4. Chloe
CHLOE
IT’S DEFINITELY NOT A DATE
A week later I’m laying across my bed on my stomach with my head hanging off the side reading a textbook I left open on the floor because my arms went numb from holding it up. I’m on my fourth pass of this particular chapter when Britt walks in and kicks the book clean under the bed.
“Get up, loser, we’re going to a party.”
“I’m studying.”
“Not anymore you’re not. Put this on.”
She throws one of her shirts at me and I hold it up by two fingers.
“I’m definitely not wearing this, and I’m not going to a party.”
She drops onto her knees next to my bed. “Please, Chloe. Please. Please. Please. I never do anything out of control if you’re there. You’re like my guardian angel.”
“Ugh, fine.” I roll off the bed and head for my bathroom.
“Wear the shirt!” she calls after me.
I have a quiz Monday and forty pages of lecture slides I haven’t even looked at yet.
Britt doesn’t care about any of that so I put on the shirt.
It's entirely too tight across my chest and I internally debate the argument I can have with her now about it, or suck it up and leave the party as quickly as I can.
The party is in the exact same apartment as last weekend, which means it’s essentially the exact same party.
There’s a game on the TV in the corner. The sound is off.
Nobody is watching it. Britt vanishes before I even find a safe place to stand, immediately climbing into the lap of the winger she’s been seeing. I still can't remember his name.
A girl I recognize from last week is standing by the drinks. We spend two minutes talking about the weather. Then her boyfriend shows up, so I go back to staring at the muted TV.
It’s about four minutes before I hear my name. Sort of my name.
“BACKCHECK GIRL!”
I don’t turn around. But I can see his reflection on the dark edge of the TV screen. He's a full head taller than everyone else in the room, physically moving people out of his way to get to me.
“You came,” he says as he reaches me.
“I came with Britt.”
“You came, though.” He’s very happy about this. He plants a hand flat on the wall right above my head and leans down toward me, close enough that I have to tilt my chin up just to look at him. It's a calculated move designed specifically to make me do exactly that. I’m positive he knows it.
“You never told me your name,” he says.
“I told you my name. You were just basically unconscious when I did it.”
“Doesn’t count.” He flashes a slow grin. “I want it awake.”
“Chloe.”
“Chloe.” The grin gets wider. “I thought about you all week, Chloe.”
“That sounds like a personal problem and also super creepy.”
“You knew the neutral zone,” he says, completely ignoring my insult. “In your pajamas, at one in the morning. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That thing where acting like a woman knowing hockey is a miracle to you. Half the girls here know hockey.”
“Not like you.”
The song changes to something much louder. He steps back and holds out his hand. “Dance with me.”
“No.”
“One song.”
“This isn’t a dancing song.”
“Every song is a dancing song if you have the right moves.” He doesn’t wait for me to take his hand. He reaches down and grabs mine instead. “Come on. What else are you doing?”
“Making sure my roommate gets home alive.”
“She’s over there. She’s fine. One song.”
He tugs, and my feet actually move forward. He’s aggressively cheerful in a way I have never been in my entire life. He also hasn’t taken his eyes off me since he crossed the room. I hate that it actually works.
He’s a horrible dancer. He looks like someone attempting both the robot and some bizarre version of a club rave at the exact same time. He definitely does not have the right moves.
“You’re so bad at this,” I tell him, trying hard not to laugh.
“I never said I was good.” He turns me under his arm and nearly elbows a guy in the head. “You’re not bad, though. You’re just not letting yourself feel the music.”
“Because it’s not a dancing song!”
“Relax, you’re just holding onto everything too tight.” He drops his mouth down near my ear so I can actually hear him. “You’re allowed to have fun, you know. Nobody’s grading you.”
“Somebody’s always grading me.”
He pulls back to stare at me. “That’s the saddest thing anybody’s ever said to me at a party. And I go to a lot of parties and dance badly with a lot of women.”
I actually laugh and he lights up like he just scored a game-winner.
“There it is,” he says. “I’ve been after that since I woke up on your couch.”
The song ends and I try to step away from him, but he keeps his hand on my lower back and turns me gently away from the crowd instead.
“I’ve got an idea,” he says.
“I still don’t want to see your Stanley Cup.”
He laughs, his head tipping back. “No. I got that the first time, believe me. I mean a game. Come to a game. I’ll get you and your friend tickets.”
I fully intend to say no. I have to say no. There’s no way I can let this guy buy me hockey tickets.
“Who are you playing?” I ask instead.
“Toronto.”
Britt—who apparently has a radar for identifying the exact worst moment—suddenly appears at my elbow and grabs my arm.
“Oh my God. Chloe. That’s your team.”
“Britt, no.”
“That’s her team,” she tells him, absolutely delighted, ruining my life. “She’s from Toronto. She cried when they got knocked out last season.”
“I didn’t cry.”
“You sobbed like a baby.”
I watch his brain process that information. He already looked pleased with himself, but now he thinks he’s won.
“You’re a Toronto girl,” he says.
I turn to Britt. “I’m going to kill you.”
“Your team’s in my building next week, and you’re going to be there.” He reaches out and taps my nose, enjoying this way too much. “You already decided. I saw it happen when I said Toronto.”
He’s right, and I can’t stand it. I decided the second he said it. I haven’t seen my team live since I moved here. They come through once a year, and free seats are free seats. None of that is about him.
“Fine,” I say. “Put us on the list. It’s not a date. I’m coming to watch my team beat yours.”
“Sure,” he says and winks at me, because he doesn’t believe me at all.
When we finally get home, I dig my old jersey out of the bottom dresser drawer. The blue and white one I’ve had since high school. I hang it on the outside of my closet door so it’s ready. If I’m walking into his arena, I’m going to do it wearing enemy colors.
I'm standing at the bathroom sink, brushing my teeth, when the realization finally hits me. I gave him exactly what he asked for. A reason to see me again.
He barely even had to work for it.