Just a little preview of what I’ve been working on lately. Here’s chapter 1 of my second-chance hockey romance, Stick Around

CHAPTER ONE

“I’m excited about the opportunity, too, sir.“ My body vibrated with barely contained energy, but I worked to keep my tone professional and neutral. My throat had nearly closed up when I’d seen the familiar Boston area code blinking on my cellphone’s screen a few minutes earlier. “I can’t wait to get started.”

“And we can’t wait to welcome you to the team,” my new boss, Mark, returned. “Nicole in HR will be in touch soon to make it all official.”

When we said our goodbyes, I double and then triple-checked that I’d actually ended the phone call before thrusting my fist in the air like a 1980s John Hughes’ movie character. After a grueling interview process that had spanned several months, the job was officially mine. For a long, stunned moment, I just stood there, phone still in hand, letting it sink in. Every late-night edit, every missed holiday, every cross-country move—it had finally paid off.

I promptly sent a text message to the one person who’d been just as invested in me getting the job, maybe even more than myself.

I got it!

Your period?

I laughed out loud. My mom had always had an unorthodox sense of humor.

No! The Boston job! It’s mine!

I wasn’t going to let myself get embarrassed by the number of exclamation points in my text. I had every reason to be excited.

That’s amazing, Reesy!

We're so proud of you!

And your room is all ready! It’s kismet!

We can talk about that later.

We’d already talked about it—ad nauseam. If I landed the Boston job, my parents had offered up my childhood bedroom until I figured out an alternative living situation. The room had remained virtually untouched since I’d left for college, nearly two decades ago, although I hadn’t gone very far after high school graduation—just across town to the residence halls of Boston College.

Return visits had been frequent, not so much because of a longing for home cooking or missing my parents, but rather it didn’t require rolls of quarters to do laundry at my parents’ house.

Okay, so maybe I‘d missed my mom’s cooking, too.

Do you need us to come out there and help you pack?

The offer was generous and also unsurprising. My parents weren’t exactly the helicopter variety, but they were incredibly hands-on. Most of the time it was appreciated. Some of the time, however, I had had to set boundaries.

Like the time she’d “helped” by reorganizing my Minneapolis apartment—alphabetizing my books, color-coding my closet, and eliminating my junk drawer entirely. It took weeks to find anything again. After that, I’d had to politely but firmly tell her that my space was my own—even if it drove her crazy to see a pile of mail on the counter.

This time, I reminded myself, I wouldn’t let her eagerness cross the line into overstepping. My move. My mess.

No. I’ll be fine. I’ve got a system.

Since taking my first broadcasting job directly after college, nearly a decade and a half ago, I had moved several times. I typically only stayed in one city for a few years before taking a job in a different and larger news market. My current job had me doing sideline basketball reporting for the local sports affiliate in Phoenix. The new job in Boston, however, would have me exclusively reporting on professional women’s sports in my hometown. It was a dream job for so many reasons.

Women’s sports were finally having a moment in New England—a movement. The city already lived and breathed sports, but now it was embracing women’s teams with the same fire: hockey, tackle football, even new pro soccer and baseball franchises. My new role would cover them all—the athletes, the fans, the stories no one else was telling.

I hugged my arms around my torso. It was almost too good to be true.

I paused my self-congratulations long enough to send a text to a second recipient, one who wouldn’t be as excited about the new Boston opportunity.

Have any plans tonight?

Not unless Lifetime movies with my cat counts as a plan.

Want some company? I’ll bring a pizza.

Throw in some garlic knots, and it’s a date.

* * *

The Arizona evening air was still warm as I climbed the steps to Raven’s condo, the smell of garlic and melted cheese clinging to my clothes. I precariously balanced an oversized greasy pizza box, a bottle of red wine, and a styrofoam container of the promised garlic knots in one hand. With the other, I knocked on the front door of my friend Raven’s condo.

I’d barely taken a step back before the door flew open with such force that I was nearly sucked inside. At work, my producer-friend was polished and refined—tailored suits, meticulous makeup, and a new hairstyle every few weeks. At home, she lived in pajamas with her braids tucked under a silk bonnet.

“You’re just in time!” she said, sounding out of breath. “The babysitter’s been locked in the basement for a week and her mom is trying to find her!”

Without further explanation, she darted back inside, leaving me to fend for myself.

I cautiously entered the apartment, not really knowing what to expect, until I spotted Raven standing in front of her television. It must have been the last few minutes of her made-for-TV movie. It always amazed me how screenwriters were able to wrap up so many loose ends in those pivotal final moments. Conflict. Climax. Resolution.

