Pucked in Paradise

Chapter 1

Maya

I blink slowly in the light from my laptop screen, disbelief making my eyes blurry.

“That can’t be right,” I murmur, the only recipient being my empty Midtown apartment. The Detroit summer clings on to early September, my only saving grace is the exposed brick and high ceilings of my second-floor rental. 

Yesterday, my portfolio looked healthy, well in the green. Now… It takes a few minutes for me to register the blaring red staring back at me.

The nest egg that I so cleverly invested for my future is… gone. In its place is only my student debt and mounting bills. Even my current account, which had a generous amount of monthly living allowance, is in the negative.

“How is this possible?” My voice comes out shaky. My apartment suddenly feels suffocating. As nice as it is, it’s not going to answer my question. I pick up my phone, numbly navigating through my contacts and dialing my broker. I only get the beep of a voicemail.

“Richard, hi, it’s Maya Johnson. I’ve just logged into my profile and it’s giving me some strange results? Call me back as soon as possible, please.”

I tap my fingers on the table impatiently for a few minutes, my eyes straying back to my phone as if they’re willing it to ring. With a huff, I pick it up and try again.

A mechanical voice answers, informing me that the number I’ve dialed doesn’t exist. I recoil, staring at the screen. I must have misdialed…

My second attempt gives the same result. As does the third, and the five times I try after that.

“Fuck!” The phone makes a dull thump as it lands on the table. I push back the dining chair with a screech on the wooden floor and jump to my feet. For a second, I stand there, my head spinning. 

Then I explode.

“That fucking asshole! What the fuck!” I aim a kick at the end of the sofa, only managing to bump my toe in the process. Hopelessness crashes over me like a wave. I have to report this, but I’m not extremely hopeful something will come out of it.

I straighten my tank top and slip my feet into some trainers. The walk to the police station is only five minutes but sweat gathers along my hairline when I reach the shabby-looking doors. I fumble with the heavy door, almost losing my balance when someone opens it from inside.

The guy lets me pass before he leaves, and I thank him with a tight smile. The reception area is quiet for a Saturday afternoon. A few kids sit on some of the hard wooden benches looking morbid as their parents talk to an officer. The tell-tale sign of spray-paint lingers on their hands and clothes.

Another officer is just hanging up the phone as I reach the desk. She looks harrowed, her greasy ponytail lilting to one side as if she’s been tugging on it. Her name badge reads ‘Officer Monroe.’

“Can I help you, miss?” she asks. I take a deep breath to calm myself, but my voice still comes out shaky when I speak.

“I need to report a crime,” I say, unsure of how this works. 

“What sort of crime?” she asks impatiently.

“Uh, fraud, I guess? My broker ran off with my money,” I say. The tears I’ve been fending off for the last hour prick behind my eyes.

She pulls out a complex-looking form and hands it to me.

“Fill this out. I’ll see if I can find someone to take your statement.” 

I thank her quietly and grab the form and pen.

It takes less than ten minutes to fill out the form, and just as long for Officer Monroe to beckon me over. The graffiti kids and their parents have left, and the officer who spoke to them takes over for her at the desk as she leads me down a fluorescent-lit hallway.

“Can you tell me what happened?” she asks as we sit down in a small room. The only furniture is a table with a few chairs haphazardly placed around it. The hard plastic digs into my leggings as I shift.

I’m still clutching the form, the paper crinkling slightly in my hold. I force myself to release it, splaying my fingers on the sticky table.

“I inherited some money from my aunt a year ago,” I begin. “I thought it would be smart to invest it, to have something to fall back on if I ever needed it.” My breath stutters. “I found a broker—he had an office and everything, so it didn’t seem dodgy… But when I logged into my investment profile and my bank account, it was all gone. I wasn’t able to contact him.” A heavy weight settles in my stomach, those traitorous tears once again making a bid for escape from my burning eyes.

Officer Monroe nods, taking the form from me and studying it.

“Maya, 26, physical therapist,” she reads aloud. I nod, even though it wasn’t a question. “I see you’ve added the broker’s contact details. We’ll do a background check on him and go from there. Is this your main contact number?” 

