Page 17 of Season's Schemings
Once I’m seated and balanced back on my stool properly—like alady(my abundance of class is why Seb calls me Lady M, perhaps?)—I pick up my drink and swirl my straw. Number 19 has returned to full-on glowering at the amber liquor in his glass.
“You’re my ex’s favorite hockey player, you know,” I blurt. For whatever reason.
I should probably take a selfie with him.
Yes! Great idea, Maddie. Take a selfie with the big, clearly angry hockey player, and then, you can send it to Adam and make him jealous!
I’m about to propose this incredibly smart and sophisticated revenge plan to my new friend Seb (see, Mom, I’m not the only one who can conduct a little phone vengeance!) when he says, “Was.”
“Was what?” I ask. At least, that’s what I want to ask. It comes out sounding more like “Wathwart.” Which, incidentally, sounds like my Harry Potter name.
Despite the hard lines around his eyes and his tense posture, he laughs.
“Iwasyour ex’s favorite hockey player.” He polishes off his glass, then slumps forward in his chair. “But I’m not anyone’s favorite hockey player now that I can no longer play.”
7
SEB
“HUH?”
Maddie’s decibel level isn’t unlike one of Alvin’s chipmunk pals—i.e. high enough to be earning us a ton oflooks. But Lady M doesn’t care about that. She’s drunk off her face and wobbling around on her (entirely sedentary) stool like it’s a mechanical bull she’s attempting to ride, and failing. Badly.
“How much have you had to drink?” I raise a brow at her.
She makes a big, theatrical gesture in the direction of the empty whiskey glasses that now line the bar in front of me. “Pot, meet toaster.”
“Wrong appliance.”
“Don’t change the subject.” She hiccups. “What do you mean, you’re not playing in the NHL?” Hiccup. “I heard you were one of the best ones.”
Despite myself, I smile. For the second time in two minutes. What is it about this crazy little green-eyed drunkypants that’s making me grin even in this most dire of circumstances?
“Visa issues,” I say gruffly, literally feeling the smile fall off my face with my words.
“Hmmm?” She sways.
“I’m Canadian,” I tell her. The word usually feels sweet as maple syrup on my tongue, but it now tastes bitter. “So I need a visa to play in the States.”
“Okay… so?” Maddie tilts her head.
It means I was very shortsighted on insisting on a one-year contract when coming to work in another country.
“Well… I just found out that my work visa has expired. Which makes me unable to play for a US franchise until I have a new one.”
What I don’t add is that, when I told Mike at the beginning of this season that I wanted to stick around in Atlanta for longer than the one year my initial contract was for, I didn’t bother to think about it again. I’d made a decision to stay with this team, Mike was taking over negotiations with the Cyclones on my behalf, and I was totally caught up thinking of what this season had in store for us.
Unfortunately, my one-track mind ended up backfiring. While Mike and the Cyclones management were hashing out details, my old contract quietly expired. Which usually wouldn’t be a big deal, but what slipped through the cracks in this case was that my work visa expired with it—and from what I understand, applying for a new work visa is going to take time… if I’m even able to get it, given how late in the year it is. Turns out, only a certain amount of these types of visas for athletes are issued each year by the US government. Of course.
There’s a very long stretch of silence before Maddie blinks slowly.
“Well… damn.”
“Damn is right,” I agree.
“What’re you going to do?” Those pale green eyes are huge, slightly smudged mascara rimming the edges as she peers at me with what almost looks like genuine concern.
Likely inspired by the cocktails she’s been chucking back. Not that I can talk.