I set the food and the bottle of wine on the small kitchen island. The familiar, cozy space hit me with a wave of bittersweet nostalgia. The scent of Raven’s vanilla candles tugged at something in my chest. How many evenings had I spent doing this very thing? Each city, each production team, each makeshift little work-family built along the way. Long hours, impossible deadlines, red-eye flights, and too much takeout had a way of binding people together. And every time I left for a new job in a new city, I missed it—the laughter, the late-night brainstorming, the feeling of belonging, even if it was only temporary.

I was reluctant to leave the familiar, but this was the career I had forged for myself. If I’d stayed every time a place started to feel like home, I would have missed out on so many adventures—so many new places and new people.

“Go get your girl!” Raven’s voice broke into my thoughts.

I glanced at the action unfolding on my friend’s flatscreen television. A brunette, middle-aged woman of middling attractiveness was peering into the dirty basement windows of a rustic cabin in the woods.

“What’d I miss?” I asked.

Raven was too locked on the TV screen to look my way. “The babysitter got kidnapped by the white milquetoast family she works for. Her mom suspected them all along of doing something to her daughter, but the police thought she was crazy and that the daughter had run away. She’s about to find her daughter right now.”

I smiled and shook my head. “Dinner’s ready if you can tear yourself away from your Torn from the Headlines film.”

Raven waved me off without looking away from the screen. “In a sec—this is the best part.”

Raven treated these low-budget movies like playoff games. While she shouted advice at the screen, I fixed myself a plate and nibbled on garlic knots. My attention drifted to the photographs pinned to her fridge. I was actually in quite a few of them.

I had grown to care and respect my Phoenix colleagues over the years, but this wasn’t personal—it was business. Plus, the scorching desert temperatures had never felt natural. I didn’t necessarily enjoy shoveling out my car after a brutal Nor’Easter storm, but it was preferable to the soles of my shoes sticking to the melting pavement.

Raven joined me in the kitchen when the final credits rolled.

“Did they rescue the babysitter?” I asked, a teasing smile on my lips.

She ignored the question and reached for the unopened wine bottle I’d left on the counter. “This is fancier than your usual boxed wine,” she said, inspecting the label. “What’s the occasion?”

I finished chewing a bite of garlic bread, buying myself time even though I’d thought about what I might say on the drive over.

“I suppose I am in a celebrating mood,” I admitted. “I just found out that I got a new job. It’s in Boston.”

“A new job? In Boston?” Raven squeaked. “You sneak! Why didn’t you tell me you were applying to jobs?”

“Not jobs,” I corrected carefully. “And I’m not unhappy here, but when I saw the call for audition tapes in Boston, it was too good to pass up.”

“What’s the job?” she asked.

“It’s a new role covering professional women’s sports in the city. It’s … honestly, kind of my dream gig.”

“That’s amazing,” she congratulated. “And your mom must be thrilled.”

I laughed at the understatement.

“But your boyfriend is going to be devastated.”

I looked down as a black-and-white tuxedo cat leapt gracefully onto one of the kitchen stools. “Oh, August. My handsome little gentleman.” I scratched under his chin. “We’ll video call,” I promised. “I’ll need FaceTime with both of you.”

Raven uncorked the wine and poured two generous glasses before handing one to me. “So, Boston,” she said, studying me over the rim of her glass. “Back to the land of Massholes and Dunkin’ Donuts. Sure you’re ready for that again?”

I hesitated before smiling. “I think I am.”

We clinked glasses, and for a moment, neither of us spoke. The television flickered behind her, frozen on a happy ending that wrapped everything up in under two hours. If only life worked that way.

Raven finally sighed and leaned against the counter. “You’ll knock this new gig out of the park, Reese. Boston is lucky to get you.”

She smiled, and I knew she meant it. Still, when I looked around her apartment at the half-empty wineglasses, the smell of pizza in the air, and the cat winding between our legs—it hit me how many goodbyes I’d said over the years. Every city, every newsroom, every friendship built on late nights and takeout boxes.

I took another sip of wine and let the thought settle.

Maybe Boston would be different. Maybe this time, the next city might finally be the last.

Or maybe I was kidding myself.

* * *

The next few weeks were a bit of a whirlwind. I gave my employer in Phoenix the standard two weeks notice, which was just enough time for the station to give me a thoughtful bon voyage over my final few broadcasts. There wasn’t a pressing need that I show up in Boston immediately, but my new bosses had thought it important that I start working with the women’s hockey team before too much more of the regular season melted away.

