Chapter 2
BECCA
The reel is one of those human-interest videos where someone interviews the players, asking them questions totally unrelated to hockey. The interviewer moves around the locker room, off-screen, stopping to talk to a variety of players. But the question is the same every time.
What’s your idea of the perfect date?
I press my palms against the table in front of me, phone centered in between them, and gnaw at my lip. I doubt they’ll interview every player, and a part of me hopes they don’t talk to Theo.
It feels like a weirdly personal question. They’re hockey players. Why not ask about hockey?
Do people want to know this kind of thing?
But that’s a dumb thought. Of course people want to know. That’s how fandom works.
It only feels personal for me because a little over nine years ago, Theo Williamson took me on his ideal date.
At least, that’s what he told me at the end of the night.
That he couldn’t imagine a better way to spend the evening.
A pile of pillows and blankets in the bed of his pickup truck, a picnic dinner, then stargazing under the vast Texas sky.
It was the night he kissed me for the first time. Then asked if we could make our relationship official.
It had been the easiest yes I’d ever given. As I’d lain there in the crook of his arm, gazing up at the Big Dipper, I’d been positive we were on our way to forever.
Finally, the camera pans to Theo. He has the same flirty look in his eyes that he had in high school, an air of mystery that’s a stark contrast to his brother’s golden retriever need to please.
I suddenly wonder if his answer to the question will be the same.
He’s lived an entire life since high school. Moved out of Texas. Made it to the NHL. With his pro-athlete income, his ideal date is probably miles more high-class than a dusty pick-up truck and a Texas sky.
So why does a part of me still hope it will be?
“What’s your idea of a perfect date?” the interviewer asks Theo.
He cocks his head to the side, like he’s really thinking about his answer. My eyes drop to his hands. There’s no scar, no sign of the injury that brought him to the hospital at the end of last season. So this is an old video, then. Probably filmed last year.
“I’m not the person to ask about that,” Theo says, a shadow passing over his expression. “Carter’s always been the romantic one.” Someone laughs off-screen, and Theo turns, grinning as he rolls his eyes at whoever it is, then the video cuts to a Georgia Jaguars team logo before ending altogether.
I start the video again, then track forward to the part with Theo.
His words aren’t true. Growing up, Carter was steady and kind, good to his core, but Theo was the romantic.
He was the one with the grand gestures and fancy words.
The one who wrote me a poem for my seventeenth birthday entitled “My Rebecca.” A good poem.
Even our AP English teacher was impressed, something I know because Theo asked her to proofread it and make suggestions before he gave it to me.
He was that committed to making sure it was perfect.
Maybe he’s changed, but it feels more like he was trying to avoid the question. And the way his face shifted right before he spoke—
“What are you watching?” Mia says over my shoulder, and I startle, darkening my screen before tossing my phone onto the table where it lands with a gentle thud.
I pull out my AirPods. “What is wrong with you? Why are you sneaking up on me?”
She drops into the chair across from me and reaches for the diet soda I’ve barely begun to drink. “I wasn’t sneaking,” she says. “I walked up like a completely normal person. Was that a hockey video?”
“It was nothing,” I quickly say. “Just something that popped up on my feed.”
She gives me a look. “Then why do you seem so cagey?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not cagey. It was nothing. How was the delivery?”
She brightens the slightest bit. “A perfect baby girl. Things got a little tense when the baby’s heart rate kept dropping, but we rolled Mom onto her hands and knees, and that did the trick. Baby was born five minutes later.”
“Good work.” I study her closely, then clear my throat. “Who was the OB?”
Her eyebrows lift. “Um … I can’t remember.”
“You can’t remember the doctor you just worked with for hours to deliver a baby?”
She shrugs like it’s no big deal, then takes a long swig of my soda. “What? There are a lot of doctors. We aren’t all on a first-name basis.”
I shoot her a pointed look. “So you don’t know if it was Dr. Rivera.”
She freezes, then slowly lowers the soda to the table, shoulders dropping in resignation. “Who told you?”
“Emily heard it from Caroline who heard it from Vivian who saw the two of you in the stairwell.”
“Well, that sounds like a sentence directly out of middle school. What, are we twelve now?”
“You’re the one who was making out in the stairwell.”
“We weren’t making out. We were talking.”
“Vivian said you looked very cozy.”
