First Chapter: Headstrong by author Eden Finley
RAINN
Walking to work is fun. Especially in the snow.
Almost as fun and exciting as being told it will cost six hundred bucks to get a new alternator for my piece-of-shit car.
Yup. Today is just … fun.
Fun. Fun. Fun.
Whoever said positive thinking is the key to happiness has to be talking about a new party drug.
Because this is bullshit.
I would have taken an Uber, but I’m running late and it’s quicker to walk the mile and a half from my apartment. I usually walk, but in this weather, it’s easier to drive. You know, when my car is working.
If it was light snowfall, that would be one thing, but no. It’s annoying sleet that hits me as it falls in pellets, stinging my face. I pull up my scarf, but it only helps a little.
My boots crunch the ice on the sidewalk as I trudge toward Church Street. I used to love the snow, the ice, and everything to do with winter. Now I crave summer.
Even though my shift at the bookstore started five minutes ago, I duck into the Maple Factory and order Harrison an apologetic tea and granola muffin. I grab an espresso to wake myself up and a hot chocolate to warm my frozen insides.
When I get to Vino and Veritas, I have my customer-service smile ready and flash it toward my boss.
He gives me a derisive look.
My face falls. “I know, I know. I’m late. I’m sorry. The car broke down.”
Harrison’s expression softens. “Again?”
I grunt. “New problem this time.”
“You really need a new one.”
All is forgiven when I hand him his coffee and muffin.
“I’d get a new car if I didn’t spend my last five bucks on sucking up to my boss.” My smile is genuine this time, but it’s only because if I don’t smile, I’ll cry.
“Tanner might have some more hours for you in the bar if you’re desperate.” He points next door. “You can grunt at him. He’ll grunt back. Bam, more shifts.”
“Thanks, but I’m exaggerating.” Sort of. I place my drink on the counter and take off my jacket and scarf, stashing them so I can get to work.
I can’t say I thought working at a bookstore and wine bar would be my future when I was a kid, but it pays my bills. Mostly. It’s good for rent and food. There’s just no wiggle room for messed-up alternators.
“A shipment came in today, and because you’ve had a shitty morning, I’ll give you a choice between stocking the shelves or customer duty.”
“Oh, wow, how will I choose?”
“You could always do both.”
I tap my chin. Tough choice. “I’ll take customer duty. I’m trying this new thing where I think positively. If I pretend to be nice, it will eventually make me nice.”
“Fake it until you make it.” He slaps my shoulder. “Let me know how that works out for you.”
A customer walks through the doors.
Time to work.
Mrs. Embry is a regular. She’s in her seventies—at least—and I know exactly what she’ll ask for.
“I’ve run out of men who can’t find their shirts,” she says, as predicted.
She thinks she’s hilarious, and I have to admit, she is entertaining. She only reads romance novels with shirtless men on the covers, and she has to point it out every time.
“Right this way, Mrs. Embry.” I lead her to the romance section.
“I was talking to my online book club, and they recommended …” She glances around the store as if we’re being watched and then leans in and lowers her voice. “Something called MM romance.”
I purse my lips to stop from smiling. “We, uh, do have those books, but, umm, do you know what MM means?”
When I started working here, I had no clue.
She whispers, “It’s about the gays.”
Do not laugh, Rainn. Do not laugh.
It’s hard because her tone is so serious.
“We keep those books over here.”
We move toward the gay romance section, and her little face lights up. “Ooh, what’s better than one shirtless man on a cover but two?”
A chuckle finally escapes.
She reaches for a book, and my cheeks heat.
“That one is kind of … advanced.”
“Oh, you’ve read it?”
“I read all the books that come through the store.”
That’s a lie. I haven’t read every single book, but I make it a point to read this genre.
Both of my bosses are queer, and I work in queer spaces. I figured reading gay romance would give me insight into the LGBTQ community, seeing as I knew next to nothing when I started here. I was worried about saying something homophobic out of ignorance.
I’d never do it intentionally—anyone can love anyone they want—but I’ll admit to not being so aware when it comes to everything rainbow.
The books were definitely … eye-opening. I’ll leave it at that.
Mrs. Embry flips through the book, pausing to read a few paragraphs. “What’s a boy button?”
Loud laughter comes from behind me, but when I turn to glare at my boss, it’s hard not to laugh with him. He’s trying to contain it, which only makes his face look strained, and his cheeks turn pink.
He waves his hand and abandons his spot where he’s putting the new stock out on shelves, no doubt retreating to the back room to compose himself.
“Uh …” I have no idea what to tell Mrs. Embry.
“Whatever it is, this man sure likes it being pegged. I’m sold.” She hands me the book to ring it up at the cash register, and it takes a second for me to process what just happened.
“Are you sure you want this one?”
“This is good.”
“All right.” Can’t argue with a sure woman.
I’ve definitely learned that through my dating life. My sad, pretty pathetic dating life, really.
