Page 82 of Unmanageable
“The agent is terminated!” Vance screams. “A dramatic fracturing of the corporate alliance! Tension rises in the local air!”
By the time the session finally ends, my legs are burning and my ears are ringing from the speakers. I skate over to the bench, ripping my mask off and leaning over the boards.
“If you ever speak of that nickname outside of this state,” I tell Scottie, pointing my stick at her, “I will hire a new agency by tomorrow morning.”
“Are you kidding?” she says, her face still flushed from laughing so hard. She hands me a water bottle, her eyes bright and dancing. “The Boston Glacier is the best thing that has ever happened to your brand. I’m already drafting the merchandise mock ups. We’re going to sell winter coats.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” she says, leaning closer over the boards, her voice dropping into that familiar, easy rhythm we’ve had all week. “And honestly, you looked good out there. Even with the live sports commentary, your shoulder didn’t catch once.”
I look down at my right arm, rotating the joint slowly. She’s right. Despite the sheer absurdity of the last hour, the mechanics were perfect. The shoulder is a non-issue now.
For the first time in six months, I actually feel like myself again.
“Yeah,” I say, looking back up at her. “It feels good.”
“Excellent,” she says. “Now go shower. You smell like a wet locker room and the Boston Glacier needs to maintain his pristine image.”
***
The hotel is one of those classic, slightly older brick buildings downtown with a restaurant and a lounge attached to the lobby.
We walk through the main doors, our sneakers clicking against the tile, both of us exhausted from the drive and the intense skate. As we pass the entrance to the lounge, a strange, low-frequency screech echoes out into the lobby, followed by the muffled sound of an old synthetic drum track.
I stop, looking through the glass doors of the bar. It’s a classic local spot—low lighting, dark wood, a few older guys sitting at the counter with drafts of Coors, and in the far corner, a neon sign that says KARAOKE NIGHT flashing in bright pink letters.
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across my face.
“Absolutely not,” Scottie says immediately, not even looking up from her phone.
“I didn’t even say anything,” I say, dropping our bags next to the concierge desk.
“You stopped walking, your breathing changed, and you have that specific energy that means you’re about to cause a problem.” She looks up, pointing a finger at my chest. “We are going upstairs. We have an early call tomorrow.”
“Scottie, the Boston Glacier doesn’t care about early calls,” I say, grabbing her by the sleeve and tugging her toward the bar doors. “Come on. Just one drink. To celebrate the death of my shoulder injury.”
“Cash, stop,” she says, but she isn’t actually fighting the pull. “This is a professional trip. I am a licensed representative.”
“And as my licensed representative you have to entertain me,” I answer her, guiding her toward a small high-top table near the back corner, right near the ancient karaoke stage.
The bartender, an older guy with a gray apron, looks up as we sit down. “What can I get you two?”
“Two drafts,” I say. “And whatever songbook you have for that machine.”
“Oh, no,” Scottie says. “I am not singing. I don’t sing, Cash.”
“Everyone sings in Atlanta,” I tell her, taking the laminated, grease-stained songbook the bartender hands over. I flip through the pages, my eyes scanning the titles.
“I’m serious.” She takes a sip of the beer the bartender sets down. “I have zero musical ability. When I was in middle school, the choir teacher told me to just mouth the words during the holiday concert so I wouldn’t ruin the harmony.”
“That’s harsh,” I laugh. “But I don’t believe you. You’re a Boston girl. You guys grow up singing Dropkick Murphys in Irish pubs.”
“That’s yelling, not singing,” she points out.
I look down at the book, my gaze landing on a classic. “Alright, if you won’t go solo, we’re doing a duet. It’s non-negotiable.”
She looks at the page. “You’re a psychopath.”
