6. Emma

The rest of my day at work goes about as well as expected.

Mind you, I had low expectations, and yet, somehow, it managed to surpass even those. Everyone blamed me for Dave getting a warning, even though I've been keeping him in a job for months and Dave, well. If looks could kill, I'd be pushing up daisies.

Sloping off the train at my stop as the evening sun beats down, cracking the flags, I barely notice my pretty surroundings as I drag my phone out to dial my dad.

"Emma," he says. "What's up?"

Oh, everything.

"You sound so casual, like you didn't just throw my whole life into a tailspin."

"Hmm."

Sighing, I know he's going to make me say it. "Fine. I'll do it." I hear the whine in my voice and cringe, but it's already done.

"Really?"

You'd expect that to sound sarcastic, but it isn't. "Yes, really. But I'm warning you now. I know nothing about ice hockey so don't be all, ‘well, ye shoulda bin listenin' when I wuz tellin' ye all aboot it when ye were a wee bairrrrrrn', okay? Because it doesn't help shit right now."

Silence.

Then, "I don't sound like that. That was a terrible impersonation of me."

"Yeah, okay. You keep telling yourself that."

"So you're really coming?" His hopeful tone makes me smile.

"Yeah, I'm really coming. I handed in my notice, but I have to work four weeks, so I'll be coming up after that."

"Emmie," he croaks, and I swear he's crying. "Thank you."

"Stop it," I grumble. "You're making it sound weird."

My dad chuckles. "Alright, alright. I'll see you soon, then."

"Yeah, you will," I promise before hanging up. I stare at my phone for a moment, wondering what the hell I've just got myself into. Managing a bloody ice hockey team? Seriously?

I drag myself to my flat, flop onto the sofa, and stare at the ceiling. Shit. This is really happening. I need somewhere to live, I need to pack up this place, say goodbye to my friends.

"Wait!" Sitting upright, I reach for my phone again and dial Dad.

"Emmie?"

"How much do I get paid?"

He snorts and starts coughing. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me, old man. How much?"

"Well, how much do you get at your current job?"

Squirming, I'm reluctant to say. "50k."

"Wow," he murmurs.

"Well, London is expensive, you know. They have to pay to meet the current climate." Truth be told, that's low. Anna makes nearly sixty, but she has more experience than me.

"Oh, I know," he mutters, and I pause.

Yeah, he does. He pays the rent on this flat, which he probably thinks I can afford now. But I can't—not in reality, not after tax and expenses, because technically, I'm self-employed.

"Look, it works a bit different than just getting a salary. You sort of get what's left."

"You mean profit?"

"Yep, but then there's a whole load of other things to consider."

"So what do you get out of it?"

"Around a 300k."

My eyes widen. "A year?"

"Yes, a year. What did you think I meant? A month?"

"Funny. You're a funny man," I say, giving him some sass back.

"Okay, now I'd expect you to still want a piece of this pie…" I settle down for a negotiation. "So where does that leave us? Fifty-fifty?"

"Bloody hell, lass. You're not even in the office, and you're already negotiating your way to a cut?" Dad laughs, but there's pride in his voice.

"I learned from the best," I say, leaning back on the sofa. "So, fifty-fifty?"

"Alright, Emmie. Fifty-fifty it is. But keep in mind, it's not always going to be smooth sailing. Hockey's a tough business."

He has floored me. I went in high, expecting to end up with twenty-five per cent. "Uhm," I mutter, thinking maybe I should say something, but before I can, he sighs.

"This is going to be tough, Emma. Arses in seats dropped fairly significantly towards the end of last season with the bad streak. You're going in with this hanging over you, and I'm sorry. I wish I could be more help, but you know I'll always be around if you need me."

"I know, but I'll leave that as a last resort. I work well under pressure, so I can shine there as soon as I know what the fuck I'm supposed to be doing."

"That will come, and you will have people to help with the business side. First, you need to know about the game, so the players and Colin respect you."

Colin?

"The Team Manager," Dad adds, knowing I have no clue.

"I knew that," I grit out.

"Sure, you did," he chortles. "Do your research. Learn, Emmie, and I'll see you in a month."

"Find me some places to rent."

"You can stay with Mum and me."

"No, I want my own place that I will pay for with my own cut," I insist. If I'm taking half of Dad's income, then I need to grow a pair and do this adulting thing on my own.

"I'll get your mum on it," he says, but I have my doubts.

"Okay, talk soon."

We hang up and I head to the kitchen to finish off the wine and pizza from last night. Shoving the food into the oven to warm up, I ring Anna.

