6. Cassy #2
“But I’ll be prepping you beforehand, first this afternoon, then,” I add, tapping the earlier slot.
“An hour and a half prior. One-on-one interview, just me. Controlled. It’ll give you a chance to warm up before facing the mob.
Oh, and I’ll arrange for Riley to also give you some coaching later. She’ll let you know what time.”
He turns to me now. We’re stupidly close. My screen's glowing, the air's thick, and we're almost touching.
I lower my voice just a bit. “You’ll need to handle the pressure. This isn’t just about wearing the ‘C’ on your chest,” as my eyes flick to his pecs.
He stands suddenly, not harshly, but like he needs air. Or distance. Or maybe the opposite. “Yes. I understand,” his voice is tight. “I can do this.”
I stand too, and there’s a pause. We’re facing each other now. Too close.
“You also need to understand what leadership means,” I drop my voice, my words feeling like they’re walking a tightrope. “You’re not just performing on the ice anymore. You need to constantly rally your teammates. Off the ice, too.”
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Mine drops to his.
We’re close. So close. Just a few inches and—
Knock-knock.
We snap apart. Like we’ve been caught robbing a bank.
“Come in!” I call, too quickly.
The door swings open. My dad steps into the office like he owns it. Which, technically, he does.
“Coach,” Blake says, startled. His hand flies to his hair in a panicked move, messing it up worse.
“Dad!” I blurt out, just as horrified.
He glances between us like he’s walked into a different kind of locker room.
I don't know where to look.
Blake looks like he wants to escape through the window, and the scent of his cologne is still stuck in my lungs like a bad decision.
“I was told I’d find you in here,” Dad says to Blake, glancing between us with that dominant coach expression that he's honed to perfection over the years. “Meet me in my office. I want to have a word.”
“Okay, Coach,” Blake steps away from me like I’m radioactive and walks around the desk.
I pretend not to notice how fast he makes it to the door.
Dad watches him go, then turns to me with a raised brow. “So, how’s it going?”
I lift my chin and flash my best boardroom smile. “Everything’s under control.”
He nods. “Good. Well, carry on. Oh, and don’t plan on going out anywhere tonight. I’m taking my little girl out for a meal. My treat.”
“Actually, Dad,” I sigh. “That’ll be nice. What time?”
He’s already halfway out the door. “I don’t know, about eight-ish?” And then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut, and a wave of dizziness tilts the room just enough to make me sit back down hard.
God.
I rub my temples, take a few deep breaths, and push it all aside because there’s zero time for personal melodrama today.
Tomorrow is game day. Not literally, but close enough. The press conference is going to be broadcast, clipped, and dissected by sports media and fans alike. There’s no room for error.
The rest of the day passes in a caffeine-fueled blur.
I lead the strategy, pulling apart every possible narrative and structuring the interview flow like a war plan. Key talking points? Nailed. Alignment with the team’s messaging? Absolutely. I practically memorize Blake’s responses, making sure they hit confidently but don’t come off robotic.
Tarquin and Suzanna hover beside me, fine-tuning the wording until everything sounds polished but still human. Their ability to translate PR speak into actual sentences is borderline witchcraft.
Riley spends an hour coaching Blake on delivery. She makes him run his opening twice, desperately tries to correct his tone, and shift his body language. I hear her say, “You don’t need to act like you’re saving the world, just talk like you give a damn.”
Michael and Torro comb over everything, branding, phrasing, the visual layout for the live stream setup, signing off only when it all feels bulletproof.
Meanwhile, I’m fielding group messages, answering emails at light speed, and coordinating with Musa, Gretchen, and Holly, who are prepping video content to support Blake’s announcement.
There’ll be legacy footage, player testimonials, and a closing highlight reel, perfect for fan engagement and media replay.
We even script potential press questions, ranging from softball to hostile. I decided to walk Blake through how to pivot when a reporter goes off track, how to keep the focus where it should be, and how not to panic if something goes sideways.
Every detail, every possible slip-up, we cover it.
And by the time it’s all said and done, I’m standing alone in the dim hallway of the Media and Comms wing, holding my tote bag in one hand and my laptop case in the other. The building is silent, everyone else gone. The only sound is the low hum of the vending machine.
Then the nausea hits.
One second, I’m fine, the next I’m swallowing hard and making a sprint for the staff restroom.
I shove the door open, bolt into the nearest cubicle, and barely get the lid up before I’m vomiting like I’ve just completed a tequila triathlon. Cold sweat runs down my spine, my knees hit the floor, and my hands are braced against porcelain.
I breathe. Then it hits again. This time it’s worse. Violent and hot and unstoppable.
When it finally stops, I flush, stand, and stagger out of the cubicle like I’ve just survived a war zone.
I grip the edge of the sink, splash water on my face, and look up into the mirror.
I look pale. Not, ‘Oops, I forgot blusher,’ pale, terrified pale.
What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe it’s stress. Or food poisoning. Or too much coffee. Or—
My stomach sinks in a way that has nothing to do with nausea.
How late am I?
I blink at myself in the mirror.
No.
No, no, no. I can’t be… be… Shit.
It doesn’t matter how fast I wash my face, how cold the water is, or how much I tell myself I’m just being paranoid. The thought has burrowed in like a tick.
