One Last Shot

Chapter 1 Iris

IRIS

It’s going to be a bad day. I’m not being dramatic, it’s just a fact.

It’s going to be a bad day because today is an Owen day and Owen days are statistically bad.

Every single one of them. Every single time.

My fingers drum against the steering wheel, keeping time with the rhythmic swish of my windshield wipers.

Between each pass, the glass collects just enough moisture to blur the traffic lights into smeared halos.

The wipers squeak against the windshield, leaving tiny streaks where the rubber has started to wear.

“Mama?” Jamie’s sneaker taps against the back of my seat.

Tap. Tap-tap. I glance in the mirror. He’s holding his dinosaur stuffy, the one missing an eye, upside down by one leg.

“Can I have chocolate chips in my pancakes this weekend?” His bright green eyes, the same as mine, stare intently back at me.

“Mmhmm,” I say, forcing a lightness into my voice I don’t entirely feel.

The intersection light turns green. I ease forward, tires rolling over wet asphalt.

Pancakes for dinner has been our weekly tradition every time I pick Jamie up from Owen’s.

It has made the transition over the last year a bit more bearable. More fun for Jamie at least.

“Like, a lot of chocolate chips?” He twists the dinosaur’s leg.

“A lot of chocolate chips,” I confirm. The houses along the street blur.

Each with its meticulously landscaped yard, native plants artfully arranged, custom copper rain chains hanging from pristine gutters.

Architectural Digest meets suburban Seattle.

Owen’s neighborhood. I pull to a stop and Jamie unbuckles his car seat with a sharp click.

His backpack, navy blue with a Spider-Man patch sewn crookedly by my own hand, slides across the seat.

“Got everything?” I twist around, pushing my dark curls out of my face to look at him.

“Yep.” He nods, serious. “Folder. Backpack. Stuffy.” Jamie hops out onto the smooth sidewalk as I open his door, his sneakers slapping against the concrete.

One step. Another. My fingers are already moving, picking at the skin beside my thumbnail.

A small moon of blood pooling at the corner as I follow him up the stone pathway.

My stomach doing that annoying gymnastics routine it always performs when approaching Owen’s perfectly curated universe.

No rogue weeds peeking through the seams of the stone, no forgotten toys abandoned in the yard. I can’t believe I used to live here.

Jamie rings the bell and I have to force myself to breathe normally.

I don’t need to see him to picture him. Sandy blonde hair combed and gelled, not a strand out of place.

Cold, blue eyes taking inventory of everything I lack.

The door swings open, and there he is, exactly as I imagined, complete with pressed khakis and a light blue oxford shirt.

His watch catches the light, the one I gave him for his birthday two years ago.

Platinum. Engraved. A final gift before everything went sideways.

Jamie launches forward, backpack bouncing.

“Dad! I made a volcano at school!” Owen’s response is immediate, warm.

“Did you now?” His voice pitches in a tone I never heard during our entire marriage. Of course he could be Fun Dad. Because why wouldn’t he be? Internally, I roll my eyes. Nice to meet you, Fun Dad. I’m Exhausted Mom.

“Yeah, can I show you?” Jamie bounces between us, oblivious as always. I watch their interaction, my fingers still working at my nail beds. Picking. Pulling.

“Sure, buddy! After breakfast,” Owen says, ruffling his hair as Jamie runs into the house.

I glance at the hallway behind him. Gray walls.

Black and white photography. Not a single item out of place.

Unlike my house, where Jamie’s drawings cover the refrigerator, and throw pillows never stay in their designated spot.

“Make sure you read with him before bed,” I say, breaking the silence that had set in. “He’s been struggling with his sight words, and we’re working on—”

“I got it.” He cuts me off, eyes drifting in my direction.

I bite the inside of my cheek, hard. “You look...” He pauses.

Here we go. The Owen Special: Backhanded commentary, coming right up.

“Different,” he finishes. “Healthier, I guess. Coaching agrees with you.” His gaze sweeps down, then up.

“You’ve filled out a bit.” Wow. What a gem.

My attempted smile feels more like a grimace. Prick.

“Jamie,” I say softly, “come give me a hug.” Our son comes running from the other end of the hallway where he’d haphazardly tossed his backpack and launches himself at me, arms wide.

Wrapped around my neck, his small body presses against me.

I breathe him in, bubble gum toothpaste and shampoo.

I squeeze my arms around him, eyes watering.

“Mama,” he whispers, squirming. “I can’t breathe.” I chuckle and release him, holding him by his shoulders, cataloging every feature on his face. We’ve been doing this for the past year, since the divorce was finalized. Swapping Jamie back and forth one week at a time. It never got any easier.

“Sorry, buddy.” When I let go and stand up, he runs back down the hallway.

“Bye, Mama!” He waves in my direction without looking. A piece of my heart goes with him. Always does. I clear my throat, eyes sliding back to Owen. He reaches for the door, and I step forward.

“Wait a second.” I hold up a hand. “Can you make sure Jamie’s coat comes back with him this time? It’s the second one I’ve had to buy this year because you”—I catch myself, softening my tone in case Jamie can hear—“because it got misplaced.” He shrugs, indifferent.

“I don’t keep track of every little thing. You know how kids are. They lose stuff.”

