Baden, page 12
There are a few coughs and some murmurs of disbelief at the way Stone attacked his head coach. Frankly, Keller had it coming.
My head whips back to look at Coach Keller, and his face drains of color. “Fuck. I’m so sorry. I got you confused with someone else, Stone.”
My head drops again in mortification for not only Stone but this entire team. How the fuck could Keller forget that Stone’s brother was on the plane?
I glance back at Stone, and I can see he has not accepted Keller’s apology. He sinks down into his chair and glares at the head coach.
Keller stammers and looks around the room trying to figure out who he should call on next. If he had a lick of sense, he would shut this shit down and get them out on the ice.
But I’m starting to understand that Keller wants to do things the way he wants to do them, and he’s not looking at the bigger picture. I’m also concerned because he’s forcing something on these players that is not being well received, and it’s going to ding their respect for him.
Keller locks eyes with a player in the first row to my left.
Coen Highsmith.
One of three players who were not on the plane, and the leading scorer for the team up until the crash. Keller stares at him as if he’s a saving grace and eagerly says, “Highsmith… stand up and tell the team about yourself.”
I don’t know much about Coen Highsmith. He’s young and brash, but so are most players in this league. Got a bit of an ego, but I don’t know if it’s healthy. I expect him to stand up and maybe tell a joke to try to lighten the mood or even brag about himself.
He does neither. Instead, he remains seated, hands clasped on the table flipped over his lap. He slouches in the seat, and at first I don’t think he’s going to say anything, but then he drawls, “I think everyone here knows who I am. One of the lucky three.”
And he says nothing else. Keller tries to wait him out, looking at him expectantly, almost begging with his eyes for him to say more.
Coen glares back at the coach.
I have to say that behavior shocks me from the guy who is known as a fairly easygoing player. Along with his brashness and ego and cocky attitude, he’s known to be a fun-loving sort.
Right now, he looks pissed. Keller finally gets the hint and moves on.
Before Keller can call on anyone else, from the corner of my eye, a player stands in the fourth row, and I recognize him as Gage Heyward. The well-respected veteran who retired at the end of last season. He’s the man Callum wanted to be the fount of wisdom for this team.
“Coach,” Gage says in a jovial voice, “I may just be speaking for myself, but I would rather get to know my teammates on a more one-to-one basis. But beyond that, I think I can safely say that everyone in this room is eager to show you what we can do. Am I right?”
Gage looks around expectantly, and every single player nods with others voicing their assent.
“Hell yes.”
“Let’s play.”
Somebody in the back mutters loud enough for everyone to hear, “I sure as shit don’t want to do all this kumbaya stuff.”
Keller’s face flushes, and anger flattens his lips. He doesn’t like being questioned or called out. More than that, though, he was hoping to be the one responsible for bringing this team closer together, and it only goes to show he doesn’t know much about people. I guarantee not one person in this room thought what he was doing was a good idea.
But because so many of the players are making it clear they want out of here, he has no choice but to agree.
“Okay, men… it’s clear you want some action, and I’m ready to give it. Hit the locker room and suit up in practice gear. Everyone on the ice in fifteen minutes.”
♦
When Dominik talked to me last week about taking this job, he reminded me that goalie coaches are more therapists than anything.
If you’re a professional goalie, you have the requisite technical strengths necessary to do the job. You’ve been tested and proven, and there’s not much to teach. Sure, I will keep a keen eye on whomever is in net, to the exclusion of the rest of the game, and I’ll take detailed notes to discuss at the next practice. I’ll watch to make sure strengths are up to par and if any bad habits in technique are developing.
But mostly, I reinforce positivity and mental strength. Goaltending is so specialized, Keller and the other coaches would never be able to relate to how the psyche requires working out as much as the physical body. I know exactly how it is.
I know how important the right frame of mind is to being a consistently good goalie, and it’s my job now to make sure our goalies understand that too. If I stay with this career, I’ll have to learn to balance handling green, unseasoned players while also motivating veterans.
Perhaps my biggest strength is not my success as a professional goalie but in my perseverance in overcoming my injuries. I know all about battling pressure and pulling myself out of dark places. Those are things goalies face all the time, and I’m confident in my ability to motivate.
It’s with this confidence in mind that I meet with my two goalies—Patrik Stenlund and Jesper Keane. Both are young—twenty-two and twenty-four, respectively—and both come from the minors. They’re solid players, probably the two best available to us outside of Drake McGinn, so I’m eager to see what they can do.