As I’m making the transaction at the counter, a young guy steps into the store. Probably a college student.
He takes off his beanie and shakes out his light brown hair.
I give Mrs. Embry her book and a smile before making my way over to the new customer. “Hi, can I help you find anything in particular?”
His gaze meets mine, and I can’t help noticing the different shades of hazel in each eye. One is a honey-brown color, and the other is a mixture of green and brown hues.
I try not to stare, because I’m sure he gets questions all the time. Like if he was born that way or got pushed into a vat of radioactive waste.
“I hope you can help me. The library doesn’t have any in, and I’ve been looking online, but it won’t get here in time, and I’m really hoping you have one in stock, and I realize this is probably the longest sentence in history, so I’ll stop talking now.”
I grin. “I might need the name of the book before you stop talking completely.”
“Oh. Right. That would help. Uh, it’s Fundamentals of Agricultural Economics.”
“Sounds like a fun class.”
Either he doesn’t pick up on my dry tone, or he ignores it. “It is. In a constantly changing climate, sustainability in the farming sector is more unpredictable than ever before. Coming up with innovative ways to use natural resources— And I just realized you were being sarcastic. Sorry.”
“That’s okay. It’s good to be passionate about something.”
The passion I once had for life, for my future, for everything, was taken away from me four years ago, and I haven’t figured out how to get it back yet. I’m twenty-six and don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.
I had a plan. A smart person would’ve had a plan B. Now the thought of making any kind of plans makes me break out in hives.
“The agriculture section is this way if you want to start looking, but I’ll go check the computer to see if we have it in stock.”
“Thanks, man.”
I’m halfway through typing the title into the computer when movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. The college kid takes off his thick coat, revealing a Burlington U hockey windbreaker underneath.
My fingers freeze on the keys.
Just when I thought this day was getting better, the universe takes a nice big sucker punch to my gut.
I fucking hate hockey.
“Rainn?” Harrison says, appearing next to me.
I shake out of my stupor and turn to him. “W-what?”
“Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Yeah, the ghost of a person I used to be.
I glare at the offending jacket that’s mocking me.
The guy’s big hand runs over the bookshelf. He’s taller than me but not by much, and he has the body of a forward. Sleek, muscular lines and not too bulky. He’s built for speed, not enforcing. I immediately wonder what position he plays and hate myself for it.
Because I shouldn’t care.
I hate hockey.
And if I say it enough times, I’ll believe it one day.
“Want me to take over with this customer?” Harrison asks.
Is it being petty if I say yes? Probably, but I’m going to take him up on the offer anyway.
Harrison’s staring at me with genuine concern, and my voice gets stuck in my throat.
“Found it.” The hockey player slaps a book down on the counter, and I flinch.
“I can ring you up,” Harrison says, taking the book. “Rainn, can you go finish what I started over there?” He points to the new display.
I leave them to it, but when the guy goes to leave, he stops next to me.
“Sorry, did that guy say your name was Rainn? As in Rainn Richardson?”
My face must answer for me, because his lights up.
“Holy shit, no way. This is so cool. You’re, like, a hockey god on campus.”
Was. I was a hockey god. I swallow hard.
“I remember seeing you play when I was in high school, and I was so bummed you were going to graduate the year before I could play on the same team as you. Though we play the same position, so it’s not like we’d be on the same line or anything.”
Center, then.
There are no words that could even begin to tell him to shut up without getting my ass fired, so I give him a curt nod instead.
“What are you doing now? Are you still playing?”
What does it look like I’m doing, genius?
“Your feet were like lightning, and your scoring record …” He keeps going, but it’s all white noise to my ears.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to, uh …” I begin to retreat but stumble in my rush to get away. I bump into the display, sending books flying to the ground. “Damn it,” I hiss.
I bend to pick them up.
He kneels to help, and our eyes meet. For a moment, I’m staring at someone I recognize. Someone I used to look at in the mirror. A young hockey player with awe in his eyes and excitement for the future ahead of him.
I almost hate to burst his bubble.
Almost.
“You want to know what I’m doing now?” I wave my hand around dismissively. “This. This is my life.” Bitterness claws at my throat.
“Wait, this? Only this?” He glances around the store with a confused look on his face. “But—”
“I don’t play anymore.”
The excited puppy of a man finally loses his awed expression, as if I just told him Wayne Gretzky died. Slowly, but surely, it’s sinking in that the guy in front of him is a has-been. A has-been who never got the chance to become a big thing in the first place.
I turn and put the books back on the shelves, hoping he’ll drop the subject.
I’m not so lucky.
“What happened?”
Read the room, dude. I glare at him.
His face falls even more. “Oh. Sorry. Right. Intrusive and stuff. I should, uh … go.”
I try my hardest to be polite as I say, “Hope that agriculture book works out for you. Have a nice day.”
Too bad mine is shot to shit.