"Hey… Listen. I'm sorry I didn't follow up with a call yesterday, and I know I was MIA at the office today. Things have been hectic. Sandra is giving me a promotion. I can't talk about it yet, but I needed to tell you, so you don't think I've abandoned you."

"Don't be daft," I say. "A promotion? That's amazing. What is it?"

"Social Media Director."

"Whoa. Wow. That is fucking epic."

"Yeah, it's a bit daunting because it's for the whole publishing house, not just Ves magazine." She sounds nervous telling me, like I'll be jealous of her or something, but I couldn't be happier for her. She deserves it.

"Anna, if anyone should have that job, it's you."

"Thanks, boo. So, about Carrick?—"

"He's a douche. Don't want to waste my breath on him."

"Okay," she says, taking that at face value. "Wanna talk about Dave instead?"

"Ugh!" I spit out, ready to go on a rampage. "He is such a cock!"

"I know. I told you weeks ago you had to tell Sandra what he was doing. This is his second warning, you know. One more strike, and he's out."

"Please let it happen before I go," I groan, throwing my head back.

"Go?"

Her puzzled tone makes me curse myself.

"Yeah, go. I put my four-week notice in today."

"What? Because of Dave? Emma, you can't?—"

"No, not because of him. My dad is retiring, and he wants me to take over at the Nessie Warriors."

Silence on the other end. I can feel Anna's jaw drop through the phone.

"Wait, what? Your dad wants you to take over an ice hockey team?"

"Yep."

"You don't even like sports," she points out unnecessarily.

"I know! But here I am, about to dive into the world of sticks and pucks. It's like one of those weird dreams where suddenly you're a queen, but you've never ruled anything other than your own Netflix queue."

Anna laughs. "This is insane. But also kind of cool?"

"Yeah, well, I'm both terrified and excited. Mostly terrified."

"Well, you'll be brilliant, Emma. You always are, and hey, I can come and visit and find out if those Scottish men really do have their tackle dangling under those sexy kilts."

"Groan," I say, rolling my eyes. "You know they don't all run around wearing kilts now, right? Scotland hasn't time travelled back to the eighteenth century."

"Hey, I've watched Outlander. Fuck you for taking away my fantasy."

We giggle as we both fantasise about a massive, hot Scotsman showing us what he has on under his kilt. Spoiler Alert. It is nothing.

"Alright, I've got to go, but keep me posted on your new gig. And good luck with the Nessie Warriors. You're gonna need it," Anna laughs.

"Thanks! I'll catch you later," I say, hanging up just as the oven beeps. Perfect timing.

I sit down with my reheated pizza and wine, trying to wrap my head around everything that's happened. My life just did a complete one-eighty in less than twenty-four hours. Social media job? Gone. Random office douchebag drama? Over. Ice hockey team owner? Hello, new chaos.

I open my laptop and start Googling ‘basic ice hockey rules.' I've done this arse-backward and dived in, expecting it to all just be absorbed by osmosis. But now I need to settle down and start at the beginning.

"So, Google. What are the basic rules of ice hockey?"

I type in the question and hit enter, watching a flood of links pop up. Videos, articles, forums, you name it. I click on the first link that promises a ‘Beginner's Guide to Ice Hockey.'

"Welcome to the world of ice hockey!" the article cheerfully begins as I read aloud. "Ice hockey is a fast-paced sport played on an ice rink between two teams of six players each?—"

My eyes glaze over. Six players?

I scroll down to something called ‘positions,' my mind drifting back to kilted Scotsman going commando and what positions we could possibly get up to in the boudoir. Shaking my head, I refocus. Damn Anna. I never thought about Scotsman in that way before now. They are my fellow countrymen. Some of whom are as undesirable as Dave, for fuck's sake. This romanticised version does not exist in the real world. Right. Focus. "Each team has a goalie, three forwards—a centre and two wingers—and two defencemen. Okay, that sounds like a plan. Then what?" I keep scrolling. "The game begins with a faceoff at centre ice. Players use their sticks to pass, shoot, and control the puck, and the aim is to get the puck into the opposing team's net. Well, duh," I mutter. "Even I know that." I read on with the article detailing penalties, power plays, and something called a ‘hat trick' which inexplicably has nothing to do with hats. My head is spinning faster than a puck on ice.

Determined not to be completely clueless, I jot down some notes: Goalie defends like mad, forwards score goals, defencemen block, no hats involved with hat tricks, and then there's some mafia dude called an enforcer who basically kicks the shit out of everyone. Fun times.

My mind is wandering, so I think it's time to actually watch this game, start to finish, and see what it's all about. Grabbing a slice of pizza, I bring up a Sports Channel, subscribe to the damned thing, and then scroll through the listings to find ice hockey. Then I sit back and press play.