Page 10

Chapter ten

Mandy

" Y ou’ve got ten minutes before the partner check-in," Richard warns as he passes by my desk, coffee in hand, tie already loosened like he’s been here since sunrise.

"I’m ready," I reply, clicking out of my notes and straightening the collar of my blazer. I’m wearing my go-to confidence outfit… neatly pressed black slacks, a soft blush blouse, and the small gold hoops that make me feel like I have my life together.

My desk is tidy, laptop open, a blue gel pen poised beside a lined notepad with a dozen bullet points about today's case review. Organized and efficient, just how I like it.

It’s a calm, focused rhythm in the office this morning, with fluorescent lights humming, and keyboard clacks in sync with murmured calls behind glass conference room doors.

Associates in fitted suits zip past junior associates like me with an air of seasoned importance. But I hold my own. I belong here.

I pass a quick smile to Rachel from HR, who’s balancing a tray of waters with her elbow while texting. "You're a machine," I say.

She grins. "You say that like it’s a bad thing. You ready for Wilkins?"

"As I’ll ever be."

"Good luck. He’s in one of his ‘devil’s advocate’ moods."

I fake a dramatic sigh, and stride into the small meeting room like I’m not about to get grilled by a partner who enjoys verbal combat more than caffeine.

Inside, three other associates are already seated around the table: Sanjay, Kara, and Becca.

They are looking as tense as students during finals week.

Wilkins is at the head of the table, flipping through a legal pad, glasses perched low on his nose like a stern professor about to fail someone for blinking wrong.

"Let’s begin," he says without looking up. "Sanjay, what progress have you made on the motion to dismiss in the Anders case?"

Sanjay stammers through a half-answer, his voice wavering. Kara jumps in to try and add something, but Wilkins cuts her off. "Next time, try answering the question I actually asked."

Becca fares a little better, presenting a well-reasoned summary. Wilkins nods, barely.

Then it’s my turn.

I straighten my notes, heart hammering, but my voice is calm when I speak. "I focused on the jurisdictional argument you flagged last week. I found a Sixth Circuit ruling from 2020 that aligns with our position and helps rebut the plaintiff’s timeline."

Wilkins finally looks up. "Which case?"

"Taylor v. Kinston Freight. The court ruled that the contractual clause did not override jurisdiction due to lack of sufficient notice."

He stares at me for a beat longer than is comfortable and replies. "Good. That’s the kind of detail we need. And the case law is on point."

I don’t smile, but inside, I’m doing a full-on victory dance.

After the meeting ends, I gather my things and shoot Becca a quick, encouraging smile. She looks rattled. "You did fine," I whisper. "He grills everyone."

She nods, and a bit of the tension drains from her shoulders. I walk out of the room, heels clicking with purpose, and finally let myself breathe.

I made it through the Wilkins gauntlet and maybe even earned a little respect.

"You survived," Richard says, offering me a fist bump as I pass.

"Wilkins asked me to back up my argument with precedent, and I countered with a Sixth Circuit ruling from 2020. He smiled."

Richard blinks. "Wilkins smiled?"

"I know. I’m still recovering."

I settle back at my desk, sip my now-lukewarm coffee, and scroll through my calendar to prep for the next task. I’ve barely made it through three emails when my phone buzzes.

Nate: Lawyers love hockey, right?

There's a photo attachment: a goalie in a full suit reading a legal textbook in the net. The caption says: “When your contract clause says defend everything.”

I snort. Out loud. One of the senior associates walking past gives me a look.

I text back.

Mandy: Objection. Relevance. Also, who told you we have a weakness for jocks in suits? Nate: Just a hunch. Is it working? Mandy: Unfortunately.

He replies with a winking emoji and a GIF of someone dramatically flipping a page titled “Flirting for Dummies.”

Mandy: I swear if you send me one more meme, I’m reporting you to the Bar. Nate: Better than being sent to the penalty box. Or maybe not... depends on the referee.

I press my lips together, trying not to laugh. Too late. It bubbles out of me, and Richard raises an eyebrow from across the office. I just shake my head and look away.

Without thinking, I forward the thread to Kira.

Mandy: Tell me I’m not full-blown crushing.

The reply is immediate.

Kira: Oh, sweet baby field mouse. You are past crushing.

You are knees-deep in the flirty wilderness.

Mandy: That’s not even a thing. Kira: It is now.

He’s texting you lawyer memes. You’re basically married.

Mandy: He’s just being nice. Kira: Nice?

That man is hockey’s version of a cinnamon roll dipped in sin.

I nearly choke on my coffee.

Mandy: That’s it. You’re banned from metaphors. Kira: You’re just mad because I’m right.

I turn off my phone and place it face down on the desk, heart thudding a little too fast for a work break.

But I can’t wipe the smile off my face.

***

That night, I’m back at Nate’s.

He’s not home, so I’ve got my books spread across the kitchen table for a change, highlighters standing at attention, and notes stacked in color-coded harmony. I even moved my little desk lamp and plugged it in here.

But tonight, I’m restless. Maybe it’s the Wilkins victory buzz, or maybe it’s the fact that my heart skipped a beat when my phone lit up with Nate’s name earlier.

I’m mid-sentence in my Property Law outline when I hear the front door open. Footsteps. The soft thud of his duffel hitting the floor.

I glance up just as he walks in.

He freezes, then grins. "Well, damn. This kitchen’s never looked better."

