November
“You can do this, Madelyn. You got this. Everyone will take you seriously and nobody will laugh at you.” I smooth down the front of my favorite long-sleeved black blouse—the one with the flattering but demure V-neck and all the tiny buttons down the front—and nod at my pale, freckled reflection.
I’m talking to myself in the mirror in the public restroom of Atlanta’s brand-new RGM arena, in case you’re wondering.
It’s not a habit I indulge in often, but trust me, it’s helpful when you’re in a pinch. Like I am today.
I’m about to start my new job for the Atlanta Cyclones NHL team. They’re currently third in their division, and though it’s still early in the season, there’s already lots of buzz around them potentially making the playoffs for the first time in nine years. All thanks to their new star center. Number 19, Sebastian Slater.
Who, as an aside, is quite possibly the hottest man I have ever laid eyes on.
And when I say “laid eyes on,” I mean that Adam once pointed him out to me on TV as his favorite player.
Not that it even matters if he’s hot—if he’s Adam’s favorite player, he’s probably a massive douche. And anyhow, I have been a man-free zone since The Incident, in that I am forgetting men exist entirely and am instead throwing myself into my career.
Evidenced by the fact that I did a whole lot of job research before today.
In my former life, Adam was the hockey fan, and I didn’t give a damn about sports of any kind. He took me to a game once, on a date, and I snuck in my Kindle to keep me entertained.
But now that a hockey team has given me a job, I am alllll about hockey. Miss Number One Hockey Fan over here. I’m super interested in all things pucks and sticks and slapshots and wrist shots and… why are all hockey terms so innuendo-laden?!
Michael Scott would have a that’s what she said field day with this sport. Or rink day, I guess. (Can you tell I read an entire hockey lingo book to prep for my first day at work?)
I should also clarify that my new job has nothing to do with actual hockey. Thank goodness. I’ll be doing mostly meal prep, working under the team’s chef and head nutritionist. It’s an entry-level position, but this is a perfect place for me to get more experience in the nutrition field. Hockey players follow a very strict, high-protein and veggie-heavy diet, and I know how to make a mean green smoothie and can transform protein powder into a variety of surprisingly-edible sugar-free, flour-free desserts.
In fact, it’s all I’ve been doing on my new TikTok channel: showcasing ways to make treats healthier and more nutrient dense.
Starting a TikTok was a great way to distract myself after the breakup. It was also something I’ve been wanting to do for a while—combining my love of baking with my education on nutrition so that I can help people create healthy treats they can enjoy.
Adam would’ve probably thought it was stupid, but if I’m honest, I think it’s what landed me this job. The hiring manager saw my videos, and apparently hockey players are a big, hungry bunch who want lots of taste and variety, but also need like a million grams of protein per day. And despite the fact that I know—knew—next to nothing about sports, I couldn’t exactly say no. It’s not like I was drowning in job offers after my holiday baking show stint.
So, hockey it is.
“Yay, sports. Or something,” I mutter aloud, grabbing a wad of paper towels and blowing my nose, loudly. The sound echoes around the bathroom.
I’m just hoping that my new boss will let me be creative and might eventually use some of my recipes as part of the team meal plan.
And while I’ll be relegated to the industrial kitchen that’s part of the team’s training facility—and so, will have absolutely no interaction with the actual players or be required to attend the actual games—it’s almost laughable that I’ve landed a job working for Adam’s favorite NHL team.
But I don’t laugh. Because I don’t think of Adam anymore. At all. Ever.
Thinking of Adam makes me want to cry, and I’ve only allowed myself three pity cries since The Incident:
1. After my mother called to tell me that she’d heard the news of our breakup from Adam’s mother, and she wanted to know what, exactly, I’d done wrong and how I planned to make it up to him.
2. Last week, when the first Holiday Baking Bonanza episode aired and I, like a true masochist, watched the entire episode, including the little intro about each team where Adam gushed about how much he loved me. Which was false. Because he’d already bought a ring for Elizabeth at that point.
And last but not least,
3. On my way into the arena this morning—with impeccably terrible timing that had me fleeing to this bathroom in the first place—because the Instagram post I’ve been dreading finally popped up on my feed.
Adam and Elizabeth are engaged. And I doubt that the timing is a coincidence—he kind of had to get that ring on her stupidly slender, long, perfect finger before The Incident episode airs in just over a week. And according to that same post, he—they—recently opened his new dream dessert emporium, too. So the happy couple have more than one thing to celebrate.
Of course everything came up smelling like roses for Adam, while I’m standing in a smelly public bathroom, crying before my first day on my new job as a kitchen lackey.
“I’m fine, though,” I tell the girl in the mirror, who’s staring back at me with only slightly red-rimmed green eyes. I smooth a strand of my light brown hair back into place and sniffle. “Totally fine.”
Behind me, a toilet flushes.
I spin on my heel to find a man lumbering out of one of the cubicles. He’s wearing the uniformed red polo shirt that all the hotdog and popcorn slingers at the snack kiosks wear. He’s also got on a slightly terrified expression. I blink at him in full confusion for a moment.
“Um, I’m glad to hear you’re fine,” he says meekly. Cautiously. “But… I’m pretty sure this is the men’s restroom?”
“No,” I say staunchly with a shake of my head. “This is definitely the…”
And that’s when I spot the urinals.
Great. So not only was I talking to myself aloud in a public restroom, but I was talking to myself aloud in the men’s restroom. While a man was trying to take a quiet poop in stall three.
The guy follows my eyes towards the urinals, then hops from one foot to the other before appearing to make a split-second decision and bolt for the door.
Without washing his hands.
Ew. That’s got to be a public health violation in the extreme. But I can hardly blame the guy—he was clearly fearing for his life. Still…
Note to self: never buy a hot dog at the RGM arena.
I clearly need to get the hell out of here ASAP, but before I go, I decide to wash my own hands as a gesture of goodwill, hoping to spread the antibacterial vibes in his direction.
As I’m lathering up with soap, the door creaks open, and for a moment, I actually think I’ve voodoo magicked him back in here.
But no, Hot Dog Boy is not back.
Instead, standing in the doorway of the restroom—pretty much entirely filling it with his big, hulking frame—is the Atlanta Cyclones’ new star center. Number 19. Sebastian Slater.
Who might be even hotter in real life than on TV.
And who I’m currently meant to be making lunch for.
Oh, for puck’s sake.
