Chapter 5

Levi

First Date

I’m hardly listening to Coach as he rambles on during his post-game speech, his raspy voice grates on my nerves as his hands gesture wildly. He’s one of those people who can’t talk without moving his hands.

“Alright, you bunch of pucks on legs, gather 'round! Look at you, celebrating like you just found out beer is on sale. We won, yeah, but don't go planning the parade just yet. I saw more mistakes out there than a blindfolded ref on roller skates.”

A couple of my teammates chuckle at the remark, but quickly clam up when Coach glares at them with a piercing look. Guess we weren’t supposed to laugh. After a few well-placed insults towards the guys who laughed and a jab about my skating looking like a baby deer on ice, he wraps up with, “Anyway, good job, you scrappy bunch of hooligans. Enjoy the victory while you can. Practice tomorrow at 5 AM sharp. Bring your A-game and, for the love of Gretzky, someone bring donuts. Dismissed!"

My teammates quickly disperse, and Otto appears at my side with a goofy grin on his face. “Ready for the big date with Bailey?” he says while buttoning up his dress shirt. Coach makes us wear dressier clothes on game days, but thankfully he doesn’t require us to wear a suit.

“I guess so. She was in her seat through the second period, but I never saw her during the third. Maybe she got cold feet.” Every time I skated by Section M, my eyes were drawn to the beautiful woman in the red sweater. One time she was peeking through her fingers and another time she was chewing on her fingernail as I rammed an opposing player into the boards.

Concern over her absence ratcheted up when she was missing from her seat at the start of the third period, but then I got caught up in the action and was too busy playing to watch for her to reappear. Hopefully, she understands that hockey is a violent game, but I’m not a violent person. I would never lift a finger to anyone.

“You know how it is. Every female in the building wants to use the restroom after the second period. She was probably stuck in a long line,” Otto reassures me.

“Well, I’ll find out soon enough whether she got cold feet or not. I got her a pass for the friends and family waiting area.”

My buddy slaps me on my back. “Wow! You must be serious about this woman.”

Am I serious about Bailey? Probably not yet, but she intrigues me.

Disguising my interest under an air of nonchalance, I shrug. “Time will tell.”

Otto strolls away, shaking his head and laughing.

A few minutes later, I finish dressing. I’m wearing my button-down blue shirt that my mom says matches my eyes, and a functional pair of black dress pants. It’s time to find Bailey in the friends and family waiting area. My heart rate escalates as I briskly walk out of the locker room and down the hallway to the waiting room. Will Bailey be here, or will she be a no show?

When I enter the makeshift waiting area, which was previously an oversized janitor’s closet, I scan the few occupied seats, looking for a pretty brunette wearing a red sweater.

Nope...Nope...Nope. Wait! My eyes rotate back a seat. Is the woman sitting in the back row Bailey?

She gives me a shy wave, then stands and walks over to where I’m standing.

“What happened to the red sweater?” I blurt before engaging my brain.

Blushing and biting her bottom lip, a look of concern flits across her features. “Um, well, that’s a long story.”

My eyes shift to her hand, where I notice she’s holding the red sweater with the tips of her fingers, as if it’s got a disease. Did she spill something on it?

Trying to recover from my previous gaffe, I say, “It looks like you’re a full-fledged fan now.” Unfortunately, the Golden Stars sweatshirt she’s wearing swamps her figure. It looks like she’s wearing a tent. The brief glances I saw of her from the ice, looked like the red sweater was figure-hugging and showed off all her curves nicely. I gotta admit, I was looking forward to a closer perusal of that red sweater.

“I look awful in this, don’t I?” she says, her shoulders slumping and her lips tipping into a frown.

“Awful? No way! You look like—” my voice trails off as I quickly grapple for some flattering words to describe her not so flattering outfit.

A billowy tent? Cringe.

A flowy sail? Cringe.

A puffy poncho? Double cringe.

“A human marshmallow?” she says.

My belly laugh bursts from my chest before I can suppress it. “Well...”

She giggles. “Say it. I look like a human marshmallow.”

“A cute human marshmallow,” I say. We exchange smiles. I appreciate that she’s willing to make fun of herself. “Shall we head over to Harvey’s Famous Pizza? You can tell me the red sweater story when we get there.”

“Sure,” she replies.

Several awkward beats fall between us as I wonder what to do with my hand. Are we ready for the hand holding stage yet? She pretends not to notice and sets off at a fast clip towards the door. As we head down the cavernous hallway, I point to an Exit sign in the distance. “This way to the players lot. We can ride in my truck.”

When we emerge from the building, I belatedly wonder if we should pick up her car as we leave. “Did you drive? Do we need to pick up your vehicle on the way out? Or you can leave it in the lot, and we’ll come back and get it. That is if it’s in this lot. Otherwise, we can pick your car up wherever you left it.” My rambling reply makes me sound like I’m an over eager teenager on his first date. I haul in a few calming breaths.

