Page 4 of Let It Be Me

4

RILEY

U nbelievable. I think to myself as I walk out of Sarah’s office and towards the elevator. My hot hookup six months ago is my new publicist.

And basically my babysitter.

I have a babysitter at twenty-three years old. I mash the elevator button more forcefully than I should and stomp in before pressing the G button. It’s not enough that my last agent and publicist were a box of rocks, but now this one seems like a real ball-buster.

It’s going to take a lot of effort on my part to not bring our time together in the hotel up. I could see it in her eyes as we sat in her office and I won’t deny that I looked for Sarah after that night. My internet stalking gave me nothing as I only had her first name to go off of. At least she gave me her real name. Whereas I used a shortened version of my middle name to protect my identity.

The elevator opens and I hurry out of the building towards my Range Rover. I didn’t lie when I said I have a motorcycle. But since I was needed here at the last minute and my bike is at my parents place as it needs work done…well my Range Rover was the logical choice. When I get in, I start up and pull my phone out of my pocket. Checking my email, I see the one from Sarah. I scan it and am baffled with the amount of events she wants me to attend. Todd, my fuck face agent, always said he was “working on something” and then asked me what clubs we were going to that night. But almost a year into the league and I still had no endorsements to my name, hadn’t been to a single charity event, and saw maybe five people at our games last year wearing my jersey. So, in hindsight, maybe it’s a good thing I’m getting a whole new team.

I find my playlist of choice before I pull out of the parking lot and make the hour and a half drive back home. Does it suck that my agent is now based out of Cincinnati? Yes. But it doesn’t hurt that the city is beautiful. Maybe if Cincy revives their pro team, I’ll see about a trade. For now, I’m content playing at home in Columbus. In fact, I love playing in my hometown. It works as my parents still live there. Although they’ve made their opinions crystal clear on how I’ve fallen off track. I hate being a disappointment to them. They took me in when my birth parents were taken too early from this world.

Momma and Pops were college best friends with my parents. They were in each other's weddings and got jobs in the same city. And when my parents had me, Momma and Pops became my godparents. But they never could have predicted that they would have to raise me as their own. And so soon. I owe them more than I ever could imagine. So how do I repay them? By fucking up on and off the ice. I think my fuck-ups off the ice are more disappointing to them than anything.

No. I know it’s more disappointing to them. Getting photographed at a party with drugs spread out across the table like a feast was finally the wakeup call I needed. Actually, getting benched until I fired my team was the wakeup call I needed. Not being able to play hockey because of the choices those close to me made, put everything into perspective.

I’ve loved hockey since the day I got my first pair of skates. It’s my first love. Originally, it was something Dad and I bonded over. But when my skills far surpassed his basic ones, that’s when my parents decided to sign me up for a league. Oi, I remember those first days of tryouts like they were yesterday. The first day going home I almost told my parents I wasn’t cut out for hockey. I played for fun. So to have to abide by rules…well, that was an adjustment.

But I had a lot of good days once I learned how to accurately play hockey. But some days–some days I wanted to quit. Especially after the night of the accident. I don’t remember much. But I do remember that we were on the way home from one of my games, singing along to a song on the radio when out of nowhere a truck struck us. Like I said, I don’t remember much from that night. Matter of fact, I don’t really remember anything from that night. What I do know is that I woke up to Momma and Pops flanking me, with twin haunted looks on their faces, while I lay in the hospital bed. My leg was broken, I had a concussion, and no one would tell me where my parents were.

At ten years old, I just wanted my mom. Her comforting rose and fresh laundry scent that soothed me anytime I needed a hug. I needed my dad and the accompanying scent of sweet mint from the gum he was always chewing to stop his smoking habit. But what I got at ten wasn’t just a broken leg.

Now at twenty-three, memories of my parents are dulled by my own mind. Regression is what the doctors called it at the hospital and that it would be a possibility that as I got older I’d remember the night of the accident in its entirety. I’m not hopeful for that, because who wants to remember something like that? How can my mind pull out memories about two people who’ve been gone for more than half my life? Momma and Pops do their best to keep their memories alive when I do need it, but I think they’re terrified of rubbing it in my face that they knew them longer than I did. Speaking of, my phone rings with an incoming call and I answer it.

