Chapter 24
LEAH
I find the girls and fall into casual conversation until Ella appears, lips pressed together. She bounces a little on her toes.
“What’s gotten into you? You’re flitting around like a butterfly.” Margo motions with fluttery fingers.
I say, “The food and décor are amazing.”
Everyone agrees and compliments Margo on her event-planning prowess. Heidi asks about what she has coming up this fall.
Oddly, Ella remains uncharacteristically silent, but like a little kid who has something she desperately needs to confess, she bounces on her toes. I have three siblings, so I’m familiar with the antsy dance.
Whit interrupts and asks, “Is there something else you want to tell us, Ella?”
She nods and looks around, everywhere but at me, like she’s guilty of something.
“Okay, out with it,” I demand, waving my jumbo pretzel stick coated in white chocolate and silver sparkles like a wand.
“I heard you were flirting in the hallway.”
I practically crush the pretzel in my fist. “Chuck.”
Gracie frowns. “You were flirting with your brother?”
I cock a hip. “No, he told her that I was …” But I trail off, not wanting to finish the sentence.
Drawing a deep breath, Ella says, “Carlos said that he caught you and Robo locked in a stare-off.”
“Duh. You know I can’t stand him.”
Whit lifts her eyebrow. “But we don’t know why.”
I wave my hand dismissively, not wanting to recount what happened in high school. “Also, can you really believe what a guy who insists you call him Carlos says?”
“Is that not his real name?” Delaney asks.
“It is, technically, Charles Carlos Smith, but we’ve always called him Chuck and he just wants to impress Marisol.”
“That reminds me, Valentina said you guys are getting married this month,” Margo says as if awaiting me to give her the okay to proceed with event planning.
“Don’t listen to anything anyone in my family tells you.” They’re well off the ranch at this point.
“Except that Carlos said that you and Robo were flirting,” Ella says.
Jaw set, I tell them that’s not true. “Plus, Hudson’s setting me up on dates with guys from his former teams.”
The girls fall quiet.
My stomach twists.
Then his words filter back to me … In that case, you’ll realize that I’m the one you want.
Then my stomach drops.
“So pause the wedding plans?” Delaney asks.
“I was already planning a black cat and golden hour theme.” Margo sounds despondent.
I don’t even listen for her to explain as I chomp down on my pretzel stick because I’m afraid to admit what how I’m feeling means.
A few days later, as I get ready for my first date with Crew from Miami, I’m not sure why I agreed to this. I don’t want Hudson playing matchmaker, nor do I want to date any of these guys.
Yet, I’ve made it public knowledge that I’m on the prowl for a hockey player.
However, I was outside the locker room … waiting for him. Certainly not for Jack or Liam or any of the other guys, because most of them are in relationships. I could tell myself I was only there to chat with the girls, but I could’ve been upstairs helping Margo set up for the party.
The flutters in my stomach build and then disappear when I meet Crew outside, waiting for me on the sidewalk.
Yes, on Graves Street.
Is he insane? I mean, anyone would be crazy to mess with a hockey player, but I’ve seen wackier things in my neighborhood.
“Um, hi.”
“I’m Crew. Bro, are you Leah?”
My smile falters. “Um, yes. That’s me, Leah.”
He extends his hand, but not to shake. We slap palms and then he proceeds to try to do a choreographed combination of fist bumps, what looks like wiggly octopus fingers, elbow taps, and finger snaps.
He says, “Come on, bro. Dap me up.”
Considering we’re in a sketchy neighborhood with a local porch pirate gang, I don’t want anyone to think we’re trying to edge in on their territory, so I drop my hands to my sides.
“Um, we should get going.” I look around, but there’s no vehicle in sight. “If Larry is loose again, I’m calling his wife. It’s one thing to steal my car, but a neighborhood guest? Unacceptable.”
“Who’s Larry, bro?”
“The local car thief. He’s taken my Toyota three times.”
“Bro, that’s sketchy. Didn’t you go to the police?”
“Of course, but if he does it again, I’m telling Bernice this time. His wife means business. But, um, there’s a sidewalk time limit, so …” I hint that we should leave.
“Where’s Larry’s house, bro?”
“Down that alley.” I point.
“Bro, it doesn’t look like a car would fit down there.”
I belatedly realize the reason I don’t see Crew’s vehicle isn’t because Larry took it. Crew doesn’t have a car and wants us to go in mine. To be sure my theory is correct, I ask, “How did you get here?”
