The Hockey Star’s Remorse by Riley Above Story

Chapter 125

The day I had to resign from Erickson’s job was etched in my memory like a jagged scar, a wound that refused to heal. My pride had taken a brutal hit, and I was left feeling like a ship lost at sea, tossed about by the unforgiving waves of life. But, as they say, when one door closes, another one opens.

Little did I know that the door I was about to open would lead to the stress of job hunting.

After a night of tossing and turning, haunted by memories of my downfall at Erickson, I woke up early, determined to put the past behind me. I knew that wallowing in self–pity would get me nowhere. So, I set my sights on a fresh start, beginning with the arduous task of finding a new firm to work for.

The process was soul–sucking, to say the least. Rejections and silence were the predominant responses to my applications. I spent countless hours crafting meticulous cover letters, tweaking my resume, and attending interviews that seemed to lead to dead ends. The grind was disheartening, but I reminded myself that every no brought me one step closer to a yes. Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

One crisp autumn morning, my perseverance bore fruit. I received an email from J.D. & Associates, a prestigious law firm in the heart of the city. My heart leaped with excitement as I read the words “invitation to interview” on the screen. This. was my chance to prove that I still had what it took.

I dressed in my best professional attire, making sure I looked poised and. confident. As I entered the sleek, glass–fronted building that housed J.D. & Associates, I couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe this was where I belonged.

The receptionist directed me to the office of Mr. Dennison, the founder and senior partner of the firm. His office was grand, adorned with mahogany furniture and leather–bound books. Mr. Harrison

himself, a distinguished–looking man in his late sixties, sat behind an imposing desk, peering at me over his half–moon glasses.

“Miss Sinclair,” he said, his voice laced with authority. “Please, have a seat.”

I settled into the chair, my heart pounding with nervous anticipation. This was the moment I had been waiting for.

The interview started well enough. Mr. Dennison seemed impressed with

my

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credentials and experience. I felt a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, this would be my second chance. But then, the atmosphere shifted.

As we were discussing my previous employment at Erickson, Mr. Dennison brow furrowed. “Tell me, Miss Williams, what exactly happened there? Why did you leave?”

I took a deep breath, preparing to explain the circumstances that had led to my resignation. “Well, Mr. Dennison, it was a situation that-”

Before I could finish my sentence, Mr. Dennison interrupted with a stern expression, though it was trained on his laptop. “I’m aware of the situation, Miss. Sinclair. I have my

sources.

I blinked, taken aback. “Sources?”

Mr. Dennison leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “A little birdie informed me through email just now that you were involved in a scandal. That you were accused of unethical conduct?”

My face grew hot with anger. It was no secret that office gossip had spread like wildfire at Erickson, but I hadn’t expected it to follow me here. “Mr. Harrison, with all due respect, I believe there may be some misunderstandings regarding the situation at Erickson. 1-”

He cut me off again, his voice rising with anger. “Misunderstandings? Miss Sinclair, I cannot have someone with your reputation representing my firm. We have a standard to uphold, and we cannot afford to have any scandals muddying it.”

I felt a surge of frustration and anger bubbling within me. “Mr. Dennison, if you would just let me explain-”

He stood up abruptly, his face going red. “I’ve heard enough. You’re wasting my time, Miss Sinclair. Good day.”

I left Mr. Dennison’s office in a daze, anger and disappointment gnawing at my insides. It seemed that my past at Erickson had become an insurmountable obstacle, an albatross around my neck that I couldn’t shake off. I had hoped for a fresh start, but it felt like the world was conspiring against me.

As I stepped out of the building and onto the bustling city streets, I couldn’t help but let out a frustrated scream. Passersby turned to look, some offering concerned

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glances, but I didn’t care. I was tired of being judged for a mistake that I had already paid dearly for.

The brisk October air felt tedious as I walked to the parking garage, my footsteps: echoing in the empty street. The click–clack of my heels on the pavement sounded like a dirge for my shattered dreams. My breath came out in frosty puffs, mirroring the icy pit that had formed in my stomach.

With every step, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. Paranoia had become my constant companion lately, and I quickened my pace, clutching my purse tightly. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and my heart raced in my chest.

Maybe it was just my imagination playing tricks on me, but I couldn’t shake the feeling.

As I reached the entrance of the parking garage, a voice called out my name from the shadows. My blood ran cold, and I froze in my tracks. It was a voice I recognized all too well.

“Evie.”

The word hung in the air like a sinister whisper, sending shivers down my spine. Before I could react, the headlights of a car suddenly flashed on, blinding me momentarily. Panic surged through my veins as I realized that I was trapped in the narrow entrance of the garage.

Without thinking, I turned and sprinted toward the safety of the street, my heart. pounding in my chest. The car roared to life, its engine revving, and tires screeched as it accelerated, pursuing me with terrifying intent.

“Evie, you can’t run forever!” the voice from the car yelled, a menacing tone lacing the words.

I pushed myself harder, desperation fueling my every step. My lungs burned, and my legs ached, but I knew I had to keep going. The car was closing in on me, the roar of the engine growing louder and more menacing by the second.

As I neared the end of the street, I made a split–second decision. With every ounce of strength I had left, I veered to the side, jumping onto the narrow sidewalk just as the car whizzed past me. The rush of air from its passage was so close that it tousled my hair.

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The narrow sidewalk had no room for me to land safely, and I tumbled to the ground, my world spinning in a disorienting blur. Pain surged through my arm, ground, my world spinning in a disorienting bl and I let out a cry of agony as I realized that it was broken.

Tears welled in my eyes, but I couldn’t afford to stay down. The car had screeched. to a halt a few feet away, and I knew I had to get up and find help.

Ignoring the searing pain in my arm, I pushed myself to my feet and scanned the street. The car idled for a moment, its engine growling like a caged beast. Then, with a final roar, it sped away into the night, leaving me battered and terrified.

My trembling hands fumbled in my purse as I struggled to find my phone. I dialed 911, my voice shaking as I recounted the terrifying encounter and my broken arm. The dispatcher assured me that help was on the way, but the minutes that followed felt like an eternity.

I huddled on the sidewalk, clutching my injured arm, my eyes darting nervously around the empty street. What had just happened? Who was the person in that car, and why had they targeted me?