Page 22 of The Overtime Persuasive

A plethora of deep orange kraft boxes sit unfolded at one end of the long table, followed by neat stacks of gold, light orange, and white tissue paper piles, the book of the month, a cinnamon-and-vanilla candle, and the record I spent three days convincing myself was the perfect choice. Tea and chocolate fill two baskets at the end, ready to be tucked into whatever spaces remain.

How peaceful. Everything has a place. Everything has an order. My shoulders are loose, which is unheard of. For the first time in days, I feel good. More than good, I feel uplifted. By the end of tonight, Lucy and I will have packed this round of Side B subscription boxes.

I’ve even planned dinner so we don’t accidentally work until ten without eating. There’s a bottle of champagne chilling in the tiny refrigerator beneath the coffee counter, because I refuse to believe an unexpected twelve-thousand-dollar disaster means I’m no longer allowed to celebrate the things that are going right.

I even made us a “We’re Packing Subscription Boxes” playlist.

For the first time in a few days, I feel good. Like, really good. Not the “I’m fine” kind of good, when you’re hiding it. Solid. Hopeful.

I grab one of the new Side B stickers I designed and ordered, inspecting it. So simple, and yet the right touch of branding to top these boxes. The burnt-orange lettering looks amazing next to the kraft cardboard, the way the color complements the others makes me downright giddy.

I press the sticker to one of the boxes to see how it looks and step back, admiring the finished product. I’m staring at it with great pride when it curls upward and slowly peels itself free, before drifting gracefully, and quite rudely, to the floor.

“What the—?” I retrieve it, press it down again, and hold my palm over it for several seconds.

When I lift my hand, one edge rises immediately and the same process begins. Rolling my eyes, I grab another sticker.

Same thing. No. It can’t be…this is a coincidence. I grab a third sticker, then a fourth before I stop because I’m about to waste them all. I surrender.

I reach across the table and grab the entire roll of custom stickers that I paid extra to have rushed overnight.

“The sad thing is, you literally have one job. One.”

The bell above the front door goes off, making its weird sound; tonight, it’s a strangled clank. I press both hands over the latest sticker, smothering it essentially, as if an act of physical intimidation may scare it into sticking before I make my way to the front of the shop.

I open my mouth to call out a greeting, but as I walk into the front room, I find Lucy standing at the counter holding a bag in her hand.

“Before you say anything—” Lucy begins, her expression woeful and apologetic.

My stomach drops to the floor. “What’s going on?”

“First, I was at that store today that you love. The one with the Korean skincare. I got you your favorite mask and some lip oil.” She thrusts the bag into my hands. “And second, I’ve got good news….but also I am so sorry.”

That sounds less promising than I want it to. “I haven’t even poured your champagne yet.”

“I know, I know.” Her face crumples. “And I know just last night I said I’d help, but I got a call this morning.”

“A call?” The brightness in her eyes makes me bite. “Well, it must have been a really good call.”

“I wanted to tell you this in person.” She throws a hand in the air and pinches her eyes closed. “I’ve been called up to the Premier League.”

“What?” I lift my hands from the sticker. One edge immediately begins to curl, but I can ignore it this time. “That is incredible!”

“Their starting goalie was injured at practice. Luckily, they’re not hurt badly,” she adds quickly. “But she’s out, and their coach called and asked me to be at this afternoon’s goalie session. Then there’s a full team practice and video review tonight.”

The Premier League is the highest level in Lucy’s league—the travel team that plays in the larger showcases, where the right people sometimes sit in the stands and take notes.

“I might get the start this weekend. And if I do, well…” She exhales, but her smile escapes anyway. “This could actually lead somewhere, Eva.”

Meaning the level she’s been working toward for years. The one where hockey becomes more than the thing she fits around the rest of her life. Like me, Lucy is a legacy kid and she has big shoes to fill too.

“You have to do it.” And she does. I couldn’t be happier for her. “My loss, but you have tried so hard for this moment.”

“I know, but I promised you.”

“It’s okay.” My gaze travels over the empty boxes. Seventy-five of them this month. The stacks of books and records, the candles, tea, chocolate, tissue paper, and the roll of completely useless, custom stickers.

It will be okay. I won’t be leaving the store until next year, but it’ll be fine.