Page 13

Gracie

I rip open the box that just delivered to my work like a kid on Christmas. On top of a lump of cerulean blue and white fabric, sits a VIP ticket to tonight’s Miami Kings’ game. I quickly sit it to the side on my desk and pull out the shirt, no it’s a jersey, from the box. It’s heavy, made of some kind of thick fabric. There’s a large number ten on the front, and I spin it around to see Halliday emblazoned across the upper back in bold letters.

"Looks like you've got a hot date at the ice rink," Allison teases as she walks up to my desk.

"Yeah, I guess so," I reply with a smile as I hold the jersey against me. It's a size too big but feels just right. Bennett did say he wanted to see his name on me. A rush of warmth floods my cheeks at the thought.

"Gracie Hogan has got it bad for a man. Never thought I'd see the day," Allison says with a smirk and pops a hand on her hip.

"Neither did I," I admit, folding the jersey neatly beside my laptop. "You know, it's not every day a girl gets a personal invite from a Miami King."

"I think those shoes and pants you have on will go with that. Don’t you think?" Allison asks, looking at the jersey and then over to my shoes.

"Focus, Allison. We've got deadlines," I remind her. My gaze drifts to the digital clock on my monitor—4:45 PM.

"Speaking of which," Allison begins, her tone taking a downturn, "you gonna make it on time?"

"Only if I bolt the second this clock hits five." I chew my lip, peering past the motivational quotes taped to my monitor.

"Then, Cinderella, I suggest you get those glass slippers ready," Allison says before returning to her work.

I nod and dive back into getting this project done for the Holidates App so that we can pass it off to the IT team for them to start on the next phase.

The cursor blinks accusingly at me. It's 6:37 PM. My fingers are a blur, tap-tapping away on the keyboard in a frenzied attempt to wrap up this project. The office is quiet except for the occasional air conditioner kicking on and off.

"Gracie, you're still here?" Allison's voice slices through my concentration.

I glance up, feeling the weight of her concern. "Yeah, I'm just... finishing up."

"Girl, Bennett's game starts in less than an hour." She frowns, eyebrows knitting together. "You promised you'd go."

"I know, I know," I mutter, the frustration coiling tight in my chest. "But this project—"

"Can wait," Allison cuts in, but it's not that simple. Not when every cell in my body screams to prove myself, to nail this project and not screw it up and delay the much-needed updates on the app.

"Allison, IT needs these directions by tomorrow morning," I say, a feeble attempt to quell the rising guilt. "I can't... I just can't."

"Damn it, Gracie." She throws her hands up, then softens. "He sent you that VIP ticket..."

"Trust me, I'm aware," I snap, sharper than intended. An apology forms, but she's already retreating to her desk with a shake of her head.

The clock mocks me, its digits flipping to 6:45 PM, sealing the fate of my evening. With a heavy-hearted exhale, I snatch my phone and thumb out a hasty message.

Me: Hey Bennett, I'm stuck at work. Won't make it to the game tonight. Good luck out there tonight!

Sent. And now, the waiting game. Except, I know there won't be an immediate ping of response. He's probably already on the rink by now, shoulder pads strapped on and skates laced tight, oblivious to my little text bubble floating in the digital ether.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," I grumble, berating myself for a schedule that's way to tight all the fucking time. It's not like Bennett needs me there; he's got a whole arena chanting his name. Nonetheless, the thought of him scanning the crowd, looking for a face that won't show, sends a pang of hurt through me.

I try to refocus on the screen, but all I see are life’s missed opportunities—a night that could've been, a connection left hanging. Bennett Halliday, a kind and gentle man, and I, Gracie Hogan, the girl who let work clog up the works once again.

We tried, didn't we? Ever since that video call where he'd looked at me like I was the only one in his world, despite the thousands that adored him from the bleachers. We'd made plans, set dates, but it was like trying to sync calendars with a time traveler. My meetings clashed with his practices; my emergencies overlapped with his games. We were a couple perpetually penciled in, never inked.

A sigh escapes me. There's a kind of hunger that grows when you're fed mere morsels of someone's time—a text here, a fleeting call there. You start to wonder if you're pining over a ghost, or worse, a fantasy.

I recall texting him last Thursday, my fingers hesitating before hitting send, feeling like a broken record stuck on a track called 'Maybe Next Time.'

Me: Another rain check?

Bennett: Sorry! Team meeting ran late. Owe you one. sad face emoji

Pixels don't placate, do they?

I press my palms into my eyes, willing away the sting of disappointment.