-conscious and insult me.
Wren: That’s my love language.
Kai: another reason why I love you.
I stare at the screen too long.
Then I scroll to the bottom, where the empty text box waits.
I can do this. It’s simple.
A necessary adult boundary discussion with the boy who once kissed me so thoroughly in my driveway until my dad flicked the porch light three times and threatened to install a sprinkler system.
I type:
Hey.
Nope. Delete.
I type:
I got a job working for the hockey team, sorry bud.
Too abrupt. Delete.
I type:
We should talk.
I stare at that. It feels too heavy.
I take a breath and type before I can make it worse.
Wren: We need to chat. You free?
I read it once. Twice. Then I hit send. The message turns blue.
Delivered.
For three full seconds, I do not breathe. Does he still have my read receipts turned on?
Doesn’t matter, Wren. Does. Not. Matter.
Then I lock my phone, shove it into my bag, and head for my car.
I got the job. I texted Kai to give him a warning. Nobody died.
Yet.