They have the skills—perfect stances, near-perfect positioning, and consistent edge work. Technically, they’re sound.
But because they’re young, and they’ve been pulled out of the minors onto a team that is a hot mess, it’s more important than ever we work on their confidence.
Patrik, Jesper, and I gather in one of the meeting rooms on the basement level, and we mostly talk. Neither are surprised that I know a lot about them. I’ve studied their stats, career trajectories, and recent film.
They are surprised we’re not hitting the ice today.
“Tomorrow,” I promise. “But for now, let’s talk about how we can best work together.”
I learn very quickly that while Patrik and Jesper are closely matched in skills, they are night and day in personality. Patrik is arrogant, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Jesper is chill and easygoing.
“I’m not here to teach you anything,” I advise them.
Their eyebrows shoot straight up.
“You’re both good enough to be here,” I explain, hoping to instill immediately my confidence in their abilities. “But I will be watching you closely and helping to keep you sharp. That might be with drills because I notice something in a game, or it might be in the extensive amount of work I do for you prior.”
“What do you mean?” Jesper asks.
“It’s my job to collect all necessary information against your opponents and relay it to you, so whoever is in goal will be prepared for what’s coming. I’ll study a lot of film against the opposing team’s offense, and we’ll discuss the best ways to adjust your save positioning for each player you might be up against. It’s going to be a lot of studying, along with work on the ice, but at this level of play, you’re going to have to do it.”
They both nod in understanding, but it’s Patrik who asks, “And just who is going to be the starting goalie for Friday’s game?”
“No clue,” I say truthfully. “When we hit the ice tomorrow, you’ll both have a chance to show us what you’ve got.”
“What will a typical practice look like?” Jesper inquires, and I like that he’s curious about more than just the starting position. He’s asking the smart questions.
“We’ll start each practice with video. Then about half an hour of ice time to work drills and address any specifics. Then you’ll work with the team. I do expect you both to meet with the team nutritionist and fitness coach. I don’t know what you did in the minors, but I can’t stress enough how important those two components are to your overall success. And you may do this already, but if not, be ready to add in some flexibility training. I’ve talked to the fitness coach, and she has some great routines.”
“Like, yoga and shit?” Patrik asks with a grimace.
“Maybe,” I reply with a shrug. “She’s the expert, so I’d do what she says.”
Jesper nudges Patrik good-naturedly and grins. “She’ll have us doing splits in no time, huh?”
Patrik grunts in disdain. “Next we’ll be going to cheerleading camp.”
“If it makes you a better goalie, I’d expect you to do it with a smile on your face,” I say pointedly, and Patrik at least has the grace to flush.
I’m withholding judgment on who will get the nod to start Friday until I see both of them in action tomorrow, but if I’m going on attitude alone, Jesper’s going to be in goal.
Rising from my chair, I say, “I’ve got the film room reserved in half an hour. I’ll meet you both there.”
From the conference room, I intend to head down to my office to type some notes on this meeting just for me to reference tomorrow when Keller and I meet to decide on our starter.
While I’m on the way, I pull out my phone and shoot a quick text to Sophie. Just met with my two goalies. Feeling like an actual coach. How’s your day so far?
I start to put my phone back in my pocket, but it dings with a text. I don’t consider it could be from anyone else, but by the fact my pulse picks up at the thought it’s Sophie responding, I know she’s not just a roommate, and she’s not just a friend.
She’s more already, and I’m not sure how it happened so fast. But I truly want to know how she’s doing at this moment, and I want to share with her that maybe I might be able to do this coach thing after all.
Her quick response pleases me. I’ve applied for a few jobs but nothing that’s going to crush me if I don’t get it. And you are an actual coach. You were chosen because people have confidence in you. I have confidence in you.
Fuck, that gets me. Chokes me up a bit to know she has blind faith in me.
Be home by six thirty, I text back.
And yes… home was the right word for me to use. Maybe it’s temporary, but it still feels like a home, and that’s probably because Sophie has been so welcoming.
Prepare to be wowed by the dinner I’m making, she replies. And then sends a GIF of some cartoon character with its head exploding.
Christ… I’m good at GIF conversations. But I don’t have time right now, so I type back, Can’t wait.
Then I make myself put my phone away so I don’t hover over a potential response from her.