“Vivian has had a crush on him for weeks and is just jealous he wanted to talk to me about his clinical research instead of her.”
I fold my arms over my chest, still not convinced. “What kind of clinical research?”
Mia mirrors my pose like she’s more than ready for this interrogation. “Long-term cardiovascular outcomes in patients who experience preeclampsia.”
I pause. She’s good. Almost too good.
“Interesting. Is he IRB-approved already, or is he still at the proposal stage?”
She leans forward, a challenge in her eyes. “Approved by the Institutional Review Board and fully funded by a grant from the March of Dimes.”
“What’s his sample size?”
“Six hundred patients over a ten-year period,” she says without missing a beat.
“Interesting. And does he consult with all the OB nurses in the stairwell? Or just you?”
Her lips twitch, and I can tell she’s about to crack. “Fine!” she finally says. “But we were not making out. It was one kiss. Barely a kiss.”
“You little sneak! Why haven’t you told me about this?”
She presses her hands to her flaming cheeks. “Because it’s not a big deal. We’re just talking.”
“And kissing.”
Her gaze darts around the room. “Would you keep your voice down? Nothing has happened yet. We haven’t even been on a date.”
“But you like him,” I say, because the color in her cheeks can’t mean anything else.
“I mean, he’s great,” she says. “But it’s still so new. I hardly know him. And that’s the only reason I haven’t told you. There’s barely anything to tell.”
I frown and shake my head. “A kiss is definitely something to tell,” I say. “Do you know how weird it is hearing fourth-hand information about my best friend?”
She bites her lip, like she’s deliberating just how much she wants to say. “I know, and I’m sorry. I didn’t like keeping it from you, but I…” She takes an intentional breath. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
I frown, still puzzled by her reasoning. “Why would it worry me?”
She lifts her shoulders in a small shrug.
“Because we’re only supposed to be in Atlanta temporarily.
And I know how anxious you are to get back to the West Coast. I just didn’t want you to freak out over me dating someone in Atlanta, especially when being here has already been so stressful for you. ”
I sink back into my chair and let her words settle. Atlanta has been stressful for me. Being apart from Rory, seeing Theo, being reminded of Theo every time I turn around. And I have been anxious to get back to California. But that doesn’t mean I would freak out.
I mean, I do have concerns about her dating a doctor, mostly because if he’s interested in a travel nurse, I’m doubtful he’s looking for the happily-ever-after I know Mia craves.
But it still makes me sad that she’s worried enough to keep secrets. None of my concerns will ever be more important than her happiness.
I reach across the table and take her hand. “Mia, I would never expect you to not date someone just because I don’t want to live in Atlanta long term. If you like this guy, then I’m happy for you. Truly.”
She bites her lip. “Really?”
“Of course really.”
Her eyes brighten. “It’s amazing to hear you say that,” she practically gushes.
“Because I know we’re getting close to when we’d usually sign our next contract, but if things go well over the next few weeks, I might …
not for a bit. Just to see what happens.
Like, I definitely will not stay here just for him.
But I might not want to commit to leave, you know? At least not as soon as we usually do.”
Oh. Oh no. Did we just go from I like him all the way to I might not go back to California in less than five sentences? I force my face to remain neutral. Am I happy she’s crushing on a cute doctor? Absolutely.
Am I happy she just casually tossed out the possibility of staying in Atlanta for said doctor? Not even a little bit.
And what does she mean she might not sign? I’m already checking job postings at our favorite Orange County hospital. Once new listings go live, contracts are snatched up quickly, so we can’t really sleep on it if that’s where we want to go.
It isn’t time yet, but it will be soon.
“Gosh, I’m so relieved,” Mia continues. “I thought for sure you’d try to lecture me or tell me I’m being rash for even talking about dating him. But I’m trying to keep myself open, you know?”
“I totally get it,” I manage to say, even as I swallow back the dozens of concerns that just popped into my brain. I love Mia’s optimism, but her lack of a plan directly impacts my plan. And not having a plan for me might actually give me hives.
Not that I’m going to admit as much out loud. I already told her I was happy for her. And she’s looking at me with so much hope in her eyes, I can’t go back on that now.
Mia gives me a knowing look like she isn’t quite convinced. “I appreciate the effort you’re making right now, but don’t think I don’t recognize how much it pains you to say that.”
“It doesn’t pain me,” I say. “I’m fine.”