Getting ready for the cross-country move was made easier by the fact that I’d already switched cities a number of times, and I didn’t have to worry about finding a new rental in Boston. My parents owned the triple-decker where I’d grown up. They lived on the very top floor and rented out the other two. The garden-level apartment was apparently vacant, and while I wasn’t about to move back into my childhood bedroom, I’d agreed to stay in the empty unit—and pay rent—until I found something more suitable.

By the time I’d finally packed up the last of my dishes and bubble-wrapped the framed photos from a dozen different cities, it started to hit me—I was really going home. Back to Boston. Back to the place I’d left behind, thinking I’d never return for more than a holiday visit.

I told myself it was just another move, another newsroom, another assignment. But that night, lying in bed amid half-packed boxes, the thought didn’t feel entirely convincing.

I’d gone to bed hours earlier, but a panicked realization had me jolting from a dreamless sleep. The red wine I’d had with dinner should have guaranteed I slept through the night, but a thought—wild and unwelcome—surfaced from deep within my subconscious and had me sitting upright in bed.

There was no way she’d be on Boston’s team, right? What were the odds?

It had been fifteen years since we’d last spoken; a decade and a half was a long time to keep track of anyone. I’d unintentionally caught glimpses of her storied career, though. It would have been impossible to miss her meteoric rise in U.S. women’s hockey—the gold medals, the scoring records, the accolades. The ESPN Body Issue where she’d bared all, wearing nothing but hockey skates and a smile.

I leapt out of bed, knowing I’d never get back to sleep if I didn’t check.

Most of my apartment was boxed up and ready for the movers who’d soon haul my life across the country, but my laptop was still accessible. I sat cross-legged on the carpet and lifted the lid, wincing at the sudden brightness of the screen in the dark.

I navigated to the team website and found the link to Boston’s current roster. It was only the second season for the new women’s hockey league; I hadn’t paid much attention to the inaugural one since the original six teams were all in the Midwest, Canada, or the East Coast—too far from Phoenix to feel relevant.

I scrolled through the names of Boston’s active players, their positions, their hometowns. My eyes stopped on one—the only one that was familiar.

Forward. Danielle “Dani” Callahan. Hometown: Kennebunk, Maine.

I stared at the screen, my heart lodged in my throat.

“Fucking perfect.”

+++

The first day at a new job always felt like the first day of school. Awkward introductions. Learning names. Smiling through the anxiety knotting my stomach. For as often as I’d changed networks over the course of my fifteen-year career, I should have been used to first days, but it never seemed to get any easier.

I’d arrived in Boston the previous weekend. I’d been back just long enough for my mom to get under my skin, but not long enough to have actually unpacked all of my things. I planned on staying in Boston, but not the garden apartment of my parents’ Charlestown triple-decker. There was no need for me to completely unpack my moving boxes if I only intended on living under my parents’ roof temporarily.

By the time Monday had rolled around, I’d been a nervous knot of anticipation, overly eager to officially start my new job.

The station’s offices were on the fourth floor of a renovated brick building that had probably once been a shoe factory. The open floorplan buzzed with quiet productivity—producers at standing desks, monitors flickering with highlights from the previous night’s men’s basketball game. The hum of printers and the muffled sound of sports talk radio filtered through the air.

I met with the camera crew, the production team, and the assistant producers, all of whom offered polite smiles and “Welcome aboard” platitudes as we shook hands. It was a blur of faces, names, and titles that I’d surely mix up. But I knew how this went: in a few weeks, they’d all start to feel like family—a gruff, sleep-deprived, caffeine-addicted family.

“You’ll keep busy with a seasonal rotation between the various women’s seasons,” my new producer, Mark, explained. He looked like a character straight out of central casting. He wore a well-loved Red Sox cap, a Styrofoam Dunkin’ cup seemed permanently attached to his hand, and his accent was so thick it could have sanded paint off a car. “Mostly sideline reporting during home games,” he said, “and between games you’ll handle long-form features for the website and our socials.”

I nodded. All of this had been explained to me during the extensive interview process. Sideline reporting was second nature by now, but the chance to write and publish about who these athletes were off the court, the pitch, and the ice was what had really drawn me to the job.

Mark stood from his desk and gestured toward his office door. “Why don’t we head up to the arena so you can get the lay of the land.”

* * *

I followed the taillights of Mark’s sensible sedan up the interstate. Boston’s women’s hockey team didn’t actually play in Boston. For now, they hosted home games at a regional branch of the University of Massachusetts in Lowell, about thirty miles north of the city. Their practice facility was in Wellesley, an affluent suburb west of Boston.

