Tony’s brows rise skeptically. “Really? The hockey star you’ve just so happened to have known since childhood isn’t a good match for our program?”
“It’s complicated,” I mutter, fiddling with a pen to avoid eye contact.
“Uncomplicate it.” Tony’s nothing if not blunt.
I bite my lip, scrambling for an excuse that isn’t “I’ve been locked in a half decade battle with my brain tonotthink about him.”
“We’re not that close,” I finally say. It’s not a lie. “Our past has always made us friendly, but we keep that older-sister’s-friend distance, you know?”
“Harriet!” Tony’s sharp tone snaps me back to reality. “Are you doubting our work?” He leans in close enough that I smell the mint gum trying—and failing—to mask his iced Americano addiction. “Yourwork, born from your blood, sweat, and tears?”
My molars slam against each other, savoring the pressure. “Never.”
“Then you’ll want your old pal Gale here to find a pot of gold at the end of his rainbow. He’s been playing like shit. Imagine if we turn things around for him—reinvigorate his career.”
I can practically see the dollar signs light in Tony’s eyes. “You’ll do it,” he goes on. “Because I know the real reason.”
“You do?” I keep my voice steady, praying I haven’t been that transparent.
“You don’t want to let your team down,” he continues smugly. “You need to be able to look them in the eyes and say you’ve done everything you can to ensure their success.”
A twinge of something—not quite relief, not quite resignation—flickers through me. Tony’s words hit their mark, as they often do. The thought of my team, their determined faces, their late nights and drive, tugs at my heartstrings. These are my people—loyal, brilliant, and trusting in my lead. E.M.M.A. isn’t just a project; it’s our shared dream.
“And by the way,” Tony adds, snapping his suspenders, “this isn’t a request. Secure Knight’s agreement for testing.” He has the audacity to wag a finger. “And don’t give me that I’ll-stab-you-in-your-sleep look. You’ve been napping on a gold mine of a connection.”
I arch an eyebrow at his attempt to command me, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm. But for E.M.M.A. and the team, I can play this game. So I nod, sealing my fate with a simple gesture.
Tony saunters away, probably to practice his “I’m a tech visionary” pose in a mirror, and I turn back to my computer. E.M.M.A.’s interface seems to stare back at me.
My finger hovers over Gale’s chat on my phone. The last message, now a relic, stares up at me:Good seeing ya at Brooke’s wedding. Drinks soon?
Two years. Two whole years, and I never responded. Too risky, like juggling lit matches while drenched in gasoline. Too tempting, like shooting back that last tequila shot when you’re already three deep. Too much like flying straight into the sun with wax wings.
But I never deleted the chat either. Masochism? Hope? A special kind of stupidity that only comes with unfinished business? I’ve seen him since then, of course—those abbreviated moments of passing, a quick hello as he’s coming and I’m strategically leaving, or a wave across a backyard barbecue that manages to feel both casual and earth-shattering at once.
My heart does a little stutter step as my brain offers helpful advice like “abort mission” and “Can’t you find another job?”
But my thumb’s got other plans. “Okay, I’m doing it. I’m going to call Gale.” I hit call before I can talk myself out of it.
The first ring hasn’t finished when E.M.M.A.’s interface suddenly flashes. A notification pops up:Alert: New information about subject may impact approach. Analyzing...
Gale’s latest stats pop up on my screen. Holy shit! These numbers—goals, assists, time on ice—aren’t just bad, they’re career-threatening bad.
“Hello?” Gale’s deep voice comes through the speaker in a slow, tired drawl.
E.M.M.A.’s interface flashes:Caution: Subject’s voice indicates stress. Proceed with care.
I have to give a pitch that can save my career, resurrect Gale’s, and not sound like a total idiot. I blink and get my game face on. When I open my eyes, I’m staring at my reflection on the black computer screen.
“Who is this?” he asks, more gruffly.
Goddess or mere mortal, guess it’s time to find out if I’m making a wise choice or cracking open a box of trouble.
Chapter Two
Thirty minutes earlier...
Gale Knight cranked the shower knob hotter, wincing as scalding water cascaded over his knotted muscles. His skin turned an angry red, but the pain was a welcome distraction as he fought the urge to slam his fist into the wall. Coach’s feedback and the humiliation of yet another brutal practice looped through his mind like a mocking soundtrack he couldn’t mute.
