Page 24

Lyla

T his press release is my nemesis. I mean, do people in modern times really have nemeses? I suppose Taylor Swift has them. I stare at the blinking cursor on my screen as frustration mounts. This is my Kanye West. My Kim. My Scooter Braun.

I could let this be the end of me—or I could use this to fuel a Reputation-style press release of epic proportions.

If only I knew how.

Sure, I’ve read several articles on how to write a press release.

I started following a few different PR firms on Instagram and have dissected all of their posts and reels on press releases.

I’ve even watched a couple YouTube videos and gone down a press release Reddit rabbit hole.

By today’s standards, I’m halfway to expertise—I could start a podcast on how to write a press release.

So why can’t I just write one?

The problem is that everyone says to start with a hook. And, the thing is, I’m just not a hook-y person. I’m not clever or witty or any quality that would help someone write a hook.

I type, Play It Forward: It’s like paying it forward, but sweatier.

I scrunch my nose, violently hitting the delete button.

I’m so cheesy. Hazel says my superpower is my sincerity.

Which is great when you want to write an apology—or even a love letter.

But not a press release. I type—and quickly delete—several more hook options.

Breaking news: people still care.

Okay, Walter Conkrite. Delete.

Play It Forward Annual Tour: Bigger than the Eras Tour!

Swifties would eat me alive. Delete.

The most exciting thing to hit Miami since . . . humidity!

Congratulations, Lyla. You just compared mentorship to swamp air. Delete.

Mentorship, sweat, and snacks: a trifecta of change.

What am I even saying?!

I groan and delete it, looking over my shoulder to make sure no one sees what I’ve written.

This is just humiliating. Because the day can’t get much worse, I press my forehead into the keyboard, rolling it left and right.

I feel so far gone, I’m certain my forehead can write a better hook than I can.

Honestly, if it starts typing something brilliant, I won’t even question it.

There’s something really cathartic about banging my head on the keyboard. I think this could even help when I feel a migraine coming on. I alternate between rolling my head and tapping it across the letters.

That’s, of course, when Drake Blythe walks in.

How do I know this, you ask? Because while I’m pressing random letters with my forehead, I hear his stupidly thrilling voice say, “Hey, Blue.”

I hesitate for a moment—hoping, waiting, for the keyboard to swallow me whole. When it doesn’t, I take a deep breath and look up to find Drake’s ridiculously handsome face grinning at me. I’m sure I have the imprint of keyboard letters on my forehead.

Awesome.

I clear my throat, wiping a hand across my forehead. “Sorry about that.”

“I’m sure the keyboard deserved it.”

“It was actually my head that deserved it.”

“Can’t stop thinking about me? It’s okay—happens to the best of us,” he says with a smirk.

I grip the sides of my keyboard as I feel a blush taking hold of me. I try for a comeback, but it comes out weak when I say, “When I imagine smacking you, I let the thought linger.”

Drake lets out an easy laugh, his huge shoulders shaking underneath his tight Nike shirt. “I’m glad you’re letting thoughts of me linger, Blue.”

This guy . I roll my eyes. He’s relentless. “What can I do for you, Drake?”

“I’m taking LJ to the rink today. And, I happen to have this gift certificate for the Panthers’ massage therapist that needs to be used.

” He takes a piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to me.

It’s not a gift certificate—nowhere close.

But it does say, This paper entitles one Lyla Smith to a massage by Lauren Warner, massage therapist for the Florida Panthers hockey team.

“Wow, this is very . . . official.” I hold up the paper, which had been folded to fit in his pocket.

“I figured you could use one.” He shrugs, not even trying to hide his pleasure with himself. “You could always go back to your head-banging therapy, if you prefer that.” He waves a hand at my keyboard and I groan.

“I’m never going to live that one down, am I?”

“Why would you want to?” Drake holds up the keys to his car. “C’mon, I’m driving.”

“But . . . I didn’t say yes,” I practically squawk at his retreating back.

He looks over his shoulder. “Are you really going to turn down a free massage?”

I glance at my to-do list, with only two items checked off for the day. “I’ve got a bunch of stuff to do here,” I say lamely.

“Suit yourself. But if you think your keyboard can knead tension out of your spine, I’d love to see that.” He starts toward the door again, calling out, “Even superheroes take breaks, you know.”

I look at Drake, already halfway out the door, full of swagger and unexpected thoughtfulness. Then I glance at the computer screen. The only thing my forehead wrote? asdfjasdlfjaslkdj.

Okay, maybe the keyboard’s as stressed out as I am.

Drake’s right. I need a break.