“Hey, Momma,” I greet and put my attention back on the road.

“Hi, Riley. How was your meeting?” Her voice floats through the speakers.

I set my cruise control when I see nothing but open road before me. “Good, I guess? My new publicist, from what I can tell, is tough. She’s temporarily taking over as my agent until I can find a new one.”

“That’s a good thing. I never liked your agent. He seemed more of a taker than a giver.”

“Ugh, Momma.” I cringe.

I hear the sucking of her teeth. “None of that.”

When I moved in with Momma and Pops, we took some adjusting. They had to adjust to having a third person in their house. I had to adjust to living with people who weren’t my birth parents. While we would do vacations together before my parents passed, that was different than living together full-time. And as the kinks were eventually ironed out, some things were still tough to talk about. Sex being one. I don’t think Momma or Pops thought they’d have to give the birds and the bees talk to me. But it was wholly uncomfortable for all of us. What they left out, due to all of our embarrassment, I learned on my own and from experience as I got older.

With Momma working as a part-time sex therapist, it became easier to talk with her about the act and why my body reacted in a certain way when it saw something that my body liked, especially when I hit puberty. But sometimes, like now, I still revert to childlike ways when it comes to talking about sex.

“What did you call me for?” I ask, getting back on track.

“Oh, right. We’re having a barbecue this weekend. If you want to take a break from your hockey life and head over we have a plate for you.”

“Is mac & cheese on the menu?” My mouth is already watering just thinking of the flavorful dish.

Momma’s laugh is audible. “Of course it is. That’s one of the only ways we get you to come home.”

“Momma, don’t play. I come home once a month.”

My parents live just a thirty minute drive away. But with how busy my schedule gets during the season, they act like I have to travel by plane to see them.

“I’m plenty aware, honey,” she tells me. “My other line just buzzed. I’ll see you Saturday.”

“Okay, bye. Love you.”

“Love you too, honey.”

An hour later I make it back to my condo and pull into one of my assigned spots. I get out and take the elevator up to my seventeenth-floor home and use the key fob to get inside. The clattering of my keys being tossed in the bowl is deafening in the silence of my home, along with the front door closing shut. I’m in the process of taking my shoes off when the sound of feet pitter-pattering towards me brings a smile to my face.

“Hello you two.” I greet my cats. That’s right. I’m a cat dad. A Certified Cat Daddy, if you will. At least that’s what my teammates call me. I’ve been a cat lover since I was little. When my parents passed away, there was a question about where the family cats would live. I begged and pleaded with Momma and Pops to let them live out the rest of their lives with us. They said yes and it felt like a bit of my parents lived on until they crossed over the rainbow bridge.

When I signed my contract and bought this place, I knew I wanted cats as soon as I got my own place. And that’s exactly what I did.

Sasha, my ragdoll, jumps on my shoulder before I head towards the expansive living room to turn the television on for some background noise. She did the jumping one day as a kitten and has been doing it every day for the last two years. While I wait for my streaming apps to pop up, I scratch under her chin and take a look outside at the view of Downtown Columbus as the city comes alive after what I’m guessing was a long work week. After I signed my contract, I took all of the advice Momma and Pops taught me about staying financially responsible and bought a nice place that isn’t too extravagant. In fact, I live quite modestly compared to my teammates.

If by modest, I mean my condo is three-thousand square-feet with floor-to-ceiling windows and an unobstructed view of the city. I have a kitchen that serves its purpose as I’ve been known to cook up quite the feast when I have guests over. A double burner stove top and a flat top in the center for when my cooking calls for that. Along with a dining room that’s off to the side where those big feasts take place with a table that seats eight.

