Page 17 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
Andsince Maxine’s boss just so happens to be married to one of the owners of the club, well, the door practically flew open for me.
Is friendship nepotism a thing? Because if it is, I one hundred percent condone it.
Sure, most of my experience has been with high-performing executives. But with a doctorate in psychiatry and years of therapy work behind me, stepping into the world of elite athletes wasn’t exactly a stretch.
And the perks are exactly what you’d expect when you land a role in a professional sports organization.
The job came with a sleek new apartment—completely covered by the team—in one of the ultra-exclusive Fury buildings. Word is, the waitlist runs close to ten months, and landing an apartment in this building requires a background check just short of a full-blown FBI investigation.
It’s one of those sleekwork, play, staybuildings—designed so you never really have to leave unless you want to. The first few floors are all glass-fronted boutiques, coffee shops, high-end fitness studios, and a couple of restaurants that are so exclusive they don’t even bother with reservations.
Above that are office spaces—modern, open-concept, floor-to-ceiling windows, the kind of corporate playground where execs in designer suits power-lunch and close million-dollar deals.
The top floors are where the luxury apartments sit—secure elevators, concierge service, rooftop pools, private gym, the whole works. My unit has views for days, smart everything, and finishesso high-end I had to Google a few of them to figure out what they were and how they worked.
It’s basically a vertical version of a dream life. And somehow…it's mine now.
I overheard one of the movers say it was practically impossible to get into this place. But apparently when one of the owners of the Strikers makes a call, suddenly, I’m VIP.
It’s a far cry from how I’ve lived in New York. And I’m not even talking about my foster care days. Even with a multi-six-figure job, life in the city wasn’t exactly affordable. Hustle in, hustle out, paycheck gone.
So when the offer came—more money than I ever thought I’d see in my lifetime, a place to live, and the chance to actuallysavesomething for once—I didn’t hesitate.
Oh, and did I mention they paid off my student loans?
Who the hell says no to that?
The movers have just left the final box, and I stand in the middle of my new apartment, spinning around slowly, barely able to believe it.
I made it.To this part of life.
The good part.
I’ve never been one of those people who thought they didn’t deserve nice things. I was raised with enough good sense—and enough fight—to know my worth.
But if you’d asked me back then when this moment would come, or what it would even look like, I wouldn’t have had an answer.
I justbelievedit would come. That somehow, all the bad, all the ugly things I’ve had to endure in this life would eventually stack up to something good. Something that made it all worth it.
And standing here now, I know two things: it wasabsolutelyworth it. And I’m never going back to where I came from.
Cue the theme music.
Ladies and gentlemen, introducingthat chick.
Who gon’ check me, boo?
I grab my phone and FaceTime my best friend—the same best friend who’s been trying to convince me to move to Atlanta foryears. And then the moment I finally do? This heffa up and moves to Canada. The betrayal.
“Babe!” she answers, all bright-eyed and cheerful like she didn’t just abandon me for maple syrup and snow.
“Hey, babe! I made it!”
“OMG! Your very ownFuryapartment! What are you waiting for? Show me around!”
“Quit bossing me around, skank!” I laugh, flipping the camera and starting my impromptu tour.
First stop: the kitchen. All clean, modern lines, sleek white cabinetry with matte black hardware, marble waterfall island big enough to host a cooking show.
