Episode 9
1355 Words
COLEEN
Sometimes, pride had to be swallowed, even if it burned all the way down.
I didn’t want to admit it, not even to myself, but my bank account was in the red zone. Between textbooks, and the occasional splurge on microwave noodles that weren’t the cheapest brand, I was barely hanging on.
Not to talk of the financial hit I took when Mark and I agreed to rent a two-bedroom off-campus apartment.
So, after spending the better part of a night staring at my empty wallet and ignoring the dull ache in my stomach, I finally did what I’d been avoiding, I walked into the student employment office on campus and asked for a job.
The receptionist, a guy with square glasses and tired eyes, barely looked up from his computer screen when I stepped in. “Name?”
“Coleen Maine,” I replied.
He typed something with the enthusiasm of a slug and let out a long sigh. “Let me check what’s available for your year and schedule.”
I shifted awkwardly on the cheap linoleum tiles while he tapped away. Every second that passed made me want to change my mind and bolt. This wasn’t supposed to be part of the dream. I had worked too hard in high school for this to still be my reality. I got the scholarship. I made it out of the neighborhood. But reality had a funny way of following you around like a shadow.
This was still an expensive school and I had to find a way to fund my cost of living which I was quickly learning was ridiculously high around here.
“Alright,” he finally said, cutting through my spiral of self-pity. “We’ve got cleaning positions open. Early morning and late afternoon shifts. The athletic complex is short-staffed so that could be a good fit.”
My stomach sank.
“Cleaning?” I repeated.
He shrugged. “It pays above minimum wage and there’s room to pick up extra shifts on weekends.”
I nodded slowly. “I’ll take it.”
He slid a clipboard across the counter. “Sign here. Report to Maintenance Office 3B tomorrow by 4 p.m and they’ll assign you your zone.”
That was it. No interview, no small talk, no "tell us about your goals." Just a clipboard and a fate I couldn't escape.
I left the building feeling like I’d taken another step backward, like life was determined to remind me where I came from. But money was money, and I needed every cent if I was going to make it through this semester without selling a kidney.
So the next day, after my last class, I changed into a plain black tee, jeans I didn’t mind ruining, and sneakers that had seen better years. I pulled my curls into a bun, grabbed a water bottle, and headed to the maintenance office as instructed.
It smelled like bleach and old coffee when I stepped in.
A woman with a sharp bun and steel-gray eyes looked up from her desk. “You Maine?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.
She grunted and tossed me a neon-orange vest. “Stadium duty. Hockey rink.”
My heart stuttered.
“Excuse me?” I asked, hoping I’d misheard her.
“Hockey rink,” she repeated. “They’ve got a game coming up this weekend. Prep and post-practice cleanup. You’ll work alongside the others. Lockers, bleachers, trash patrol. You’ll rotate through zones.”
Of all the places on campus I could have been assigned to, library halls, dormitory corridors, even the damn cafeteria, I got the hockey rink?
I wanted to ask for a reassignment, but the look in her eyes dared me to try. I nodded numbly, mumbled a thank you, and made my way toward the field like a person being marched to her doom.
The stadium looked even bigger now that I had to scrub it. Massive bleachers stretched high into the sky, casting long shadows over the green turf below. Everything smelled like sweat and turf cleaner.
And then I saw him.
Hayden Michaels.
Of f*****g course.
He was on the far end of the rink, helmet off, jersey clinging to him like it had been molded onto his body. His dark hair was matted with sweat, and his back was turned to me as he talked to one of the coaches.
I froze on the spot, the cleaning supplies heavy in my arms.
“Yo, new girl!”
I blinked and turned to see another staff member, a short, wiry guy named Tony, judging by his badge, waving at me.
“You’re with me. Locker rooms today, let’s go.”
He didn’t even bother to introduce himself to me, he just went straight to business.
Relieved I didn’t have to go anywhere near the rink, I followed him. As we walked past the sideline, I felt the heat of someone’s gaze on the back of my neck. I didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
I clenched my jaw and walked faster.
The locker room smelled like detergent, socks, and testosterone. I tried not to gag as Tony handed me a set of gloves and pointed at the rows of benches. “Just pick up any trash. Clean benches. Empty bins. Try not to puke.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, pulling on the gloves.
An hour passed in a blur of wrappers, sweat-stained towels, and a truly disturbing number of protein bar crumbs. I kept my head down, my music on low volume in one ear, and tried to disappear into the job.
That illusion shattered when the door creaked open and a familiar voice said, “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”
Hayden.
I looked up, startled. He was leaning on the doorway like he owned the place, hair still damp from his post-practice shower, dressed now in a black t-shirt and joggers.
“Shouldn’t you be off doing rich-boy things?” I snapped before I could stop myself.
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re feisty today.”
“Try me on a Monday.”
He chuckled, stepping into the room. “So… working here?”
I stood up straighter. “What? You got something to say?”
“No,” he said quickly, hands up like I’d pulled a knife on him. “I just didn’t expect to see you, that’s all.”
I turned away and grabbed the mop bucket. “Well, I’m full of surprises.”
“Yeah, you are.”
His tone was softer this time, quieter. It made me pause, but I didn’t let myself turn around.
“If you’re here to mock me, go ahead and get it over with,” I muttered. “I’ve had worse.”
“I’m not,” he said, and there was something weird in his voice. Not pity. Just… something.
“You working this gig long?” he asked.
“Long enough,” I said. “Why do you care?”
He was quiet for a beat before he said, “I don’t know. Maybe I just wanted to talk.”
I turned around slowly, mop handle in hand, raising a brow. “Talk? To me?”
He gave a crooked smile. “Stranger things have happened.”
I snorted and walked past him to the trash bins. “Yeah, like the time you dumped my notes in the school trash can. That was real talkative of you.”
He flinched, just slightly. Good.
“Look, Coleen,” he said, voice more serious now. “I’m not proud of who I was back then. I’m trying, okay? I know that doesn’t mean much to you, but… I am.”
I didn’t say anything. Not because I believed him but because I didn’t know what to do with a Hayden Michaels who sounded sincere.
“Anyway,” he added awkwardly, “I won’t bother you, just wanted to say hi.”
He turned and left, and for a second, I just stood there, mop in hand, staring at the door.
What the hell was that?
- Writer
