“I bet I do,” he booms so loudly, I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “Because I’m on the roster for the East!”
I freeze, knowing this means we are rivals. Hearing his smirk through the phone, I add, “You’d better bring it, Rookie.”
“Oh, yeah.” My voice drops as it all sinks in at the slowest speed imaginable. Though we played together when we were younger, Taz beat me to the NHL, and he never misses an opportunity to remind me of that fact. His laughter fuels me, and I dare to confess the next part. I might as well get it over with—he’s going to find out anyway. “The craziest thing is they made me captain.”
“Nice?” The C comes out like a happy kiss. “You’re a natural leader,” he says, “but I’m going to look better in my C than you ever could.”
“Please,” I snicker, as this conversation keeps getting better. This can’t be happening. “That must be a mistake. There’s no way you got that letter. You don’t even know how to put your jersey on the right way.”
Chuckling through his words, he says, “You’ll be the one struggling to get your jersey on once I get ahold of it.”
It feels good to know one of my best hockey friends is going to DC with me. “Congrats, Houli. Seriously.” I grin so hard my cheeks hurt. Taz was one of the first real friends I made when we played outside Boston together before I went to the AHL. That was so long ago. “Dude, if I have to play against anyone, it’s an honor that it’s you.”
“Right back at you.” His tone picks up urgency. “Hey, sorry to cut you off, but I need to run, but see you in DC, Captain.”
“Same.” I hang up and sit still, breathing in the insane reality that somehow this is my life. All the hard work is paying off.
Against my better judgment, I can’t help but look back at my phone. I don’t need to scroll to find her number—I’ve memorized it. My thumb hovers over the keypad, but I can’t do it. I set the phone face down. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t remove her from my head.
DC might have called me first.
But it doesn’t surprise me thatLottie's calling louder.
four
Lottie
Ipressthephonebetween my ear and shoulder while scrolling through three calendars on my desktop screen. Although the phone is always busy, today proves to be another level of inundation as people keep demanding interviews. My mom has a personal calendar and another for work. Then I cross-reference those with what I have available on my calendar, since I’m her executive assistant. Though I don’t know why I bother with my calendar at this point. I have no life beyond her work. Aside from a rare dental cleaning, my schedule is pretty much her schedule.
“Yes, ma’am, I can schedule an interview on Monday at one.” I click the speaker icon and set the phone next to me. I type sofast my fingers blur. If I had one superpower, typing would be it. I love theclicky-clicksof the keys. “Yes, Senator Halloway looks forward to meeting you. Thank you for calling.”
I end the call and shove a handful of plain M&Ms in my mouth from the bag I have stashed by my monitor right as my mom strides past my doorway. Her Jimmy Choo heels click with purpose as she rushes down the hall between two staffers. She doesn’t even glance into my office to say hello.
She never does.
Mom assumes I’ve got everything under control. For the most part, I do. I’m excellent at smiling through the drama. I’m the senator’s daughter, the one who absolutely must uphold a “perfect image,” as Mom puts it. Which means, not dating anyone she doesn’t approve of, which is about 99.99 percent of the population. That brings me back to the main reason my calendar is forever empty of personal events.
Well, that and the guy I want to date is halfway across the United States…
Leaving her calendars open, I dramatically close my tab, because really, there’s no point in leaving it open. I shift my focus to the little window next to my cubicle, my mind restless. There might as well be bars on it to match my current mood. I know better than to let her know I’m daydreaming about another life while I’m at work. I’ve already been caught once doodling goats on government sticky notes. That resulted in a twenty-minute lecture.
“If you want to draw your goat things, do it on your own time,” she hissed. “Not in a federal office.”
What she didn’t know was that I wasn’t just drawing.
I like to call it my scheduled dissociating, and it’s likely the single activity that allows me to stay sane.
Iwanta new life.
The problem is, I don’t even know what that life looks like, because I’ve always done what my mom says is best—and my new life definitely doesn’t involve listening to her. I’m not sure when it happened exactly, but somewhere in the last few years I’ve become disabled in my own thinking. I get so anxious when it comes to making decisions that I let her take control, which she loves. I hate it here, but I can’t see a way out. Not when the public is so invested in my family’s business. Until my mom gets out of politics, I’m sort of stuck here too. The closest thing I have to an escape is sneaking outside on my lunch breaks, where I race through the city park like I’m starving for air.
Maybe I am.
The horrible part is I always come back.
My watch buzzes. I check the text and groan.
Dad: Gate’s busted again. Goats are loose.