Before I reach the elevator, I run into Brienne Norcross walking down the hall. She appears to have just arrived as her purse is slung over her shoulder and she’s talking to Michael beside her who’s taking notes on his iPad.
She glances up, sees me, and lifts a finger in a silent demand for me to wait.
After issuing a few more things to Michael, she smiles and approaches. “I was hoping I’d get a chance to talk to you today.”
“If it’s about Drake,” I say, my tone heavy in apology and embarrassment, “I’m so sorry about his attitude yesterday.”
“Not your fault.” Her reply is crisp and dismissive. It’s not up for further discussion, so I’ll consider my apology enough. Her eyes are warm, though, as she pivots. “I just wanted you to know I interviewed Jenna, and she’s fabulous. I offered her a job on the spot—pending her references checking out.”
“Oh, wow.” I’m pleasantly shocked by how fast that went. “I’m happy to hear that.”
“She wants to talk it over with her sister but promised me an answer by tomorrow.”
“It would be a brave, courageous step for her. But I know she’ll be great. Is she going to work for the organization or for one of your other companies?”
“For the organization,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “She’d be the team’s press liaison.”
I blink in further surprise. That’s really going to force Jenna to be out there, and that might be a tad overwhelming. But as someone who has taken a risk by coming here, I hope she goes for it. I’m here to help her adjust, and I know from personal experience it can be fulfilling to step outside the box to try something new.
Brienne looks down at her watch. “Sorry… I’ve got a meeting. If you talk to Jenna, talk her into taking the job.”
I laugh, because I’m not going to do that, but I am going to reassure her that I’ll be here for her. “I’ll do my best,” I reply noncommittally.
CHAPTER 13
Sophie
Leaning my pelvis against the sink, I bend closer to the mirror and apply another coat of mascara. Capping the lid, I draw back and study myself.
Foundation, blush, eye shadow, and mascara. The only thing omitted is eyeliner as I never use it. My green eyes are large on their own, and liner tends to make them look like they’re going to pop out of my head.
I consider some lip gloss but decide against it. Not only will it come off the minute we start eating, but I’ve gone overboard as it is with my appearance.
It’s with great effort I fight off the urge to scrub my face clean. I’ve barely worn makeup the last seven months of this self-imposed isolation. I think I put on some mascara and lip gloss the two times I went to the police station, but beyond that, my makeup case has been collecting dust in my bathroom closet.
If I don’t take off the makeup, I should at least put my hair up. It’s in desperate need of a cut, hanging a good eight inches or so past my shoulders. A trip to the beauty salon hasn’t been in the cards, but that’s not been hard to forsake. I don’t color my naturally golden locks, and I have the easiest style in the world because my hair is naturally curly. I basically wash and lightly towel-dry it, apply a bit of taming spray, and then leave it alone. In a few hours, I have oodles of bouncy curls, but for months now, I’ve been wearing my hair up in a messy bun or ponytail.
Studying my reflection, part of me feels like a fraud all painted and fluffed up. But part of me recognizes my old self.
Behind thick lashes, my eyes sparkle. I’m excited that Baden will be here soon and we’ll share another meal together.
Such a fraud.
He started out as my savior and became a friend when I least expected it. He is nothing more. Therefore, I shouldn’t care how I look or what Baden thinks about how I look.
I snatch the washcloth off my towel hook, prepared to soak it and scrub the farce off my face.
But my phone dings, and when I look down, the security system alerts me that the garage door is in use.
Baden’s here.
My heart jackhammers with a weird mixture of anticipation as well as apprehension.
The anticipation is self-explanatory, but the apprehension is harder to analyze. It’s not fear of Baden because he’s the one person I don’t think I’d ever be afraid of.
No, it’s fear of myself because I’m excited to see him.
Like, really excited.
To the point I put on makeup and I know I’m setting myself up for not only failure but maybe heartbreak as well.
And more fear now, because this feels like a runaway train.
Another ding on my phone, and I see that Baden has set off the motion detectors in the backyard, meaning he’s almost at the porch.
“Shit,” I mutter, all hope of wiping away my makeup gone. I do a once-over, looking at my clothes instead, and I’m satisfied at least they convey I’m a casual girl. Gray leggings, a long-sleeved, V-neck, ivory T-shirt, and thick, gray fuzzy socks. My normal home attire for comfort.
It will have to do.