“Funny,” I shoot back, crossing my arms. “He didn’t lose anything when we lived together.” For a split second, his mask slips, irritation flashing across his face before he recovers, his tone overly sweet.

“I’ll try to remember. You know, since you’re keeping such a close inventory.”

“Great. Because Jamie deserves not to freeze at recess,” I bite out. He glances at his watch, lips curved into an infuriating smirk.

“Noted. Anything else, or is that it for today’s list of parenting tips?”

“Please try to be on time when you drop him off Sunday.” The slight twitch at the corner of Owen’s mouth tells me everything he doesn’t. Last time, he’d been twenty minutes late.

His eyes narrow and before closing the door, he delivers one last cut, “You know, you might want to try a little more makeup next time. You look tired.” The door clicks shut.

I stand there, frozen, Owen’s words replaying on a loop in my head.

You look tired. The worst part was, he wasn’t wrong.

I am tired, soul-weary tired. But hearing it from him, with that smug tone and dismissive glance has my rage bubbling to the surface.

He always knows exactly where to strike, finding the cracks in my armor and pressing hard.

For a moment, I stay there, fists clenching and unclenching at my sides.

It’s not just anger, it’s the helplessness that comes with it.

No matter how many times I practice witty comebacks in my head, in the moment, he always makes me feel small.

“I hate him,” I mutter, the words barely above a whisper.

“I hate him. I hate him.” I stomp back to my car, each step punctuating my anger.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, I grip the steering wheel, taking a deep breath to calm myself.

The drive to work is a blur of rain-slicked streets and lingering frustration.

I agreed to an extra weekend practice with a client—something I was already regretting.

All I wanted was to go home, sit on my couch, and wallow in the ache of missing Jamie.

Downtown Seattle passes by in a gray wash of buildings and traffic.

I’m still seething from Owen’s parting shot when a silver SUV suddenly cuts me off, forcing me to slam on the brakes.

My purse goes flying, its contents scattering across the floor of the passenger side. Lipstick rolling under the seat.

“Are you kidding me?” I shout at the oblivious driver as my phone starts ringing. Persistent. Incessant. Loud. Irritation boils over and I jab the Bluetooth answer button.

“WHAT?” I snap, my voice sharp enough to cut glass. There’s a brief pause. Then a familiar, dry chuckle.

“Well, good morning to you too, sunshine. Now, is that any way to greet an old friend?” I freeze. My former coach’s sing-song voice lilts through my speakers.

“Diane?”

“The one and only. Sounds like you’re having a wonderful day.” I blow a strand of hair out of my face, one hand scrambling to collect pens, scattered business cards, and a half-empty water bottle rolling across the car floor.

“You have no idea.” Inhale. Exhale. Reset. “Sorry, it’s been... a morning.”

“Well, I’ve got something that might just turn your day around.”

“Let’s hear it.” I sigh, merging into another lane to avoid the fender bender that had the other car cutting me off.

“It’s a new show. Think Dancing with the Stars,” Diane says, “but with a twist. We’re pairing figure skaters with NHL players.

Professional athletes, prime-time television, big network backing.

” Diane’s voice has a familiar pitch—the one that means she’s about to sell me something I’m not sure I want. I snort.

“Let me guess. Another chance for has-beens to relive their glory days?”

“Careful,” Diane drawls. “I’m talking about you, smartass.” That gets my attention. “Me?”

“You’re exactly the type they want,” she continues.

“Olympic silver medalist, coach, still in shape. You’d be paired with a hockey player, do a series of skating performances.

Good exposure, decent pay. Interested?” My mind is already racing.

Extra money would help with Jamie’s expenses.

More visibility might lead to better coaching opportunities.

And after this morning’s encounter with Owen, the idea of doing something just for myself is incredibly appealing.

He would hate it and that makes me want to do it more.

“Go on...”

“It’s called Ice Breakers,” Diane says, her tone already anticipating my reaction. I make an involuntary gagging noise.

“Are you serious?” Diane laughs.

“I know, I know. It tested really well with focus groups. Apparently, it’s ‘catchy.’”

“It sounds like a bad dating show,” I mutter.

“NBC is backing it. Twelve professional hockey players, twelve former competitive skaters. You’ll be trained as a pair, perform choreographed routines, and there’s a competitive element. Audience votes, elimination rounds.”

“How long would this take?”

“Little over three months. Practice multiple days a week and a live performance at the end of every week. Ends early January. There’s a signing bonus of $25,000 just for participating.

” My breath catches. That kind of money could make a real difference.

Coaching paid the bills, but this could be a game-changer for Jamie’s college fund.

For our future. A future without Owen. A future without needing help from anyone.

A car horn blares. I’d been drifting slightly, my mind already spinning through possibilities.

“Look, I know you’re busy, but the girl I was supposed to be coaching backed out last minute and I said I just happened to know someone who would be perfect for the job.

Come on, what do ya say?” I can see her bright blue eyes gleaming in my mind, ’80s fluffed bangs bouncing over her forehead.

“Okay.” I nod to myself. “Who would I be paired with?” I ask, my curiosity piqued. “Anyone I’d recognize?” I pull into the rink parking lot, waving to Katie, my student for the day, and her mom as they walk toward the glass doors. Diane pauses for a moment.

“Oh, I don’t think so sweetie. He’s a rookie, but the media just loves him.”