Why does Bailey bring out the awkward in me?

“I rode the city bus,” she says. “I can catch it from a bus stop near the pizza place.”

By the time we’re done eating pizza it’s going to be eleven o’clock. No date of mine is riding a city bus that late at night!

My over-protective gene rears its head. “I’ll take you home,” I say, metering my response to be more even keeled than how I’m feeling.

“You don’t have to. I’m happy to ride the bus.”

My feet skid to a stop and I take her hands in mine and squeeze to get her full attention. “Bailey, I wouldn’t feel right leaving you at a bus stop this late at night. I want to make sure you get home safely, so please let me take you home after our dinner.”

She throws me a beaming smile. “Thank you, Levi Nyberg. I accept.”

A warm, happy feeling races through my body. Keeping her much smaller hand enclosed in mine, we walk together to my truck. I can’t wait to get to know Bailey Adams better.

~*~

After the bungling start to our date, by the time we’re both on pizza slice number three, we’re talking and laughing like old friends.

Bailey has a quirky sense of humor, that I find most enjoyable.

“Have you ever wondered why it’s called plastic silverware?” Bailey asks, while pointing to the flimsy forks provided by the restaurant. “I mean, how can it be both plastic and silver at the same time?”

Having never pondered this oxymoron until right this minute, I pick up on her thread, and say, “And what about a paper tablecloth? Doesn’t cloth imply a material other than paper?”

She giggles while I calmly take a sip of soda, enjoying this conversation immensely.

After discussing jumbo shrimp as our last oxymoron topic, I ask Bailey, “What’s your job at the bakery?”

She frowns. “Well, after I burned up my second batch of chocolate chip cupcakes, Emma relegated me to mixing batter. I’m not allowed to use the oven,” she says with an embarrassed laugh. “I frost and decorate cupcakes, plus also fill-in up front when we get a rush.”

“So how do your two jobs work? You’re employed at the bakery, but you also deliver DoorDash orders?” I ask.

Bailey nods. “The orders come to my cell phone. I finish what I’m doing at the bakery, pick up the order, and deliver it. I only deliver for restaurants within a five-mile distance of the bakery.”

“What’s the furthest you’ve had to drive to deliver an order?”

She taps her chin, looking thoughtful. “Actually, the furthest might have been to your house. That was quite a hike to get there!”

Our neighborhood is pretty far from campus. We picked it because the rent is cheap and we each own a set of wheels, so we don’t mind the commute.

“I should have tipped better,” I tease, then I frown remembering Joey paid for the food. “Sorry if Joey didn’t add a tip. He’s kind of tight,” I say.

“A lot of customers don’t tip. They think the tip is baked into the delivery charge, but it isn’t.”

Sounds like the DoorDash gig isn’t all that profitable. I wonder why Bailey’s still doing it.

“I can tell what you’re thinking, Levi. Why do I continue to do DoorDash deliveries if the money is garbage,” Bailey says.

“Am I that transparent?” I snort.

“As glass. I don’t recommend you play poker,” Bailey teases.

I wiggle my fingers. “Spill about why you’re still a DoorDasher.”

She sighs. “My hours at the bakery don’t pay the bills, so I thought the DoorDash gig would be a good source of supplemental income. Turns out I’m still short on funds every month.”

“You don’t want to get a traditional nine to five job instead?” I ask. “Not that anything’s wrong with being a baker or a DoorDasher,” I quickly tack on, so she doesn’t think I’m criticizing her career choices.

“When I graduated high school, I couldn’t afford to go to college, so I started working for Emma. I’ve never held a ‘traditional’ nine to five job.”

Her comment hits close to home since I wouldn’t be able to afford attending this university if it weren’t for my hockey scholarship.

Rubbing her finger on a water spot on the table and not making eye contact, Bailey says, “I’m embarrassed to admit, but I didn’t ever get very good grades. I guess I’ll always be an odd jobs person rather than finding a career.”

“Baking sounds like a career to me,” I say.

A smile breaks across her face. “I guess you’re right. I love the creative side of baking like coming up with fancy icing styles and unique toppings.”

From our conversation so far, Bailey seems to be smart as a whip and it sounds like she’s happy doing the bakery gig. “I can’t wait to try one of your fancy cupcakes,” I say, then deftly change the topic.

“What did you think of the hockey game?” I’m excited to know her reaction since this was her first time attending a game.

She stares at me for a few beats as if she’s carefully debating what to say. “The action is terrific, you don’t get bored, that’s for sure. But—” Biting her lip, she hesitates.

“But?”

“Is the game always that violent? Aren’t you sore from all the guys knocking you into the wall?”