I scramble out of my room and down the stairs, only to slide into the kitchen to find Baden at the alarm panel entering the code. I ready myself to reengage it once he walks away, but he actually does it for me.
Which means he’s been very, very observant. I wonder if he thinks it’s overkill.
Baden faces me wearing a smile of greeting, but then he sort of freezes as if in shock. He doesn’t do anything so bold as to ogle me, but I can tell he’s surprised by my appearance. The makeup and hair is a bold statement.
I almost lie and tell him I went out for an appointment, but it would be an obvious untruth.
So I don’t, because I don’t want to lie to him.
I play it off and act like I don’t notice that he’s noticed me.
“Hi,” I say cheerily as I scoot around the far side of the small island that separates the kitchen from the eating area. “Hope you’re hungry. I decided to make a dazzling meal.”
“Just for me?” he inquires. Do I note a tone of dismay? As if he might not like me going to any trouble for him—fancy meal, pretty makeup, hope for something that will never be?
I shake my head and give a hearty laugh of denial. “No, not for you. For me because prime rib is my favorite, and you can’t just make it for one person. So this is really a treat for me, but I hope you like it.”
My back remains to him as I fiddle with the tinfoil covering the rib roast, but I can hear him take off his coat and drape it over a chair.
His voice is closer when he says, “It smells divine. Can I help?”
I don’t detect anything weird in his voice—just sincere olfactory delight and a genuine offer to assist.
“I’m good.” I glance over my shoulder and smile. “But if you want to grab us something to drink, that would be great. I’ll take a water, but I’ve got beer in the fridge if you want one.”
“Waters for both of us,” he announces, and I turn back to finish.
“Tell me about your day while I plate everything up,” I say, needing something to fill the silence.
“Oh, what a day,” Baden groans as a chair slides out. I look back at him as he plops down, setting both water bottles on the table. His eyes meet mine, and he shakes his head, as if to ward off any thoughts I might have that it was a bad day. “It was exhausting but thrilling at the same time.”
“More details than that,” I demand. Baden chuckles.
He proceeds to tell me about what sounded like amazing speeches by Brienne Norcross and Callum Derringer and a totally embarrassing attempt at team building by Coach Keller.
Excitement builds in his voice as he talks about his goalies and their first meeting, as well as how they reviewed their own films with him and discussed technique.
My head whips back to look at Coach Keller, and his face drains of color. “Fuck. I’m so sorry. I got you confused with someone else, Stone.”
My head drops again in mortification for not only Stone but this entire team. How the fuck could Keller forget that Stone’s brother was on the plane?
I glance back at Stone, and I can see he has not accepted Keller’s apology. He sinks down into his chair and glares at the head coach.
Keller stammers and looks around the room trying to figure out who he should call on next. If he had a lick of sense, he would shut this shit down and get them out on the ice.
But I’m starting to understand that Keller wants to do things the way he wants to do them, and he’s not looking at the bigger picture. I’m also concerned because he’s forcing something on these players that is not being well received, and it’s going to ding their respect for him.
Keller locks eyes with a player in the first row to my left.
Coen Highsmith.
One of three players who were not on the plane, and the leading scorer for the team up until the crash. Keller stares at him as if he’s a saving grace and eagerly says, “Highsmith… stand up and tell the team about yourself.”
I don’t know much about Coen Highsmith. He’s young and brash, but so are most players in this league. Got a bit of an ego, but I don’t know if it’s healthy. I expect him to stand up and maybe tell a joke to try to lighten the mood or even brag about himself.
He does neither. Instead, he remains seated, hands clasped on the table flipped over his lap. He slouches in the seat, and at first I don’t think he’s going to say anything, but then he drawls, “I think everyone here knows who I am. One of the lucky three.”
And he says nothing else. Keller tries to wait him out, looking at him expectantly, almost begging with his eyes for him to say more.
Coen glares back at the coach.
I have to say that behavior shocks me from the guy who is known as a fairly easygoing player. Along with his brashness and ego and cocky attitude, he’s known to be a fun-loving sort.
Right now, he looks pissed. Keller finally gets the hint and moves on.
Before Keller can call on anyone else, from the corner of my eye, a player stands in the fourth row, and I recognize him as Gage Heyward. The well-respected veteran who retired at the end of last season. He’s the man Callum wanted to be the fount of wisdom for this team.