“Robo gave me a ride. I don’t drive, bro.” He shakes his head. “Bro, I knew someday I’d go pro, so I’d have a chauffeur.”
“How’s that working out?”
“For now, my buddies drive me places, but it’s chill, bro.”
“I estimate we have about thirty seconds until Si and Tai release the hounds, so—” I gesture toward where I park.
“Who are they, bro?”
“They are the same person.”
“Bro, they have a pack of dogs?”
“No, they’re also the dogs.” I don’t know how to explain the person on the street who thinks they’re two different people, having a conversation with themselves—each other?
—about whether a person is a friend or foe and then releases the hounds, which is also them barking at passerby, the letter carrier, or a poor soul who accidentally wandered onto Graves Street.
“Bro, that is wacky.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter, unlocking my vehicle before noticing a note stuck under the windshield wiper demanding a thousand-dollar reward for finding my radio antenna. I glance over my shoulder. It’s gone. Which means they took it.
Maybe I should move home.
“Where are we going, bro?” Crew asks.
Some date.
He reclines the seat. “Bro, I’m craving chicken wings.”
And taking a nap? Who is this guy and how on earth is he a professional hockey player?
“Just going to get some rest, bro. The jet lag is for real, though, bro.”
I don’t think he’s said a single sentence without calling me bro. I ask, “Do you really talk like this?”
“Bro, I don’t know what you mean, but you should hear our captain. Before a game, he talks like a pirate, bro. It’s nuts, bro.”
And so is Crew.
“Where are you staying?” I ask.
“The hotel with the big glass entrance, bro.”
Either he’s clueless or he doesn’t want to be on this date any more than I do. I think about the hotels in Omaha that have a glass entrance.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull up in front of the Four Seasons. The valet looks at me and I shake my head, then rouse Crew. “Hey, we’re back.”
“Huh, bro?” he asks, groggily while rubbing his eyes.
“You, um, slept through dinner and I didn’t want to wake you up, so, um, you can play well tomorrow.”
“That’s so thoughtful, bro.” He gets out and waves. “We’re going to crush the Knights, bro!” With a whoop, he jumps in the air, stumbles, and then ambles into the hotel.
Defeated, I head back to my apartment. For dinner, I dig into my plastic drum of cheese balls and eat them until my fingers are orange.
With my free hand, I scroll social media and like some of the images Margo posted from the season opener party, then go down a hockey rabbit trail and find some puck bunny accounts buzzing about the Knights’ newest goalie @Robo39.
Something stirs inside that feels much the same as when my sister got the new Kammy the Dancing Doll one year for Christmas.
Could this be jealousy?
I give my head a little shake. No way. I swipe to my text app and find my conversation with Ella.
Me: Remember when we first met and I explained the whole thing about puck bunnies?
She responds a few minutes later.
Ella: Of course, I take it the date went well. Do you want to borrow my Puck Princess crown?
Me: No and no. I just want to make it clear that even though technically I’m a puck bunny, I don’t only want to date and eventually marry a hockey player because it would give me clout, wealth, and access to fame.
Ella: More like because you love hockey so much.
Thankful she understood, I let out a breath.
Me: Exactly. I’d be doing my future spouse and myself a disservice if I tried to spend the rest of my life with a non-hockey player.
My goal is to organize the Happy Hockey Days festival and eventually open a museum. The argument to date a fellow fan would only result in a rivalry because we’d both try to out-fan each other and obviously, I’d win.
Ella: I’m sorry/not sorry that the date didn’t go well. I’d hate to lose you to Miami.
She ghosts me, probably because her amazing husband wants her attention at eight o’clock at night or because she’s polishing her Puck Princess crown.
The thing about puck bunnies is that it’s kind of a chosen one situation. Sure, it’s old-fashioned, but it’s truly a feeding frenzy out there—until one of the guys stakes his claim, puts a ring on it, and then they all scramble after the next available guy in line.
My approach is different. Yes, I want to be chosen but because I love and appreciate hockey so much. And maybe because the player thinks I’m pretty and have a good personality.
Hudson brings out the worst in me.
The guy who my traitorous grandmother claims is the “Chosen One.” Can’t I be pursued for once instead of practically groveling after Hunter, being the cool girl around the guys as they gradually paired off, and then ending up on a date with a dude who called me bro repeatedly?
I’m about to write some hate mail when my phone buzzes.
It’s a text from Hudson.