4. Cassy #2
I march through the restaurant like I own the place, probably clipping a chair with my bag on the way out, but whatever. Not my problem. I don’t slow down till I’m in the parking lot.
The second I slide into my car and shut the door, I let out a breath that tastes like relief. I start the engine, reverse out like I’m fleeing a crime scene, and head for home.
The drive's quiet. For once. My phone's not buzzing with nonsense. No Jaxon texts popping up with fake nostalgia.
I pull into Dad’s driveway, kill the engine, grab my bag, and climb out.
The second I step inside, the smell hits me. Hotpot. Martha’s.
That thick, beefy, potato-rich, slow-cooked aroma is something I need right now as my stomach makes a noise loud enough to echo.
“Cassy, is that you?” Dad’s voice calls from the dining room.
“Yes, Dad,” I call back, already heading that way like I’m being pulled by an invisible fork.
I walk in to find him planted at the top of the table, halfway through demolishing what is probably his second helping.
Mid-mouthful, he glances at his watch. “I’m impressed. You’re in at a normal hour. Hungry?”
“Yes.” I drop into the chair beside him, my bag landing with a soft thud on the floor.
Martha walks in like she’s been standing offstage, waiting for her cue. She sets down a plate, a fork, a knife, and a napkin with that same expression she always has. “Good evening, Cassy.”
“Hey, Martha. Thanks.”
She pours me a glass of orange juice, sets it beside the plate like it’s sacred, and walks back out like she’s already anticipating an argument between me and Dad.
I reach for the hotpot, ladle up a pile of it, and barely get the first bite in before Dad starts.
“So, I’ve been hearing some good things about my little girl.”
Little girl. Jesus. Really?
Mouth full, I pause and narrow my eyes at him. He says nothing else. Just smirks and goes back to his food like he’s smug about some secret praise I haven’t heard yet.
Before I can ask, my phone buzzes in my bag.
I pull it out. Riley.
I answer mid-chew, “Yeah?”
“What are you doing?”
“Eating. Why?”
“Meet me in Sin City in an hour?”
I don’t even hesitate. “You bet. See you there.”
I hang up and start shoveling food into my mouth now in a race against time.
That's when Dad launches into a monologue about the team. The media. Something about how this whole ‘Roomies on the Road’ concept is pure PR genius.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, barely listening and scooping up more potatoes like they might vanish if I look away.
Before I’ve even swallowed the last bite, I’m up. Bag in hand, chair screeching again.
“Okay, I’m heading out. Don’t wait up.”
“Where?”
“ Sin City . Why?” I say it like it should be obvious.
“What? Clubbing? You’ve got work in the morning. No, I’m sorry. You’re not going.”
He’s angry now. Genuinely wound up. His fork is mid-air like it might stage an intervention.
I don’t stop walking. Don’t even glance back and head straight up the stairs, two at a time.
Yeah, I’m going out. And no one is stopping me.
***
The next morning slaps me across the face like I deserve it.
My head is thudding like it’s trying to hammer its way out of my skull, and the sunlight coming through the slats of my blinds isn’t helping.
Why did I think mixing J?gerbombs and dancing in heels I could barely walk in was a good idea? Oh, right, because Riley said, “Let’s get obliterated,” and I thought it sounded like therapy.
Clutching my laptop case and tote bag, I stumble down the stairs, every step a new form of torture. I’m wearing sunglasses indoors. That should tell you everything.
I barrel into the kitchen like it’s an ER. “Martha,” I groan, leaning on the counter like it’s the only thing keeping me alive. “I need a coffee. A strong one, please.”
She doesn't even flinch. The woman’s a saint.
While the coffee machine grinds, my brain flicks back to last night.
Between screaming the lyrics to early 2000s pop bangers and batting away three different men with identical tribal tattoos, Riley dropped a nugget of useful info: the team’s playing the Vancouver Stormhawks tomorrow.
Which means they’re heading to the airport this morning, and leaving the Silver State Arena around nine.
I had an idea somewhere around treble shot number four? Five?
Fucked if I know.
Anyway. My idea was that even though we told the players filming for ‘Roomies on the Road’ doesn’t start until next week, maybe we should catch them off guard.
Get some real, raw content. Mikey and Calam can snap a few shots and roll some footage without them realizing it. Real fly-on-the-wall stuff.
The clock on the oven reads 8:30 a.m.
Shit.
“Want any breakfast?” Martha places the steaming cup of salvation in front of me.
“No time,” I mutter, downing the first gulp like it's an antidote to my self-destruction.
She watches me with that judgmental domestic glare only Martha can manage. “Jesus. Your father was in a foul mood this morning.”
I drain the last bitter dregs of the mug, slam it down, and mutter, “And? What’s new?” before grabbing my stuff and booking it out of there.
The drive to the Arena feels faster than it should, like my car knows we’re late and she’s just trying to save my rep.
I pull up to the security barrier and flash my ID. The guard barely glances before waving me through.
The bus is parked in the lot already, players milling around beside it in full swagger mode, tracksuits, headphones, egos. I spot a few of the staff from Media and Comms strolling toward the Arena, coffee cups and lanyards in hand.
But my people, Riley, Musa, Gretchen, Holly, are already on it. Mikey’s got his camera rolling, panning over unsuspecting players. Calam’s snapping photos like he’s catching the fall of the Roman Empire. None of the team has noticed yet. Perfect.
I swing into the spot next to Riley’s beat-up little hatchback and hop out. My headache is still throbbing, but at least we’re on schedule.
I head over to where my dad’s standing near the bus, clipboard in hand, barking something at the logistics guy. Riley joins me, already sipping some iced abomination and looking way too smug for someone who drank like I did.
One of the players’ bags flies open on the pavement with an almighty crack, and its contents, underwear, protein powder, a rogue banana, explode all over the asphalt.
“Oh, for fuck sake,” Thumper yells at the coach driver. “Watch it, man! That was packed by science!”
“Yeah, science fiction,” Bishy calls out, grinning like a ten-year-old. Brody’s bent over laughing, holding up what looks suspiciously like a sock with a hole in it.
“Shut up,” Thumper growls, swiping it from him.
“Nice!” Brody yells, dodging the other flying sock.
I keep walking toward my dad, just as I open my mouth to say, “Safe trip, okay?”
He glares over at me. “You and I are going to have a serious chat when I get back, okay?”
Then I feel it. That weird static.
Blake.
I glance sideways and there he is, appearing like a damn Greek tragedy in joggers. My heart gives one of those annoying, traitorous thumps, like it forgot we hate him.
Heading straight for us, he’s got that really fucked look. Hot. But rough.
Please say something. Please just say hi, even.
He opens his mouth. “Hey, Riley. Looking good.”
Oh. Wow. Okay. Cool. My ego didn’t need that.
Riley grins and flips him off. “Well, you're not, sunshine.”
He grunts a “Hi” at me without looking, like I’m the receptionist at a dentist’s office, then turns back to Riley to keep talking.
I just stand still. Staring at him. Trying to decide whether to break the silence or launch myself into a volcano.
I open my mouth. “Bla—”
“Well, come on, girls! We’re leaving now!” Dad’s voice barrels out from inside the bus like he’s announcing the apocalypse.
And just like that, Blake’s gone before I can even finish his name.