“Coach,” Gage says in a jovial voice, “I may just be speaking for myself, but I would rather get to know my teammates on a more one-to-one basis. But beyond that, I think I can safely say that everyone in this room is eager to show you what we can do. Am I right?”
Gage looks around expectantly, and every single player nods with others voicing their assent.
“Hell yes.”
“Let’s play.”
Somebody in the back mutters loud enough for everyone to hear, “I sure as shit don’t want to do all this kumbaya stuff.”
Keller’s face flushes, and anger flattens his lips. He doesn’t like being questioned or called out. More than that, though, he was hoping to be the one responsible for bringing this team closer together, and it only goes to show he doesn’t know much about people. I guarantee not one person in this room thought what he was doing was a good idea.
But because so many of the players are making it clear they want out of here, he has no choice but to agree.
“Okay, men… it’s clear you want some action, and I’m ready to give it. Hit the locker room and suit up in practice gear. Everyone on the ice in fifteen minutes.”
♦
When Dominik talked to me last week about taking this job, he reminded me that goalie coaches are more therapists than anything.
If you’re a professional goalie, you have the requisite technical strengths necessary to do the job. You’ve been tested and proven, and there’s not much to teach. Sure, I will keep a keen eye on whomever is in net, to the exclusion of the rest of the game, and I’ll take detailed notes to discuss at the next practice. I’ll watch to make sure strengths are up to par and if any bad habits in technique are developing.
But mostly, I reinforce positivity and mental strength. Goaltending is so specialized, Keller and the other coaches would never be able to relate to how the psyche requires working out as much as the physical body. I know exactly how it is.
I know how important the right frame of mind is to being a consistently good goalie, and it’s my job now to make sure our goalies understand that too. If I stay with this career, I’ll have to learn to balance handling green, unseasoned players while also motivating veterans.
Perhaps my biggest strength is not my success as a professional goalie but in my perseverance in overcoming my injuries. I know all about battling pressure and pulling myself out of dark places. Those are things goalies face all the time, and I’m confident in my ability to motivate.
It’s with this confidence in mind that I meet with my two goalies—Patrik Stenlund and Jesper Keane. Both are young—twenty-two and twenty-four, respectively—and both come from the minors. They’re solid players, probably the two best available to us outside of Drake McGinn, so I’m eager to see what they can do.
They have the skills—perfect stances, near-perfect positioning, and consistent edge work. Technically, they’re sound.
But because they’re young, and they’ve been pulled out of the minors onto a team that is a hot mess, it’s more important than ever we work on their confidence.
Patrik, Jesper, and I gather in one of the meeting rooms on the basement level, and we mostly talk. Neither are surprised that I know a lot about them. I’ve studied their stats, career trajectories, and recent film.
They are surprised we’re not hitting the ice today.
“Tomorrow,” I promise. “But for now, let’s talk about how we can best work together.”
I learn very quickly that while Patrik and Jesper are closely matched in skills, they are night and day in personality. Patrik is arrogant, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Jesper is chill and easygoing.
“I’m not here to teach you anything,” I advise them.
Their eyebrows shoot straight up.
“You’re both good enough to be here,” I explain, hoping to instill immediately my confidence in their abilities. “But I will be watching you closely and helping to keep you sharp. That might be with drills because I notice something in a game, or it might be in the extensive amount of work I do for you prior.”
“What do you mean?” Jesper asks.
“It’s my job to collect all necessary information against your opponents and relay it to you, so whoever is in goal will be prepared for what’s coming. I’ll study a lot of film against the opposing team’s offense, and we’ll discuss the best ways to adjust your save positioning for each player you might be up against. It’s going to be a lot of studying, along with work on the ice, but at this level of play, you’re going to have to do it.”
They both nod in understanding, but it’s Patrik who asks, “And just who is going to be the starting goalie for Friday’s game?”
“No clue,” I say truthfully. “When we hit the ice tomorrow, you’ll both have a chance to show us what you’ve got.”
“What will a typical practice look like?” Jesper inquires, and I like that he’s curious about more than just the starting position. He’s asking the smart questions.
“We’ll start each practice with video. Then about half an hour of ice time to work drills and address any specifics. Then you’ll work with the team. I do expect you both to meet with the team nutritionist and fitness coach. I don’t know what you did in the minors, but I can’t stress enough how important those two components are to your overall success. And you may do this already, but if not, be ready to add in some flexibility training. I’ve talked to the fitness coach, and she has some great routines.”