"Sorry, my desk lamp lured me. Felt like a change of scenery and you weren’t home."

He walks over, eyeing a paper I left turned sideways. "What’s this?"

I grin. "Law school thing I learned. It’s like a mini argument: facts, rule, analysis, conclusion. We live and die by them."

He lifts a brow and scans the first few lines. "This is actually impressive."

"Are you surprised?"

He shoots me a look. "Only that you didn’t charge me to read it."

I laugh. "Give me time. There’s an hourly rate."

He opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of water, tossing me one without asking. I catch it. Smooth. Practiced. Like we’ve done this a hundred times.

"I’m going to hit the shower real quick," he says. "Don’t let that outline bully you too hard."

"No promises."

He disappears down the hall, and I watch him go with a stupid flutter in my stomach. Now that he’s home, I move back into my study room. I try to refocus…just need one more hour of study before I can take another break.

At exactly ten, I close my laptop and stretch. My shoulders ache, and I’m mentally fried. I walk quietly to the kitchen, pausing when I hear Nate in the living room, flipping channels with the sound low.

He glances over. "Surviving the night shift?"

"Barely. My brain is mush. I’m taking a break for a minute and will continue until 11:00."

"I’ve got water, protein bars, and leftover cookies. Choose your poison."

"I’ll take a cookie. The law can’t scare me after sugar."

I grab one and sit on the arm of the couch, biting into it while he leans back, looking at me like he’s been waiting all evening to talk.

"You okay?"

I nod. "Just tired. Long day. But productive."

He’s quiet for a second, then says, "You ever feel like you’re trying to prove something to people who already made up their minds about you?"

I blink. That’s not what I expected.

"Yeah," I say softly. "All the time."

He exhales and rubs his jaw. "That’s how it felt when I got traded here. Like I wasn’t wanted, just tolerated. Some of the guys were cool, but a few made it obvious I was on trial. I had to prove I wasn’t just a filler until they could find someone better."

I feel a tug in my chest. "That’s awful. I’m sorry."

He shrugs. "Part of the game. You get used to earning every inch. But it wears on you. Especially when you realize you’re not just fighting for ice time. You’re fighting to be seen."

I don’t say anything right away. Just sit beside him as I shove the rest of the cookie in my mouth.

"I see you," I say quietly. "I’ve seen how you’ve made space for me here. How you didn’t ask for anything in return. You don’t talk much about yourself, but when you do, it’s real. That counts."

His eyes lock on mine. There’s something in them I haven’t seen before, something raw and almost vulnerable.

He chuckles, a quiet sound that doesn’t quite match the look in his eyes. "Thanks. That means more than you know."

Then, more softly, he adds, "It was hard at first. Coming to Detroit. Everyone smiles and says the right things, but you can feel when you’re not really wanted. I kept wondering if it was all in my head, or if I actually didn’t belong."

I shift closer, instinctively.

"But I stuck it out," he continues. "Played hard. Shut my mouth. Let my game speak for me. And eventually, the tide turned. The guys respect me now. Coach trusts me. It’s better. But the pressure never leaves. You’re only as good as your last game."

"That sounds exhausting," I say, meaning every word.

He nods. "It is. But I love the game. That part hasn’t changed."

I draw a breath. "Honestly? I get it. Today, Wilkins grilled everyone. I held my own, but walking into that room, I felt like I was back in junior high. Like I had something to prove just to be allowed in the room."

"Did he say anything?"

"Yeah. He said I nailed it. But even then it still felt like I was holding my breath. Being a lawyer is all about proving yourself. Your case. Your worth. Sometimes I wonder if that ever stops."

He meets my gaze again. "Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe we just get better at pretending we’re not scared."

I smile softly. "Or maybe we find people who see us even when we’re not trying to prove anything."

His eyes don’t leave mine. "Maybe we do. You’re kind of a surprise, Mandy Fields."

"I get that a lot. Usually after I destroy someone in court simulations."

He chuckles, the mood softening. "Remind me never to cross-examine you."

"Too late. You already judged my case brief."

"And gave it glowing reviews. I might even leave a Yelp rating."

I laugh, leaning back, the tension easing.

He stands. "I’m getting more water. You want something?"

"I’m good."

He walks to the kitchen, and I notice a small leather-bound notebook on the coffee table. I recognize it. He was scribbling in it the other night.

Curious, I pick it up and flip it open.

It’s not a journal, not exactly. More like a collection of thoughts. Quotes. Mantras. Some look like pregame rituals. One page has a list of things he’s grateful for.

And my name is there.

I freeze.

He returns, pausing in the doorway. Our eyes meet. He sees what I’m holding.

"You weren’t supposed to read that."

I set it down, gently. "I didn’t mean to pry. It was just... there."

"It’s okay," he says after a moment. "I write stuff down to make sense of it. Doesn’t always work."

I nod slowly. "It makes sense to me."

We’re sitting close now. Too close. The air between us is charged, full of unsaid things and barely-there breaths.

He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

I don’t move.

"Mandy…"

I look up. "Yeah?"

He exhales, shakes his head like he’s trying to be the bigger person. "You should probably go study some more. I made your break longer than it probably should have been."

"I want to put in another hour."

But neither of us moves at first.

Then, when I get up and walk back to the guest room, I feel his eyes on me the whole way.

I like it.

And every time we talk, he surprises me. Not just with what he says, but with how much I want to hear more.