Page 48 of Scoring Chance

My heart dropped into my shoes.

“This Tuesday?” As in six days from now.

“Mm-hmm. If the offer still stands.”

“Yeah. Of course,” I say, the only acceptable answer.

“I want to meet the family, see how you’re balancing things. If this promotion’s going to put you in charge of a whole team, I need to know you’ve got support at home.”

Support at home. As if emotional scaffolding was an itemized expense report.

“Of course,” I said with the calm of someone white-knuckling a plane crash. “We’re excited to have you over.”

Stan gave me that genial, terrifying smile. “Great. I’ll bring a bottle of wine. Your husband drink red or white?”

“Red,” I said, the one fact I recited today that wasn’t a lie.

Kyle, who’s been watching this conversation with bated breath, claps his hand on Stan’s shoulder. “Stan, what if my family joined on Tuesday? Make it a fun group work dinner for all the higher ups to get together.”

My eyes want to bulge out of my head. It takes all of my professional training not to yell “what the fuck?”

“It’ll help create team unity. I remember you and my dad would have family barbeques together. I always loved those times. Your hamburgers were delicious.” I can see Kyle fighting past his flop sweat in real time to sell this pitch. The man was born with the ability to kiss ass. “Plus, I’d love to meet the man who finally took Des off the market.”

“That does sound nice. I don’t want this race for creative director to become ugly. We’re all family here. Des, would that work for you?” Stan asks me.

“I love that idea,” I say, the only acceptable answer. “But Kyle, don’t you need to check with your wife?”

“We’re free Tuesday night,” he says without missing a beat.

“Perfect.” I plaster on a smile. No amount of makeup can conceal the venom I want to spew Kyle’s way.

Once they leave, I find myself turning back to the family picture. God help us.

That evening, I arrive at the ice rink still half-full of caffeine and rage. It’s only a practice night. I hope my teammates will love me in the morning.

I find Tanner near the benches, lacing up his skates.

“You look like you aged a decade,” he says, handing me a helmet.

“Stan’s coming for dinner, along with Kyle,” I mutter.

“Kyle?”

“And his whole family.” I’ve bitched about Kyle enough times for Tanner to be familiar with his level of annoyance.

“How’d that happen?”

“Kyle is onto us.” Tanner’s face sinks for a moment, probably images of skyrocketing insurance premiums dancing in his head. I reach out for his hand. “We’re not going to let him find us out.”

“He invited himself to dinner?” Tanner asks, yanking his laces tight.

“Fucker. Now we have to worry about Stan and Kyle and I’m trying to work on this pitch for Silq.” I rub my temples. I’m so ready to smash a puck into a net. I might blow a hole in the rink.

Tanner blinked. “When is this dinner happening?”

“Tuesday.”

His eyebrows shot up. “That’s in six days.”