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“Thanks for the drink, Mary,” she tells the barista working behind the espresso machine and then gives her a wave, turning away from me to leave.
“What did you mean then?” I ask before Penelope can make her escape.
She stops and looks over her shoulder to answer me.
“That fuckboy smirk you wear around.”
Do I have a ‘fuckboy’ smirk?
I’m guessing, by her tone, that it’s not an endearing quality by her standards.
Then she turns and continues for the red door to the coffee shop.
“Thanks for the drink, Matthews,” she says, continuing her leave.
I can’t help but watch her toned figure skater ass walk out the door.
The view from here is nice, but I’m fucking tired of watching her walk away.
This is my last chance to get her to forgive me and I know it.
Chapter Five
Penelope
Running into Slade yesterday at the Serendipity’s Coffee Shop was like a straight ice bath plunge into the reality that he’s really here. He’s no longer just a person I might occasionally see when I fail to avoid him in the stadium but an actual physical addition to my city. He can literally show up anywhere I am, at any time… and now he has.
Before I woke this morning, I received a text from our HR manager stating that her seven-year-old had woken up with pink eye. With her assistant still off on maternity leave until next week, she asked if I could handle the new player intake forms for her today.
AKA, can I meet with Slade Matthews and scan in all of his new recruit paperwork.
I’ve done this a small handful of times in the past for new janitorial staff or concession stand employees, but never for a player.
It’s not difficult work, and if it were anyone else, I’d be excited about the chance to meet our newest team member.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t have asked me for a worse favor. I’d rather share an eye patch with her very contagious bacterial conjunctivitis-infected daughter than have to spend any amount of time with Slade.
But since she isn’t offering that as an alternate option, I’ll have to meet with the living, breathing bacterial conjunctivitis himself. God only knows what contagious virus he could be carrying around with him now.
He wasn’t exactly a pristine little altar boy in college. His reputation was public knowledge, which is ironic since his mission in life from the moment I set foot on campus was to make sure I didn’t get any. Or at least not from any athletes based on the threat he made.
Thankfully, this morning, my father decided to get breakfast with an old player from his NHL skating days who’s in town.
With no early morning meetings, I get to decompress on the ice before my dreaded meeting at eight am with Satan… I mean Slade.
As I push through the locker room doors, the usual smells of dirty gym socks, sweaty male testosterone, and intense cleaning ammonia fill my nostrils.
No matter how much they clean or how often they’ve painted the walls, the smell is permanent and seems to seep back out of them. Though, I will say, as a figure skater, I’ve been in enough locker rooms to attest to the fact that our janitors do a much better job than most. However, I’d never shower in the locker room without shower shoes, no matter how often they bleach it.
Gross.
Walking through the locker room and towards the player's tunnel, I feel the unmistakable humidity usually created after my skating session when I take a hot shower.
I stop in my tracks, but I don’t hear a single sound in the locker room, and I didn’t see a single soul when I walked in.
I’d never use the men’s locker room if I knew a player, or a coach were in here. But no one’s come in here before seven since I started working here four years ago.
I’m alone… as I should be for this hour in the morning. Maybe one of the janitors got here early and cleaned the showers first?
