8. Emma

There are three weeks and five days until I leave London, my job that I love, to head home and do something that makes me more nervous than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. But here I am, scrolling through my Instagram feed—again—trying to find the balance between appearing eager, not in anyway spying on these guys, and not like I'm losing my mind over this inherited ice hockey team.

Something tells me I'm not doing a very good job of this. All I've done is follow a couple of the guys, you know, so I didn't suddenly bombard the entire team with follows and stared at their drunken debauchery, almost enviously. Then one of them followed me, so I figured I'd be polite and follow him back, only to be bombarded myself by this Keir Drummond guy. He's the mafia guy, so I read. The enforcer. The one who loves a punch-up and making grown men cry.

Sounds like a delight.

My phone buzzes again with another like from Keir Drummond. I raise an eyebrow, intrigued and slightly amused. He is seriously good-looking in a cute, boyish way, with blonde hair and green eyes. I guess looks can be a bit deceiving. You'd never see this guy coming. Maybe that's the ploy? His Instagram is full of gym selfies, training videos, and a fair share of shots of him and his teammates looking ruggedly handsome in their gear. Lachlan MacLeod appears more than most. They are quite the good-looking pair.

I sigh, flipping my phone face down on my desk. The thought of managing a testosterone-fuelled team is daunting, but there's no backing out now. Dad believes in me, and I can't let him down—even if it means dealing with all of these arrogant jocks.

Anna interrupts my thoughts as she enters my office with two mugs of tea. "Still brooding?" she asks with a teasing tone.

"More like mentally preparing myself for battle," I reply with a chuckle.

Anna hands me a cup. "Well, look on the bright side."

I blink when she doesn't elaborate. "Go on…"

She blinks back. "Yeah, I got nothing. I was hoping you'd get there on your own."

"Gee, thanks for that, Captain PepTalk."

She giggles and takes a sip of tea, suddenly pensive.

"What are you thinking?"

She sighs. "It's nothing. It's crazy."

"Spill the tea, An. Okay, not literally, Sandra is already pissed I'm leaving without trashing the place first."

Anna gives me a tight smile. "I'm envious."

"Of…?"

"You, you canoe."

"Nice insult," I mutter. "Why?" She is right. It's crazy. She is the one who should be envied with her high-flying career.

"Because you get to leave here and do something different. Something challenging and fun!"

"Wanna swap places?" I ask hopefully.

She sighs. "I don't think your dad would be impressed if I showed my face at the stadium instead of you."

"Arena," I correct her.

She raises her eyebrow. "Ohh, look at you with all the lingo."

"Fuck off," I growl. "There is no lingo."

"Still. The idea of walking away from London to go live in the Highlands is kind of like a dream, you know?"

Narrowing my eyes, I shake my head slightly. "You mean your dream? You never mentioned it before."

"I didn't think it was my dream until yesterday."

"You know the kilt thing is fantasy, right?"

"It's not about the kilts," she snaps but then smiles apologetically. "This is serious, Em. I'm being serious."

"So, you're thinking of quitting and coming to Scotland?" I ask carefully.

Anna takes another sip of tea and takes a while to respond before she says, "Maybe."

The shrill ringing of her phone interrupts us, and she shoots me an apologetic look as she rises and walks out, leaving me to contemplate her words. She wants to give up everything she's worked for to do what I'm being forced to do. That kind of puts things in perspective. There again, she didn't grow up in the Highlands. She hasn't even been there that I know of. She has this pretty fantasy in her head, and while I can't deny the romantic allure for visitors, living there is a whole different ball game.

When my phone buzzes again, I pick it up absently, thinking it's Keir Drummond again, but it's not.

It's Carrick.

Can we talk?

Nothing to say. I'm leaving London so…

Leaving? Why? Because of me?

I roll my eyes so hard with a disgusted snort I give myself a fucking headache.

No, you absolute egotist. It's personal, and fuck all to do with you.

My fingers hover over the screen, itching to add a few more choice words, but I take a deep breath and set the phone down. The last thing I need right now is more drama, especially Carrick drama.

The phone buzzes again and I snatch it up, ready to blast Carrick from all sides, but it's not him. It's Keir Drummond liking another photo of mine again.

One of Carrick and me.

Thatphoto that I thought was soooo cute and lovely. So fake and gross, more like.

I delete the photo and then go through every photo of us, feeling shame that I was so blind to his charms.

"Roll on three weeks and five days," I mutter, and then I wonder what the hell I'm even doing. I should just go. Walk out now and never look back. Burn a bridge and pray that I won't need to cross it again. That's the gamble, isn't it? The thrill? The drive to make it work at the team because if I don't, I've got fuck all to fall back on. "Sod this."

Standing up, I reach for a box of paper reams in the corner of my office near the printer and empty them out. Then I pack up as much personal stuff in my desk as possible into the small box, slipping my laptop into my bag and snatching my phone. I gulp down the hot tea, burning my mouth and placing the empty mug in the box.

"Don't chicken out, Em. You've got this shit," I mutter as I head for the door.

Dave scowls at me as I pass, and I don't resist flipping him the middle finger this time. He gawks at me, but I give him a smug smile and, keeping my chin up, I walk to Sandra's office.

"I quit," I state loudly. "I'm sorry. I know it's leaving you in the lurch, but I have to go. Now."

Without waiting for an answer, I walk as quickly as I can with my box and massive handbag to the lifts, probably looking more like a duck waddling away than a supermodel on the catwalk, but fuck it.

All eyes are on me, and this is my moment.

So, of course, fate kicks me in my arse, and I stumble on my heel and nearly trip. Catching myself just in time, I straighten up and pretend it didn't happen, striding into the lift with all the dignity I can muster. The doors close, cutting off the curious stares and amused snickers of my now-former colleagues.

As the lift descends, my heart starts racing with fear and excitement. It's like standing at the edge of a cliff, ready to jump into unknown waters. Scotland is calling, and my new life awaits.

Once I step into Reception, I glance around one last time before pushing through the revolving doors. A gust of hot air greets me, and it feels like a fresh start. I take a deep breath and head towards the train, which is only a few blocks away.