I grab my bag, my laptop case, and walk out like I didn’t just vomit my soul into a toilet. The overhead lights buzz softly, and I feel like a fraud as I walk past every framed photo of our media team’s proudest moments.
By the time I hit the parking lot, it’s already dark. Vegas-night dark, where the sky is black but everything else glows like it's on steroids. I fumble in my tote for my keys, my fingers shaky and not cooperating. The fob finally clicks, my car flashes its welcome, and I climb in.
The bag and laptop go on the passenger seat. Engine on. AC blasting. I pull out of the lot, waving half-heartedly at Darren, the night-shift security guy, as I roll past the booth.
My hands grip the wheel tighter than necessary as I merge into traffic. Las Vegas Boulevard is still alive, neon signs flashing, couples stumbling out of overpriced restaurants, everything too loud and too bright for how I feel.
Then I see it. A drug store. Its green-and-white sign glows like a dare.
I don’t think, I swerve. Not dangerously, okay, but enough to make the guy behind me honk like I just committed vehicular blasphemy, and slide into a parking space right in front of the store.
I just sit for a second.
What harm could it do? Just one test. Just to put my mind at ease. It’ll be negative anyway. It has to be.
I grab my tote and get out, the automatic doors whooshing open as I walk in. The overhead lights are almost aggressively bright. The place smells like cleaning products and peppermint gum.
A couple of teenagers are messing around in the snack aisle. A tired-looking woman in scrubs is scanning the cold medicine. And me? I just head straight for the back wall.
The “Family Planning” section. Apparently, buying a pregnancy test needs a title that sounds like a government initiative.
There are so many. Digital ones. Regular ones. Early detection. Fast detection. Double packs. Triple packs. Ones with apps. Ones that claim to sing lullabies. I’m not even kidding.
I grab one of the mid-priced ones. Nothing fancy, just straight answers, please.
I walk up to the cashier, a guy about my age who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. He doesn’t say a word, just scans it and gestures at the card reader. I tap my credit card, take the small paper bag, and stuff it deep into my tote.
Then I walk back out like I just bought a tube of toothpaste and not something that could completely derail my life.
I drive home in a fog. Every red light feels like it’s personally judging me. My stomach’s twisting, but that could be the stress. Or leftover nausea. Or... oh, I don't know.
By the time I pull up in the driveway, my heart’s thudding, and my hands are sweaty on the steering wheel.
This is ridiculous. I’m not even sure why I’m this nervous.
The porch light flicks on automatically as I reach the door.
I unlock it with the same key I’ve used a thousand times, like muscle memory.
And then I step inside, the familiar scent of home wrapping around me like a weighted blanket that suddenly feels too heavy.
Martha is in the hallway, carrying the vacuum cleaner. “Good evening, Cassy. You...you alright? You look a bit…”
I swipe under my eye and pull my expression into something that resembles normal. There’s a tear there I didn’t even know had escaped. “Hi, Martha. Yes, of course. Why?”
She opens her mouth, but before she gets a word out, Dad’s voice booms from the study at the end of the hall, door half-open, TV probably on mute. “Cassy? That you? Be ready to leave in fifteen. I’m starving!”
Martha gives me one last look as she heads toward the kitchen. The kind of look that says, I know something’s up, but I’m not your therapist.
I don’t say anything. Just nod faintly and head straight for the stairs. My heart’s thumping again. My tote bag feels like it’s loaded with bricks now.
By the time I reach the landing, I feel dizzy again. Not nauseous, just overloaded. My hand grips the knob to my bedroom, and I step inside, quietly shutting the door behind me.
And then I collapse. Right on the bed. Bag, laptop case, all of it comes with me.
I stare at my tote. Like it’s a living, breathing thing. Like maybe if I wait long enough, the answer will climb out of the bag on its own and tell me I’m being ridiculous.
Spoiler. It doesn’t.
I get back up, walk to the door, and lock it. No chances. Not tonight. Not with... oh, God.
I sit back on the bed and pull out the little paper bag. It crinkles in my hand like it’s trying to rat me out. I place it in front of me, and I just sit staring.
“Come on,” I mutter. “Just do the damn thing.”
I rip it open and pull out the cardboard box. It’s lighter than it should be. I open the box and read the folded-up instructions, then grab the test like it’s a cursed object.
Bathroom. Bright lights. No overthinking now. Just pee.
I do what I need to do. Wash my hands like a surgeon prepping for something dire. And then I walk back to the bed and set the stick down on the duvet like it might explode.
Tick. Tock.
I stare at it like my life depends on it. Because maybe it does.
Knock-knock.
Not now!
“Five minutes!” Dad’s voice from the hallway. “I told you I'm starving!”
“Just dressing!” I call back, never taking my eyes off the damn plastic thing in front of me.
Tick. Tock.
“Oh, come on, for God’s sake,” I hiss. Like maybe my rage will speed up molecular reactions or something.
Then I see it.
I don’t even pick it up at first. Just lean closer, like my brain needs confirmation.
Two lines. Blue. Not faint. Not ambiguous. Bold. Undeniable. Two fucking clear as day blue lines.
I reach for it with a trembling hand, pick it up, and bring it closer like maybe I can bargain with it.
“Shit! Fuck!” I gasp as my stomach flips. “I’m… I’m pregnant,” it doesn’t even sound real coming out of my mouth.
I grip the test harder, my heart hammering so hard I can hear it in my ears.
“Shit, shit, shit—fuck!”