I nod again, feeling like a bobblehead.

“Okay, Maya, thank you for reporting this. We’ll be in contact throughout the investigation.”

That’s it? I think, though I just nod. Again.

The sun is still blaring happily outside. The Italian restaurant across the street pumps out scents of garlic and melted cheese. It turns my stomach inside out, even though I haven’t eaten since this morning.

My apartment is blessedly cool, though I can barely appreciate it. I slump against the wall next to the door, tears finally making a run for it and streaming down my face. I try to stifle my sobs, aware of my neighbors moving around just outside. Someone laughs, and it sets me off again.

How does the world just go on when mine is falling apart?

I allow myself a few minutes of feeling sorry for myself before I push away from the wall.

“I can figure this out,” I say resolutely, pacing back and forth in front of the couch. I make a decent salary as a physical therapist for Detroit’s Thunder Eagles. The professional ice hockey team has been rising in the ranks, and the team and their fans are positive they’ll earn the Stanley Cup this season.

“I can ask for a raise if that happens,” I murmur to myself. My head spins with numbers, trying to compare my salary and expenses. With a rush, I sit down in front of my laptop. Pulling up my last bank statement, I drag my notebook closer and start scribbling in it frantically.

A few minutes later, my breath is coming short and fast as I study the mess of lines and arrows. Numbers have been written over each other, hurriedly written notes framing the chaos.

I had been counting on using some of the returns of my investment to help pay off my student loan. This apartment was another splurge, not something I could have easily afforded without the backup my inheritance provided. I swear softly.

Exhausted, I collapse onto the couch. My eyes trace the pattern of the molding on the ceiling. Something that brought me so much joy when I first saw this place only heightens my anxiety. I fumble for my phone and dial the first person on my favorites.

My mom predictably answers on the first ring.

“Hi Mama,” I say weakly.

“Hi sweetheart. What’s wrong?” 

I huff because she always assumes something is wrong when I call her. For once, she’s right.

My voice wavers as I explain what happened. My heart breaks, because she lost her sister, and now I’ve lost what I had left of her.

“Oh, my darling girl. I’m so sorry.” She pauses, and I know what’s coming before she puts a voice to it. “You know you always have a place with us. Just because we moved from Detroit doesn’t mean your home isn’t with us.”

I sigh, grateful but at the same time tired of having this conversation.

“I know, Mama. But my life is here. I made a commitment to the team, to build my career here. I can’t leave. It’s more than just a job to me.” My voice comes out hopeless, yet still slightly defiant.

My parents tried their best to convince me to join them when they moved to a small, middle-of-nowhere beach house on the West Coast. After living in Detroit for all their lives—and mine—they wanted somewhere peaceful to retire.

My mom sighs. “I know, sweetheart. I wish we could help, but all our savings went into buying and renovating the house…” She trails off, and I know she feels guilty.

“It’s okay, Mama. I’ll figure it out.”

I hang up with promises to visit soon, even though the season is in full swing, and I can’t leave in case I’m needed. My thumb hovers over Charmaine’s contact, but I know she’ll be out. My best friend just started an event planning business, and her weekends are chock full.

The thought makes me sit up so fast that my head spins, reminding me of my lack of nutrition today. While I was studying, I worked in restaurants and bars to have some extra pocket money. Maybe I can do that again?

I sit down at my laptop, pulling up job listings for part-time work in my area. I chose this place because it’s close to the team’s base, so I’ll want something nearby to stick to my short commute and save time. As I start sending applications, my cheeks heat.

There’s no way around it. This is embarrassing.

At 26, with a master’s degree in physical therapy and an amazing job, I never imagined I’d be begging for scraps. My pride stings with every digital swish that accompanies a sent email.

When I’ve worked my way through what feels like hundreds of applications, I sit back with a sigh. Night has fallen outside, bringing with it a chill that feels more suited to this time of year. I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and walk out to my balcony. I curl up on the cozy egg chair I splurged on, staring at the sky.

What am I going to do?