“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 Jägerbombs 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 tribaltattoos, 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.