“Like, yoga and shit?” Patrik asks with a grimace.
“Maybe,” I reply with a shrug. “She’s the expert, so I’d do what she says.”
Jesper nudges Patrik good-naturedly and grins. “She’ll have us doing splits in no time, huh?”
Patrik grunts in disdain. “Next we’ll be going to cheerleading camp.”
“If it makes you a better goalie, I’d expect you to do it with a smile on your face,” I say pointedly, and Patrik at least has the grace to flush.
I’m withholding judgment on who will get the nod to start Friday until I see both of them in action tomorrow, but if I’m going on attitude alone, Jesper’s going to be in goal.
Rising from my chair, I say, “I’ve got the film room reserved in half an hour. I’ll meet you both there.”
From the conference room, I intend to head down to my office to type some notes on this meeting just for me to reference tomorrow when Keller and I meet to decide on our starter.
While I’m on the way, I pull out my phone and shoot a quick text to Sophie. Just met with my two goalies. Feeling like an actual coach. How’s your day so far?
I start to put my phone back in my pocket, but it dings with a text. I don’t consider it could be from anyone else, but by the fact my pulse picks up at the thought it’s Sophie responding, I know she’s not just a roommate, and she’s not just a friend.
She’s more already, and I’m not sure how it happened so fast. But I truly want to know how she’s doing at this moment, and I want to share with her that maybe I might be able to do this coach thing after all.
Her quick response pleases me. I’ve applied for a few jobs but nothing that’s going to crush me if I don’t get it. And you are an actual coach. You were chosen because people have confidence in you. I have confidence in you.
Fuck, that gets me. Chokes me up a bit to know she has blind faith in me.
Be home by six thirty, I text back.
And yes… home was the right word for me to use. Maybe it’s temporary, but it still feels like a home, and that’s probably because Sophie has been so welcoming.
Prepare to be wowed by the dinner I’m making, she replies. And then sends a GIF of some cartoon character with its head exploding.
Christ… I’m good at GIF conversations. But I don’t have time right now, so I type back, Can’t wait.
Then I make myself put my phone away so I don’t hover over a potential response from her.
Before I reach the elevator, I run into Brienne Norcross walking down the hall. She appears to have just arrived as her purse is slung over her shoulder and she’s talking to Michael beside her who’s taking notes on his iPad.
She glances up, sees me, and lifts a finger in a silent demand for me to wait.
After issuing a few more things to Michael, she smiles and approaches. “I was hoping I’d get a chance to talk to you today.”
“If it’s about Drake,” I say, my tone heavy in apology and embarrassment, “I’m so sorry about his attitude yesterday.”
“Not your fault.” Her reply is crisp and dismissive. It’s not up for further discussion, so I’ll consider my apology enough. Her eyes are warm, though, as she pivots. “I just wanted you to know I interviewed Jenna, and she’s fabulous. I offered her a job on the spot—pending her references checking out.”
“Oh, wow.” I’m pleasantly shocked by how fast that went. “I’m happy to hear that.”
“She wants to talk it over with her sister but promised me an answer by tomorrow.”
“It would be a brave, courageous step for her. But I know she’ll be great. Is she going to work for the organization or for one of your other companies?”
“For the organization,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “She’d be the team’s press liaison.”
I blink in further surprise. That’s really going to force Jenna to be out there, and that might be a tad overwhelming. But as someone who has taken a risk by coming here, I hope she goes for it. I’m here to help her adjust, and I know from personal experience it can be fulfilling to step outside the box to try something new.
Brienne looks down at her watch. “Sorry… I’ve got a meeting. If you talk to Jenna, talk her into taking the job.”
I laugh, because I’m not going to do that, but I am going to reassure her that I’ll be here for her. “I’ll do my best,” I reply noncommittally.
CHAPTER 13
Sophie
Leaning my pelvis against the sink, I bend closer to the mirror and apply another coat of mascara. Capping the lid, I draw back and study myself.
Foundation, blush, eye shadow, and mascara. The only thing omitted is eyeliner as I never use it. My green eyes are large on their own, and liner tends to make them look like they’re going to pop out of my head.
I consider some lip gloss but decide against it. Not only will it come off the minute we start eating, but I’ve gone overboard as it is with my appearance.
It’s with great effort I fight off the urge to scrub my face clean. I’ve barely worn makeup the last seven months of this self-imposed isolation. I think I put on some mascara and lip gloss the two times I went to the police station, but beyond that, my makeup case has been collecting dust in my bathroom closet.
