Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
My end-game has always been to become a sports journalist. Yes, HockeyNet is only a decade old (and the originality coffers must’ve been running low the day they chose their name), but the network covers hockey exclusively, and when it launched, it filled a deep void in the sports coverage market. I watch ESPN religiously, but one of the major complaints about it is its lackluster hockey coverage. Which is egregious. I mean, in theory, hockey is the fourth major sport in the country, but the bigger networks often treat it as if it’s less important than NASCAR or tennis or—shudder—golf.
I dream of being on camera and sitting with those analysts at the big boys’ table, breaking down highlights, analyzing games, voicing my predictions. Sports journalism is a tough route for a woman, but I know my hockey, and I’m confident I’ll slay my interview tomorrow.
“Let me know how it goes,” Dad orders.
“I will.” As I cross the living room, my left sock connects with something wet, and I yelp.
Dad is instantly concerned. “You all right?”
“Sorry, I’m fine. The carpet’s wet. I must have spilled something—” I stop when I notice a small puddle in front of the sliding door that opens onto the backyard. It’s still raining outside, a steady pounding against the stone patio. “Crap. There’s water pooling at the back door.”
“That’s not good. What are we dealing with? Runoff directing water into the house?”
“How would I know? Do you think I studied the runoff situation before I moved in?” He can’t see me rolling my eyes, but I hope he can hear it in my voice.
“Tell me where the moisture is coming from.”
“I told you, it’s mostly around the sliding door.” I walk the perimeter of the living room, which takes about, oh, three seconds. The only wet spot is near the door.
“All right. Well, that’s a good sign. Means it’s probably not the pipes. But if it’s storm-water runoff, there could be several culprits for that. Is the driveway paved?”
“Yeah.”
“Your landlords might need to consider drainage options. Give them a call tomorrow and tell them to investigate.”
“I will.”
“I mean it.”
“I said I will.” I know he’s trying to be helpful, but why does he have to use that tone with me? Everything with Chad Jensen is a command, not a suggestion.
He’s not a bad man, I know that. He’s simply overprotective, and once upon a time he might’ve had reason to be. But I’ve been living on my own for three years. I can take care of myself.
“And you’ll be at the semifinals on Saturday night?” Dad asks briskly.
“I can’t,” I say, and I’m genuinely regretful about missing such a vital game. But I made these plans ages ago. “I’m visiting Tansy, remember?” Tansy is my favorite cousin, the daughter of my dad’s older sister, Sheryl.
“That’s this weekend?”
“Yup.”
“All right, then. Say hello for me. Tell her I look forward to seeing her and Noah for Easter.”
“Will do.”
“Are you spending the night?” There’s an edge to the question.
“Two nights, actually. I’m going up to Boston tomorrow, and heading back Sunday.”
“Don’t do—” He halts.
“Don’t do what?” This time, it’s my tone taking on that sharp edge.
“Don’t do anything reckless. Don’t drink too much. Be safe.”
I appreciate that he doesn’t say, “Don’t drink at all,” but that’s probably because he knows he can’t stop me. Once I turned eighteen, he couldn’t force me to abide by his curfew or his rules anymore. And once I turned twenty-one, he couldn’t stop me from having a drink or two.
“I’ll be safe,” I promise, because that’s the one assurance I can give with confidence.
“Bren,” he says. Then stops again.
I feel like most conversations with my father go like this. Start and stop. Words we want to say, and words we don’t say. It’s so hard to connect with him.
“Dad, can we hang up now? I want to take a hot shower and get ready for bed. I have to wake up early tomorrow.”
“All right. Let me know how the interview goes.” He pauses. When he speaks again, it’s to offer some rare encouragement. “You got this.”
“Thank you. Night, Dad.”
“Night, Brenna.”
I hang up and do exactly what I told him—take a scalding-hot shower, because the twenty-minute walk in the rain chilled me down to the bone. I’m redder than a lobster when I emerge from the cramped shower stall. My little bathroom doesn’t have a bathtub, which is a shame. Hot baths are the absolute best.
I don’t like sleeping with wet hair, so I do a quick blow-dry and then rummage around in my dresser in search of my warmest PJs. I settle on plaid pants and a thin long-sleeve tee with the Briar University logo on it. Basements tend to be cold as a rule, and my apartment is no exception. I’m surprised I haven’t come down with pneumonia in the seven or so months I’ve lived here.