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When a devastating injury threatens the career of Terence Tiles, the superstar goalie for the Seattle Kraken, the foundation of the life he meticulously built over eight years crumbles. Overwhelmed, he retreats from...
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Old fashion. Old London. Jane Austen style. Letters. That is what I've resorted to. It's Wednesday and on every normal Wednesday in New York, I usually wake up dreading the dinner at night with Madam Beaufort that evening. She doesn't ever say a word until I decide to leave, only then does she deem it fit to speak. I'd call her a weirdo, but that's a clear understatement.
It's a good schedule that I've curated for myself, but it means that I can only be present for the New York Rangers in their weekend games. All of the stuff is now virtual. It was a huge sacrifice, giving three days of my busy week to Terence when two days already belong to Madam Beaufort. I've only been in Seattle for a week and some days, and I'm grateful she hasn't thrown some British fit and made her way to Seattle to haunt me. I'm also slightly terrified, what if she's let me go?
While she's not the most bearable human on the planet, she's also been a constant in my life, I'd admit. So has she really gone? I long for the old college days where she won't let me party and drink. Does that make a weirdo like her? Gah. I shake the thought away, I'm definitely nothing like her.
I have a lot of work to do today and that includes virtual meetings, documentation, more meetings with potential clients; most of which are athletes, picking up little Ethan from school. I'd consider myself unlucky if I run into any of the Krakens or their WAGs. Now don't get me wrong, they're nice, but they're also into all that sappy emotional stuff, and all that makes me uncomfortable in a huge way. They all have some sort of emotional connection and attachment to each other and they seem awfully comfortable and at peace with that fact. That I find completely weird and I hope the universe answers my metaphorical cry for help.
While so many reporters and journalists will argue that I am an indoor girl, nothing makes me happier than a quiet walk. And as predicted, the universe doesn't answer my cry for help, because that's Jodie Henning just across the street, waving at me and expecting me to wave back. Either she has forgotten our previous encounters, or she's having a preggy brain. I don't wave back and as expected, she makes her way towards me.
"Small world, Miss Martins." She chuckles and for the second time in less than two weeks, I don't return her soft gesture. But she never catches on.
"Yeah, Yeah, small world." I look away.
"Drinks? There's a bar just down the street and they mix really good stuff." She points at what I think is the direction of the bar, and of course there's a freaking bar in this Kraken-cursed neighborhood.
"You're pregnant, you shouldn't drink." Okay do I need to give her a lecture? What kind of doctor does she have anyway?
"Oh my God," she chooses now to let out a loud squeal followed by a laugh. Who I'm I? Trevor freaking Noah? "The drinks are for you, gorgeous, I know owner, and he makes me the best fruit juices whenever I come." She says and she gives me a pouty look. Oh God please. "So, what do you say? Drinks?" she asks yet again.
