Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
I am pretty and powerful.
I return to the bed and grab the shirt I left on it. Then, with a simple silver gray blouse I cover up the lingerie that makes me feel like I’m more than these scars. When I do the last button, it’s hidden. No one would know I’m the kind of woman who doesn’t simply like wearing pretty things—but I need to.
Max doesn’t know. And he never will.
I leave my hotel room so I can head to the lobby to meet up with one of our centers, Miles Falcon. Miles is from Seattle, and we’re going to meet with a local sports talk podcaster, who I pitched doing a feature piece on one of our players from the Pacific Northwest. The podcaster—a persistent and affable guy named Ian Walker—liked my idea, but kept asking for our star goalie too, who grew up here before moving to the Bay Area as a teenager. I kept saying sorry he’s not available.
There’s a coffee shop-slash-recording studio right across from the Seattle team’s arena, and the shop hosts several podcasters, including some sports-centric ones that draw live audiences. The guy who runs the whole coffee shop-slash-podcast setup—his name is Joe—has emailed me a couple times to let me know there’s a full house this morning. The place holds about seventy-five. “They better not heckle my star center,” I said to him in my last email.
As I head to the elevator, I spot Joe’s reply on my phone. “Fans’ll be fans,” he writes, but there’s a winky face, so that’s good. Plus, Miles is a veteran who’s been playing for ten years so he won’t be bothered by a rowdy crowd member if one speaks up.
After I push the button for the lobby, another email lands on my phone from Ian. Last minute, but I had this idea! We do this segment on Five Fun Places to Go in the PNW. Would Max do that? It’s not even hockey talk. I promise I won’t ask about that game.
Hope really does spring eternal. And maybe it does in me too. My boss would be thrilled if Max started talking to the media more, especially in a feature-style piece. It’s a low-risk way for him to get back out there, and the powers that be have been telling me for months to keep asking him to chat with the press now and then, especially in safe forums like this. I send Max a cheery text. I don’t even sass him. I opt only for directness.
Everly: This would be such a great chance to make a rare appearance in a controlled environment. He’s not going to ask about that game—just about your favorite places here. We’ll do it at the Pick Me Up coffee shop right across from the arena. You can join in at the end, and you can even talk about your favorite cat café in Seattle. C’mon, you know you have one.
His reply comes quickly.
Max: I do. I’m there right now. There’s a calico rescue cat draped around my neck, and she refuses to budge. Which means I won’t be able to make it over to the coffee shop in time. Shame.
I roll my eyes, then drop the upbeat attitude for a few seconds as the elevator chugs down.
Everly: If I had a dollar for every excuse of yours…
Max: What would you do with all that dough?
Everly: I’d have enough for a lifetime supply of blowouts from my stylist Aubrey.
I wish I could say I don’t understand his reasons but the thing is—I do. I get that we all have secrets and scars we don’t want anyone to see.
The coffee shop is massive, even by Seattle standards, and this city worships its beans. Pick Me Up started as a college radio station several years ago, then expanded into podcasts recently, and now has a state-of-the-art studio, a dais with comfy chairs for interviews, and, of course, coffee by the IV drip. As Miles grabs an espresso, the fans filter in, some of them wearing gear for the Seattle team, some for the Sea Dogs, and most just in hoodies and jeans. I’m by Miles’s side the whole time, and as he downs his drink, Joe emerges from behind the counter. He’s in his late thirties, sports a goatee, and has warm brown eyes. He looks like he never sees the sun, which is probably true here in this city.
He smiles a little awkwardly when he sees me. “Good to see you again, Everly. Would love to show you the setup if you have time. We’ve done some cool stuff with the space.”
“Sure. That would be great,” I say, since it can’t hurt to be nice to the guy who hosts so many sports shows from here.
“Come find me when you’re done. I’ll be ready.”