With the sport’s growing popularity, however, the league hoped that someday teams could share the same downtown arenas as the men. For now, only Minnesota and New York had managed that.

Mark’s blinker flashed as he exited toward the university campus. His sedan rolled past a cluster of brick academic buildings and into a parking lot that had seen one too many New England winters. He pulled into a spot near the back entrance of the arena. It was the kind of nondescript concrete structure that could have passed for any mid-sized hockey rink in America.

“This is home for now,” Mark said, holding the arena door open for me. “Not fancy, but no one seems to mind once the puck drops.”

Inside, the air was sharp with the scent of ice and rubber. The low hum of the refrigeration system filled the space, broken only by the echo of pucks slapping against the boards. A few players were already out on the ice, their shouts ricocheting through the rafters as they ran through drills.

The familiar scents and sounds stirred up old memories. I hadn’t grown up playing hockey, but I’d spent enough time in rinks during college that it had become like a second home.

I smiled faintly, taking it all in—the banners from college tournaments, the scuffed plexiglass, the faint chill creeping through my jacket.

Mark’s voice pulled me back. “The locker rooms are down this way,” he said, nodding in the direction of a wide corridor. “I’ll introduce you to the coaching staff, maybe a few of the players if they’re available.”

I nodded and followed him through a maze of concrete hallways. The heels of my boots were silent on the rubber runway. My pulse quickened with a mix of nerves and something else I couldn’t quite name—anticipation, maybe.

Whatever it was, I told myself it had nothing to do with who I might run into here.

“This is your first hockey assignment, right?” Mark asked.

I hesitated. “Not exactly.”

A bushy eyebrow lifted on his face. “Oh?”

I sighed, the truth slipping out before I could stop it. “I used to date one of Boston’s players.”

Mark stopped mid-step, turning to face me. “Oh, really?”

“It’s a conflict of interest, right?” I asked quickly, feeling the heat creep up my neck.

He shrugged. “Depends. Is there bad blood?”

“No, no.” I waved it off, feigning casualness. “It was a very long time ago. At least fifteen years. I doubt she even remembers me.”

I had no way of knowing if Dani ever thought about me. I told myself I didn’t think about her anymore, but if I was being honest with myself, I’d unconsciously compared every woman I’d ever dated to her. And there was a reason I’d established a strict no-dating-athletes rule. Unstable futures. Trades. Injuries. Mood swings after losses. Too much risk. Too much heartbreak.

“I don’t care if you’re best friends with half the league,” Mark dismissed. “But once you’re assigned to cover them, you’re Switzerland—got it?”

I tersely nodded. “Got it.”

We stopped near the rink’s edge as players whizzed past, a blur of green and blue jerseys. There was a game later that evening, so for now players ran through drills on one end of the ice and stretched out muscles and limbs on the other.

Morning skate would be followed by media obligations, meetings with the coaching staff, and rehab treatments before lunch and a nap. I used to tease Dani that she napped more than a toddler, but she’d assured me it was a universal game day ritual.

I scanned the ice instinctively until my gaze landed on her.

Even with the helmet obscuring her face and the shoulder pads and breezers filling out her frame, I knew her. I knew how she moved on the ice. The way the puck danced at the end of her stick as she weaved through defenders. The ease with which she skated made it look like she was skimming across open water.

She still skated with the same aggression I remembered from her college days, but she’d changed. She was leaner, somehow, but with more power behind every stride. Her presence on the ice was magnetic, commanding attention without trying.

I felt eighteen years old again. Sitting in the stands. National championships. Watching her lift the collegiate trophy above her head, surrounded by her teammates, and me feeling so proud and so in love I thought my heart might burst.

My breath hitched when she looked toward the boards and her gaze snagged on mine.

She definitely saw me. I saw it in her body language. The puck at the end of her stick became forgotten. The aggression and intensity left her body.

“Callahan!”

The warning from a teammate came a second too late. Dani glanced up just in time to catch a solid shoulder check that sent her sprawling across the ice.

I involuntarily gasped. The drill kept moving around her as she scrambled to her feet, shaking off the hit.

“Callahan! Keep your head on a swivel!” one of the coaches bellowed.

She nodded and adjusted her helmet with her gloved hand. She glanced my way one more time before sprinting to the opposite end of the ice.

Next to me, I heard Mark’s deep chuckle. “Doesn’t remember you, huh?”