16. Sayonara, Dr. Dimples #2
Now that we’re sharing a shower, I know it’s her shampoo and conditioner. But she must have been using them for years, because I remember it from the very first time we met—a night I wish I could erase and redo.
On the way to Jacob’s house, which was only about twenty minutes from my parents’ house, a fact he didn’t yet know, he did the stereotypical brother thing and warned me about his sister.
“Don’t even think about my sister. Not that you’d be into her. I mean, she’s awesome, but she’s my sister ,” he said, making a face like the thought of her dating at all was nauseating.
“Cool,” I said, completely unworried about the idea of being attracted to his sister.
I had only recently shifted into what I called total hockey focus mode, and despite what everyone thinks about athletes and women, I had no desire to date— casually or otherwise. Least of all my best friend’s sister.
“But I mean, if you did like her, like for real like her, that’s cool,” Jacob amended. “I’d just need a heads-up. And a few days to, like, deal with the idea. Though she really doesn’t date.”
“Like...at all?”
“Not in, like, the last few years.” He must have seen the question on my face, because he added, “I’m not sure if she’s just picky or has something against dating or what.”
I knew a guy in college who both smelled like funky cheese and was obsessed with magic—like the card-and-coin-trick kind of magic. Sometimes I saw him walking across campus in a cape and top hat. And that guy went on dates.
So I figured there must be something about Josie that was more offensive than stinky cheese and magic. That or she had some kind of personal reason for not dating, which Jacob didn’t know about.
“Anyway, it’s a moot point,” Jacob continued. “She won’t be into you because you’re a jock, and if there’s one thing Josie hates, it’s jocks.”
Jock.
It struck me that I’d worked so hard to avoid one set of labels in my life that I’d accidentally traded it for another.
I needed an escape from the life my father carved out for me.
The one he continually tried to force me into—even when it became clear that I had no interest in being primed to work with Jacobs Restaurant Group from the time I was eight.
The moment I picked up a hockey stick, my dad basically shut me out.
No more prepping me to take over. No more business lessons or spreadsheets.
But also...no more anything . My dad stopped talking to me or even looking at me.
Instead, his full focus went to Peter.
My brother fell into line as though he wanted it. Probably he did. Maybe? I don’t know because my brother and I, much like my dad and I, barely speak.
So, in Jacob’s car that day, driving to my hometown to stay with his family, hearing him call me a jock hit me in a new way.
I was still mulling over this idea of label switching, in the quiet obsessive way my mother says I obsess over everything, when we arrived and I actually saw Jacob’s sister.
She definitely didn’t have any stinky cheese or magic issues.
At some point during his warning, Jacob had told me his sister was pretty. But calling Josie pretty is like saying a sunset is cute or the Grand Canyon is big.
Pretty was not nearly a grand enough word to encompass the reality of the situation. Stepping out of the car, I felt like someone had whacked me in the head with one of those oversize fairground hammers used to test your strength.
Awkwardness, in a heavier dose than the usual amount I experience when meeting new people, struck me mute as I reached out to shake Josie’s hand. I felt uncomfortable and idiotic, and it was made even worse by the way she flinched, like she had some reason to be afraid of me.
Guess Jacob was right about his sister hating jocks. Or...something. There was definitely something there.
But if her brother had no clue, it wasn’t like I was going to figure it out when we’d barely met. Still, I wondered.
Things went downhill from there. From the flinch to the KITCHEN INCIDENT, which is still how I think of it—in all caps. Thanks to Jacob’s ridiculous grocery store hookup, every person in the Rowland household got the wrong impression of me. One I managed to correct—with everyone but Josie.
The truth, which I never did get to fully explain to Josie, was that the woman from the grocery store recognized me at the jump.
I wasn’t well known then—not unless you followed college hockey or NHL draft news.
But Grocery Store Girl, as Jacob referred to her, did both.
She was fully aware I’d signed my first contract to play for Edmonton, which meant she was aware of the dollar signs on my contract. And the signing bonus.
I ignored her when she approached us in the frozen dessert aisle, but Jacob did the opposite and decided to bring her home.
Looking back on it, I suspect she figured she’d use him to get to me.
Which she attempted to do when I came down to the kitchen and she tried to make a move.
Only seconds before Josie also walked in.
I realize in hindsight what came out of my mouth— She came on to me followed by Not your sister—was very easily misconstrued.
But there was no misunderstanding Josie’s words: I would never.
For years those words have bounced around in my head. They’ve finally lost most of their sharp edges, like stones in a tumbler, worn smooth over time and with force.
But I still feel them—even now as I remember that night. And Josie’s face when she said them—the embarrassment, the disgust, the vehemence.
She went back to college the next day before I could work up the courage or find the right words to explain what I’d said.
And the next time I saw Josie, she was closed off.
Detached and cool. Barely made eye contact.
Said little more than hello. I couldn’t find a good way to work an explanation into a conversation when there was no conversation.
And so on it went. For years.
Now, that night seems like stagnant water under the bridge. I’d still like to address it.
But I don’t know how without revealing how much it’s bothered me ever since.
Or revealing why what Josie thinks about me matters so much.
She glances up now, catching me watching her. I look away.
The elevator doors slide open, and I see Dr. Parminder standing just across from the elevator, a little out of breath, like he ran down the stairs.
“Did we forget something?” Josie asks.
He readies his dimples, aims, and fires. “My phone number.”
Bold move, Doctor. Bold move.
At least he did ask when we came in today if Josie was my girlfriend. When she laughed and said no, I guess he took that to mean she’s fair game.
What he didn’t ask was whether I’m interested. Which I guess would have been a little outside of his professional scope, but then—so is this. I hope he can feel my stare burning into him. But he doesn’t seem to.
“Oh?” Josie takes a step back. Actually, not back. A step closer to me. Her gaze flicks my way, and I swear, she looks almost like she’s asking for help.
Or...is she asking my permission?
I’m not entirely sure, so I say nothing. But I do shift closer to her.
“I guess it would be good to call you if I have any questions about Wyatt’s recovery,” Josie says.
“That and so I can take you to dinner sometime,” Dr. Dimples says easily. “Give me your phone, and I’ll shoot a text to myself.” He holds out his hand, still grinning.
“You know what?” Josie says. “I think it’s actually best if we keep things strictly professional. I’ll be coming in with Wyatt for his sessions and—”
Dr. Parminder leans closer to Josie. “I can be professional in this context and still take you on a date. Like the separation of church and state.”
His grin takes on a flirty edge I’d like to remove with my elbow. If we were on the ice, I’d check him the first chance I got. Right into the boards. Hard.
Now, I stand here, trying to cool my rage into a tight ball, as he waggles his dark eyebrows and says, “I can be as un professional as you’d like when we’re not in this setting.”
Forget a clean check. The gloves would come off for this guy.
Josie and I exchange a glance. I don’t miss the way her lip curls slightly. Neither does my physical therapist, whose smile falters for the first time all day.
Sayonara, Dr. Dimples.
He drops his hand and takes a small step back. I take one forward, though I’m not sure Josie notices.
“I’d better not,” she says. “But thank you for the offer. Have a good day!”
She says this last part too brightly, her voice bordering on manic as she waves once, then speed-walks right out the front doors of the building, not looking back once.
Dr. Dimples wears the expression of a man who doesn’t hear the word no very often.
I can’t stop myself from shooting him a smug little smirk as I follow Josie out, more relieved than I want to admit.