When the apps on the TV finally load, I select a show that I’ve seen hundreds of times and place Sasha on the oversized couch before petting Pixie, my Maine Coon who is more on the reserved side, on the head and wander to the kitchen. On days I don’t cook, like today, I have a few meals stockpiled from the meal delivery service I use. Rifling around my fridge, I find a salmon meal that's high in protein, with plenty of veggies and sweet potatoes. My phone vibrates right as I pop my food in the microwave.

Baby Pucklings

Max: The Ally tonight?

Noah: Can’t. Going on a date.

Max: Boo!

Max: Logan? Riley?

Me: I have a workout in the morning and my parents have a barbecue.

Logan: Do Cassie and Dean have room for one more?

Max: Logan, dude!

Logan: Food significantly outweighs a night on the town.

I leave them to bickering in the group chat and take my food out of the microwave after it finishes beeping. Call me snobby, but I hate eating out of plastic containers. So I transfer my food to a plate and slide it over to the bar. I pour myself a glass of water and dig into my food with nothing but the noise from the television.

I think back to my meeting with my new publicist. Before I walked into Sarah’s office, I took a moment to look at her uninterrupted while standing silently at the threshold. The smile that crossed her face as she stared at her phone uncovered an animalistic side of me and I wanted to know who it was that got her smiles. But the longer I stared at her like a creep, I couldn’t believe my luck that it was her.

What attracted me to her all those nights ago was her hair. Although the club lights did nothing to accurately depict what the color was. I knew when I finally saw her hair in the elevator light that it would become one of my new favorite colors. Regret slammed into me the second the door to her hotel room closed. I had lingered in the hallway for a few minutes, hoping that she would rush and open the door to call out for me, before tucking my tail and heading to the elevator bank. Thinking that if it was meant to be, then it would be. But never did I think she would be my publicist.

Without thinking, I grab my phone and pull up Instagram. Yes, I come from the generation where we love to stalk people on the internet. However, my internet stalking after that night was extremely unsuccessful. I couldn’t exactly type “woman with red hair in Ohio” into Google. Who knows what those search results would be. But as I think back to this afternoon, I recall seeing a picture of her with Mason Brooks in her office and decide I’ll try my luck to find Sarah that way. It doesn’t take me long as she’s best friends with his girlfriend. Crossing my toes, I hope her profile is public. Clicking on her username, I feel like I should do my celly when her profile is presented to me like a hat trick.

I scroll through what she’s shown of her life as I finish my food. Her profile is not over-the-top like I’d expect and she doesn’t post as much as I assume someone her age would. Sarah posts with reds and blues in her feed and it makes me wonder if those are her favorite colors. Deciding to be bold, I click the follow button and close out of the app seemingly afraid of what might happen if I stay on the app for too long and push my phone away from me. God help me if I accidentally like a picture from four years ago. I may be bold, but that can only take me so far.

I continue to mull over today and take it as a good sign that I have a new publicist. Sure, I was resistant to think a woman could handle my career. And if Momma could hear my thoughts she’d whoop me into next year. I spend more time than usual spacing out and when I look at the time and see it’s a little later than I’d prefer. So I close down my kitchen and living room and go through my night time routine to prepare for the long day of tomorrow.

When I bought this place, I wanted to make sure my bedroom was a sanctuary of sorts as I knew this would be the one room where I could completely decompress. My one request was that the dark oak, four-poster California King Bed I had my eye on at the furniture store be the focal point of the room. So my interior designer ran with decorating to where this place feels more lived in than the almost year I’ve lived here. I have a matching dresser that sits off to the side of my bedroom and matching nightstands, although one is empty. Naturally, I have a massive cat tree that’s set in the corner of my room and two dog-size beds for my cats at the foot of my bed and a few more spread throughout my condo. Can’t say I don’t spoil them.

I head to my bathroom and start the shower from the wall panel next to the light switch. My clothes meet the hamper and I drop my towel into the towel warmer. When I see the steam from the shower, I walk-in and still can’t believe that after six months Sarah is back in my life. I don’t necessarily believe in fate or destiny, but it can’t be that much of a coincidence that she’s my new publicist.

Here I make a promise to be as professional as possible. But make myself look as appealing as possible so that one day the client and employee line won’t be too much to blur.