Page 104 of Big Stick Energy
It hurt. A lot. It still does.
“Like I’ve always said—I trusted him too much. I trusted my heart, not my brain,” my mother says softly. “Even though I knew better. Your grandfather was just the same kind of husband, did you know that? A man who made his own rules and made his poor wife suffer.”
“Really?” This is not a story I’ve heard before. “Which grandfather?”
“Which one do you think?” Her eyes narrow. “Your father’s father. They had the same marriage—a rich man who married a woman of lesser means. That’s how they keep control. Your grandmother warned me right before I married your father. She showed me a diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist. She said it was the gift she’d demanded after his second affair. She told me to choose a more expensive gift each time, so he learns to think twice.”
I stare at her in disbelief. My grandfather was a gentle, loving man who’d died when I was ten. Grandma died a year later of a broken heart, I’d always believed. They’d seemed like a lifelong team. “Jesus.”
“I brushed off the lesson she tried to teach me,” my mother says quietly. “And it bit me in the ass. I wasn’t about to let the same thing happen to you, honey. I wanted you to be prepared for whatever life throws at you.”
“Like… working twice as hard for my college degree as everyone else?”
She sighs. “Everything you have is something you did yourself. Nobody can ever take credit. Nobody can dull your shine.Struggle isnoble, Darcy. It’s the same for those athletes you work with. Nobody succeeds without sweat.”
Noble, huh? My blood fizzes with anger, and it’s a struggle to swallow my bite of cake. “Do you know what happens when a teenage athlete gets drafted? The first thing they do is thank their parents for all that expensive hockey gear, and those brutal road trips.”
Her shoulders droop. “You can stay mad at me if you want to. It’s your call.” She takes an envelope out of her purse and hands it to me. “Here’s the latest statement. I never open them. Do whatever you want with this.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking it.
Then her eyes get red. “But please ask yourself if you really think I should have just demanded a diamond necklace and accepted your father’s behavior. There’s no diamond big enough to make me eat my pride like that. It’s something I hope youneveractually understand.”
Then she gets up and walks away.
Chapter 38
Edgework and World Domination
Darcy
As August progresses, the temperature in New York City climbs into the nineties and stays there. Every time I have to run outside the building for Mr. Sharp’s lunch order, it’s like jogging through hell. I hurry down Twenty-First Street, sweating in my pencil skirt and blouse.
When I push through the revolving doors and into our headquarters, the air temperature drops a good ten degrees. In this building, though, there are challenges that have nothing to do with the air temperature. Mentally bracing myself, I press through the double doors and into the full-sized rink, where Sharp and the rest of management are camped out in the press box. They’re watching the players and strategizing about the new season.
In here, I face a different kind of hell: It’s time for training camp for the full team, which means Eric is on the premises day in and day out. When I’m at my desk, I see him seated at his. Orhe’s chatting up players in the lounge when I go in for coffee, or he’s tearing up the ice at practice.
Today is no exception. As I set down the boss’s lunch, I see Eric on the ice, leading some players through warm-ups. A bunch of journalists have been invited to watch today’s practice, which means that several photographers are pointing cameras at the guys, while the PR director makes the rounds on the sidelines, and his new intern—Heather—dashes around, capturing her own images.
“Eric, over here!” she chirps. “Smile!”
Without missing a beat, he looks up and smiles. And a dozen shutters click all at once. Everybody wants his attention. That’s just how it is to be Eric.
“Darcy,” Sharp says. “Did you hear what I just said?”
“Maybe, sir, but I ignored it,” I say, turning my attention to my boss. “I live to make you repeat things.”
He gives me a grumpy frown and hands me a folder. “Proofread this, please. But show it tono one. The minute we announce the roster, this goes to the printer.”
I flip open the cover and find four pages of player stats. Several names have been crossed out already, which is why it’s top secret. “Of course. I’m looking for misspellings and…?”
“Any data that looks wrong. Or, well, less than credible.”
“Fine. Sure.” I know the players well enough by now that it’s easy work. I take a seat and start reading. The basics look accurate enough—names and hometowns. But it’s easy to spot some telltale signs of creative self-reporting. There’s a rookie listed at six feet three inches who wouldn’t reach six feet in my spikiest heels. And a veteran defenseman claiming to weigh in at two fifteen when he’s clearly carrying at least thirty more pounds than that.
Ouch. And somebody thinks that Minnesota has two Ss.
I glance up, and my heart suddenly flips as I catch Eric staring at me.
