“Lena Sinclair, this is Sarah Collins, assistant coach of the Pittsburgh Fury. We have an emergency.”
I absolutely did not have to “get picked up by a fancy black car and driven to the hockey arena for a job offer” on today’s bingo card. Another reminder that no two days in dentistry are alike! I run my hands over the smooth leather interior as I’m chauffeured to the Hill District. I stare at the sun glinting off the windows of the giant arena, briefly remembering my mother once saying that girls “my size” never get very far in the world. Her words seem hollow as I’m ushered through a fancy door, an even fancier elevator, and into an office suite full of very-fancily-dressed people.
It hadn’t occurred to me to feel self-conscious in my scrubs and Hokas, and I was just about to squirm when a white woman in track pants and a T-shirt burst into the door.
“Dr. Sinclair. Thank goodness. I’m Sarah.” She holds out a hand, which I shake, impressed by her rough palm and firm grip. “We’ve had a tragedy.”
A throat clears from behind the mahogany desk. “Tragedy is a strong word. No one has perished.” A balding white man stands and adjusts his suit jacket. “Dr. Sinclair, I’m Charles Sutton, owner of the Pittsburgh Fury. Please, take a seat.”
I see someone has brought a leather chair right up behind me, and I lower myself into it as Sarah sits in the chair to my right. Mr. Sutton taps his desk and sits back down. “Are you aware, Dr. Sinclair, that the professional hockey league is required to employ a dentist and have one present for all practices and home competitions?”
I shake my head. “I never thought about it before. But it makes sense! I bet you see a lot of mouth trauma.”
Sutton coughs. “Indeed.”
Sarah groans beside me and slaps the desk. “I don’t have time for all this. My guys are suited up and waiting for the morning skate.” She turns to face me. “Doc Bowman had a heart attack this morning. He’s over at General. They placed a stent, and he’s fine. He apparently badgered the staff to ask who was the best with the brutal mouth cases, and they named you. We’re offering you a job. Starting immediately.”
I blink, processing her words. “I’m sorry? A job?”
Sutton waves a hand. “We have arranged for someone else to fill in your current position at the hospital. We require a specific temperament, and we believe you are uniquely suited to meet our needs.”
I glance at one wall of his office, covered floor to ceiling with television monitors, each showing footage of a different hockey game somewhere in the world. I gesture at the screens. “I’m not really … cut out for a public role with a lot of attention…” I drift off, not wanting to spell out that a chubby dentist will not be great for optics on air.
Sarah frowns and recoils. “Dr. Sinclair, yours is a role where–if you’re doing it well–nobody will even know you exist. Ideally, we never need you at all!”
Sutton nods.
I frown. “I can’t imagine that’s true.”
Sutton taps the desk. “Dr. Sinclair, truly, the most likely scenario each game is that you stop the bleeding as quickly as possible so play can resume.” He snaps his fingers, and a young Black man in a suit approaches with a folder, leather, of course. “This is our compensation offer.”
I crack open the folder and gasp when I see the bolded number at the bottom of the page.
CHAPTER 2
ALDER
I pullup to Coach Thompson's suburban McMansion with the Fury banner hanging above the driveway, scratching at the scruff I've been cultivating for the past two weeks. The beard isn't looking great yet—patchy in places, too thick in others—but Adam says it makes me look like a Viking warrior, and I'm desperate for him to see me as sexy like that.
I recheck my phone. No text from Adam saying he's on his way.
Instead, there's a message from my dad:
I'm thinking of you bringing Adam to the BBQ! Just be yourself. I love you, kiddo.
I swallow the lump in my throat. Ty Stag, hockey legend and tough guy extraordinaire has no problem with his son dating a guy. He just has a problem with his son datingthisguy—the one who still hasn't arrived twenty minutes after I texted him I was here.
My phone rings, and Adam's name flashes on the screen.
"Hey, you close?" I ask instead of hello.
"I'm at the end of the street. I just wanted to check..."
After six months of dating, Adam hasn't met a singleteammate of mine outside of accidental run-ins. He hasn't been to a family dinner, hasn't attended a home game, and won't even let me tag him in private social media posts.
"I’ve been waiting for you in the driveway," I say, trying to keep the frustration from my voice. "The guys want to meet you. And the new dentist is coming—Coach is making a big deal about Doc Bowman's replacement."
A sigh crackles through the speaker. "I'm not comfortable with this kind of group party, Alder. I've told you that repeatedly."
