Page 157 of Pucking Sweet

Slowly, he nods again. “Right, well I get the feeling an apology at this moment would be—”

“I don’t want you tosayyou’re sorry, I want you toshowyou’re sorry,” I say over him.

He’s quiet for another minute, processing. “What exactly do you want, Poppy? Be specific.”

I cross my arms. “Well, for starters, I want a better office, with a proper suite, where I can actually entertain sponsors and donors and members of the press. I want to be able to have a meeting with more than four people without having to reserve the conference room.”

“Done. What else?”

“I want to hire three more people—”

“Done. What else?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “I want a fifteen percent raise, effective immediately. And I want an extension on my one-year contract. I want three years minimum, with an option to renegotiate salary based on performance, to include yearly scheduled raises.”

He smirks. “Done. Anything else?”

I consider for a moment. “Yes. I want the night off. There’s a shitstorm brewing between ticketing and VIP services, and they’re trying to make it my problem. But there’s a monsoon in my office, and I need to go take a pregnancy test, and I haven’t sat down to watch the Rays play a game once this entire season. So, I would like to make the ticketing issueyourproblem…just for tonight. I’ll be back at work tomorrow.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Slowly, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash.

I glare down at it. “What’s that for?”

“For the concession stand,” he replies. “We overcharge the hotdogs. Makes us a killing, but it’s reason two-thousand four-hundred and sixteen why I’m definitelygoing to hell.”

My frown deepens.

“Take the cash, Poppy. Go home. Dry off. Go to the game tonight, and just have fun. And please know your work is appreciated. I hear you, and I value you. Give me a chance to do better before you take one of the dozens of offers I’m sure you’re already fielding for a new job.”

“Fine.” Stepping forward, I pluck the cash from his hand. I pretend to count it, flicking through the hundred-dollar bills. “I wanted popcorn too.”

Smirking, he fishes in his wallet, pulling out a few more bills. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“I know my worth,” I say, taking five hundred more dollars from his hand.

“That’s good, Poppy. I wish that was a lesson I’d learned at your age. Took me a bit longer, I’m sorry to say.”

“And I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I say, stepping back.

“Don’t be,” he replies with a shrug. “You’ll get everything you asked for. Now, get out of here. Go have fun tonight, I mean it.”

I move over to the door.

“And Poppy,” he calls as I reach for the handle.

I glance over my shoulder.

“Can I say, ‘congratulations’ now?”

I smile, nodding. “Thanks, Mark. Fix the sprinklers.”

He nods. “Will do.”

Thirty minutes later,I’m standing at the sink in a Walgreens bathroom, staring down at a pregnancy test. I was too anxious to make it all the way back to my apartment. I have to know. I mean, I feel like I already know…but I need toknowknow.

The signs have been everywhere if I was bothering to look. My irregular cycle should’ve clued me in. But, as a former D1 cross country runner, I’ve always struggled in that department. There was a solid two years at the peak of my running when I don’t think I had a single cycle. I thought it was just stress and poor diet making me miss a period this month.

Then there’s all the other little signs: nausea at the bachelorette party, tender breasts too sensitive to touch, getting sick on sushi, these high/low mood swings. Each of these things separately could mean anything. But when you add them up together, they form one big, blue plus sign.