If I don’t take off the makeup, I should at least put my hair up. It’s in desperate need of a cut, hanging a good eight inches or so past my shoulders. A trip to the beauty salon hasn’t been in the cards, but that’s not been hard to forsake. I don’t color my naturally golden locks, and I have the easiest style in the world because my hair is naturally curly. I basically wash and lightly towel-dry it, apply a bit of taming spray, and then leave it alone. In a few hours, I have oodles of bouncy curls, but for months now, I’ve been wearing my hair up in a messy bun or ponytail.
Studying my reflection, part of me feels like a fraud all painted and fluffed up. But part of me recognizes my old self.
Behind thick lashes, my eyes sparkle. I’m excited that Baden will be here soon and we’ll share another meal together.
Such a fraud.
He started out as my savior and became a friend when I least expected it. He is nothing more. Therefore, I shouldn’t care how I look or what Baden thinks about how I look.
I snatch the washcloth off my towel hook, prepared to soak it and scrub the farce off my face.
But my phone dings, and when I look down, the security system alerts me that the garage door is in use.
Baden’s here.
My heart jackhammers with a weird mixture of anticipation as well as apprehension.
The anticipation is self-explanatory, but the apprehension is harder to analyze. It’s not fear of Baden because he’s the one person I don’t think I’d ever be afraid of.
No, it’s fear of myself because I’m excited to see him.
Like, really excited.
To the point I put on makeup and I know I’m setting myself up for not only failure but maybe heartbreak as well.
And more fear now, because this feels like a runaway train.
Another ding on my phone, and I see that Baden has set off the motion detectors in the backyard, meaning he’s almost at the porch.
“Shit,” I mutter, all hope of wiping away my makeup gone. I do a once-over, looking at my clothes instead, and I’m satisfied at least they convey I’m a casual girl. Gray leggings, a long-sleeved, V-neck, ivory T-shirt, and thick, gray fuzzy socks. My normal home attire for comfort.
It will have to do.
I scramble out of my room and down the stairs, only to slide into the kitchen to find Baden at the alarm panel entering the code. I ready myself to reengage it once he walks away, but he actually does it for me.
Which means he’s been very, very observant. I wonder if he thinks it’s overkill.
Baden faces me wearing a smile of greeting, but then he sort of freezes as if in shock. He doesn’t do anything so bold as to ogle me, but I can tell he’s surprised by my appearance. The makeup and hair is a bold statement.
I almost lie and tell him I went out for an appointment, but it would be an obvious untruth.
So I don’t, because I don’t want to lie to him.
I play it off and act like I don’t notice that he’s noticed me.
“Hi,” I say cheerily as I scoot around the far side of the small island that separates the kitchen from the eating area. “Hope you’re hungry. I decided to make a dazzling meal.”
“Just for me?” he inquires. Do I note a tone of dismay? As if he might not like me going to any trouble for him—fancy meal, pretty makeup, hope for something that will never be?
I shake my head and give a hearty laugh of denial. “No, not for you. For me because prime rib is my favorite, and you can’t just make it for one person. So this is really a treat for me, but I hope you like it.”
My back remains to him as I fiddle with the tinfoil covering the rib roast, but I can hear him take off his coat and drape it over a chair.
His voice is closer when he says, “It smells divine. Can I help?”
I don’t detect anything weird in his voice—just sincere olfactory delight and a genuine offer to assist.
“I’m good.” I glance over my shoulder and smile. “But if you want to grab us something to drink, that would be great. I’ll take a water, but I’ve got beer in the fridge if you want one.”
“Waters for both of us,” he announces, and I turn back to finish.
“Tell me about your day while I plate everything up,” I say, needing something to fill the silence.
“Oh, what a day,” Baden groans as a chair slides out. I look back at him as he plops down, setting both water bottles on the table. His eyes meet mine, and he shakes his head, as if to ward off any thoughts I might have that it was a bad day. “It was exhausting but thrilling at the same time.”
“More details than that,” I demand. Baden chuckles.
He proceeds to tell me about what sounded like amazing speeches by Brienne Norcross and Callum Derringer and a totally embarrassing attempt at team building by Coach Keller.
Excitement builds in his voice as he talks about his goalies and their first meeting, as well as how they reviewed their own films with him and discussed technique.
