Page 6 of The Game Changer
He tilts the mug in my direction. “Appreciated. Andmaybe a better logo?” He glances down at the mug. “This looks like something a toddler drew.”
I bark out a laugh. “Couldn’t agree more.”
We chat for a while, going over the new players they want to take a look at recruiting, as well as equipment that needs to be replaced.
When I leave the stadium later, I feel good. Confident that things are moving in the right direction for the Thunder. I’ve got a solid coaching staff in place, the stadium is getting some much-needed repairs, and soon, I hope to have a team in place to help overhaul our image and reignite the town’s love for the team.
A team that needs to include Isla Forrester, for reasons I don’t fully want to think about. Back in the safety of my car, I open up my email and try to ignore the thrill I feel at seeing a response from Isla waiting for me.
Luca,
Thank you for the opportunity to interview for the position today. I am pleased to accept your offer. I do require time to secure housing prior to starting work, but I will make that my top priority and am happy to continue compiling a list of ideas for the Thunder’s rebrand in the meantime.
It was a pleasure meeting you today. I look forward to working together soon.
Sincerely,
Isla Forrester
As much as I believe Isla is the right person for the job, a wave of trepidation flashes over me at her acceptance letter. It’s what I wanted, and yet, I know now that I have to tamp down any attraction I felt toward her.
She’s my employee, and I need her to make this plan a success. Acknowledging that she’s beautiful and captivating is a distraction I cannot afford.
3
ISLA
It’s beentwo weeks since the day everything changed. The day I interviewed for a job with a man who has starred in far too many late-night fantasies since then.
“Mom, where are my skate shoes?” Charlie yells from the front door.
“Breathe, darling,” my mom murmurs to me, rubbing my shoulder as she walks past. She’s been a godsend. Not just with helping me pack up our life again, finding a place to live in Cedar Creek, and navigating the million and one little tasks associated with relocating a preteen in the middle of the school year. She’s also run interference between me and my boy more than once.
When Charlie was born, I was still in high school, and still living with my parents. We stayed with them for several years, even after I managed to graduate. That led to them having a really close relationship with my son. When my father died, it was hard on all of us. Most of all, Mom. So when she moved just over a year ago to Dogwood Cove, a small town close to Cedar Creek, wesupported her the whole way. Now she’s repaying the favour, helping me make the move.
I can’t wait to be closer to her again. It certainly helps that housing prices are way cheaper outside of the larger cities, meaning Charlie and I won’t be crammed into a tiny apartment any longer.
Still, I’m already riddled with uncertainty about this decision, and the off-and-on guilt trips Charlie is piling on aren’t helping. Combined with his apparent lack of attention or memory to just aboutanythingto do with the move—including the fact that he himself packed his skate shoes into a box yesterday—and I’m at my wit’s end.
I realize I’m luckier than most single parents in that I’ve always had my own parents’ help and support. Even so, this shit will break even the strongest. And I’m close to that point.
I take a few deep breaths before finding my son haphazardly rummaging through one of the boxes of his clothes I painstakingly packed for him last night.
“You put them in the box marked garage,” I reply, proud of how calm I manage to keep my tone. “And that box is already on the truck.”
“But I wanted to go skateboarding,” he says, his voice bordering on petulant. The defiant stare he gives me isn’t fooling anyone. He’s anxious about the move, even if it is only a couple of hours farther up Vancouver Island. Upset at leaving the only home he’s known outside of my parent’s house. At the same time, I know he’s also grappling with feeling a bit excited and relieved. At least, that’s what I overheard him saying tomy mom the other night. He might not admit it to me, but at least I know he’s not as mad about this upheaval as he seems.
There’s hope.
“Then you’ll have to skateboard in your regular shoes.”
That statement earns me a sigh of annoyance that only a twelve-year-old boy can produce. “Fine.” He turns to go, skateboard and helmet in hand, and I call out a reminder.
“I’m leaving with the moving truck in half an hour. Nana will bring you up to Cedar Creek before dinner. Listen to her, please.”
“’Kay.”
At least he acknowledged me.