I figured this would come up. Seeing the game through a new lens makes me recognize the violence that otherwise I just accept as part of the game.

“As a defenseman, my job is to break up any offensive plays by the opposition. I block shots and help protect the goalie. Sometimes that involves trying to take the puck away and I bodycheck the opposition into the boards to create a turnover. All those attractive pads I wear protect me from injury.”

She grins at my lame attempt at humor and accepts my explanation. “Why did the ref call a penalty when that player hit you with his stick?”

“That’s called a crosscheck and is illegal contact, plus it’s dangerous.”

“Levi, every hit during the game looked dangerous,” she says. “At times it just looked like chaos out there.”

“I assure you it’s organized chaos,” I say.

“My observation is it’s the only sport where you can be applauded for both scoring a goal and starting a brawl.”

Barking out a laugh, I say, “You hit the nail on the head!”

“Why do they throw down their gloves before they start fighting?”

In the second period, Otto started an impressive fight with the opposition’s nastiest player, that’s when the gloves hit the ice. “It’s tradition, mostly. Dropping the gloves signals that you’re ready and able to fight.”

Bailey rolls her eyes. “Isn’t that kind-of silly, like honor among thieves?”

Huh? I never thought of it that way, her insightful comment gives me pause. “I guess so. But, Bailey, it’s all just part of the game, I’m not a violent person, so I leave all that behind at the rink.”

Nibbling on another slice of the pepperoni and black olives pizza, her eyes bore into my forehead as if she’s trying to read my mind. “Good to know,” she says a few seconds later. Her expression morphs into a smile. “By the way, congratulations on the win. The crowd went wild afterwards.”

“That win put us in a tie for first place in our division.” Deciding it’s time to ask what’s been on my mind throughout the dinner, I say, “Okay, you’ve avoided talking about the red sweater long enough. Why did you change out of it?” I ask.

“Severe skin reaction to cashmere,” she says with a frown. “I was itching like I had Poison Ivy while I was wearing the sweater. I borrowed it from my housemate, so I’ve never worn it before. I didn’t realize I’d have this reaction,” Bailey adds. “Then, to add insult to injury, the sweatshirt booth only had two sizes left. Kiddie size large, which was too small for me, or men’s XXL. Obviously, you can see how attractive that looks on me,” Bailey says, spreading her arms wide and grinning.

“Well don’t think you have to wear cashmere to impress me,” I say. “Honestly, Bailey, you could wear a sack and look terrific.”

She rolls her eyes. “No matter how much you butter me up, you’re not getting a kiss tonight. I have a firm policy to never kiss on the first date.”

“Ok, how about you go out with me tomorrow night, so we’ll be on date number two?” I ask in a teasing voice.

Bailey says, “You’re pretty sure of yourself, Levi Nyberg.”

I laugh. “I’m merely being hopefully optimistic.”

Her eyes crinkle at the corners as she smiles, but she doesn’t commit either way. Before this date is over, I’m going to convince Bailey to go out with me again. I’m already falling for her.

~*~

On the ride back to her house, I again broach the topic of going on a second date. “It’s mid-season break, so I don’t have a game this upcoming Saturday. How about we go out again?” I ask, then hold my breath. When she nibbles on her bottom lip and hesitates, my heart sinks. Did I misread her interest?

Fidgeting in her seat, she says, “I’ve got a prior engagement on Saturday, but I’m wondering if you’d be interested in attending with me...”

By the expression on her face, you’d think she was asking me to meet her parents. I’m not sure I’m quite ready for that. I was thinking of something more like bowling or dinner and a movie.

“You’d be doing me a huge favor, actually,” she blurts out in a nervous rush. “I’m attending my cousin’s wedding, and my grandmother, bless her meddling heart, will attempt to pair me with every available, single male if I attend solo. She’ll probably even hit up one of the bartenders or catering staff—" Her voice trails off and she stares at me with a mixture of anticipation and dread. Blinking for a couple seconds, she waves her hand as if she’s swatting a gnat and adds, “Never mind. It’s a bad idea.”

“I accept!”

Her brows draw together. “Really? Are you sure? Nana can be a force of nature when she decides to meddle. After my cousin gets married, I’m the last unmarried grandchild. You’d need to play a realistic fake boyfriend so we can keep Nana off our case.”

Pointing to my chest, I say, “Realistic fake boyfriend at your service.”

She chuckles.

“Plus, this is an opportunity to get to know each other better. I have a feeling that our fake relationship could turn into something much more serious,” I tease.

“Levi, honestly, please don’t feel obligated to attend. We can do something on Sunday instead.”

“I know how it is to attend a family function solo. I’m happy to be your buffer.”

A smile spreads across her pretty face. “Levi, you can be my wedding defenseman, warding off any matchmaking attempts by my well-meaning grandmother.”

This should be a piece of cake. Wedding cake to be exact.

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