Chapter 4
Winnie
I wake up to the sound of Buttermilk chewing on something and that’s never good.
“Please don’t be the charger,” I mumble, rolling out of bed in a panic.
It’s the charger. My favorite pink, braided, extra-long lightning cable has been gnawed to a frayed mess, and my phone is sitting at three percent on the nightstand.
“Buttermilk,” I groan, scooping him off the floor. He squirms, unimpressed and defiant as if he’s saying, “I have the right to chew these things, peasant.”
“You’ve got a whole pile of hay, a chew toy shaped like a banana, and this is what you go for?” I chastise as I set him down on the kitchen floor.
He thumps once, which I assume is rabbit for you were late feeding me last night and I’m still pissed about it.
The clock on the oven says seven forty-two a.m.
“Oh no. No, no, no.”
I’m supposed to be at school by eight fifteen, so I mentally run down all the things I normally do to prep for a workday. I still haven’t packed my lunch or my school tote or figured out if I’ve already worn the same sweater three days in a row.
I fly around the house in a panic, like a toddler on a sugar rush—brushing my teeth with one hand, pulling my hair into a ponytail with the other.
I throw on a cardigan that at least doesn’t smell like Chinese takeout and jam half a protein bar in my mouth.
Shoving my phone in my coat pocket, I grab my keys and jet out the door.
I make it to Bloomfield Elementary with three minutes to spare and a headache thumping behind my eyes because I didn’t get my morning cup of coffee.
At least my phone partially charged in the car.
The morning drop-off rush is in full swing, kids waving to teachers, parents rolling down windows with last-minute reminders.
My favorite part of carpool is watching all the littles hiking up their backpacks filled with books and snacks over their shoulder and looking like they’re about to tip over as they earnestly make their way inside.
I’m halfway up the sidewalk when I pull out my phone to check the time, and the notifications flood in.
Group Chat: Teachers’ Lounge Terrors
OMG!
Are you alive??
LUCKY brANSON, WINNIE.
How did you do that??
I’m crying. Like, full-body goose bumps.
“What in the hell?” I mutter, forehead creased in abject confusion.
I flip to a message from my mom. Call me ASAP. Who is this man and why is he flirting with you on the internet?
I stop walking and blink in confusion. I glance around, seeking eye contact from someone who can reassure me that I’m not going crazy, because I don’t understand what’s going on.
And there she is… Kelsey—another kindergarten teacher, my school ride-or-die, and sometimes enabler of my poor dating decisions—running my way. I can’t help but smile as her jaunty fuchsia scarf trails behind her like a cape of super-powered excitement.
She practically skids to a stop beside me, her chest heaving. “You haven’t seen it, have you?” She sucks in a breath and blows it out. “Of course you haven’t. You didn’t respond to my texts. I sent like ten of them.”
“Seen what?” I ask, starting to feel like everyone has gone crazy. Even when my first video went viral, I didn’t receive this level of reaction, and I know inherently this has to do with my video from last night.
Her mouth drops open. “Oh my God. You don’t know. I can’t believe this is how you’re finding out.”
I grab her forearm. “Finding out what? Kelsey, you’re freaking me out.”
“He stitched you, Winnie.”
I blink. “He stitched me.” I say the words, hoping they make sense, but nope… not clicking. I shake my head. “Who stitched what?”
“Lucky Branson. The Lucky Branson. He stitched your TikTok dating challenge. And not like in a mocking way. In a hot, flirty, take-you-on-a-date way.”
My heart stutters, not because of Lucky Branson. I have no idea who that is, but I’m piqued by the “hot and flirty” nature. I never get that type of response from men and in a million years, I didn’t expect anything from last night’s post.
My natural skepticism shines through. “I’m sure it’s just someone playing with me.”
“No, it’s not,” she insists. She pulls out her phone, thumbs moving at lightning speed. “Watch.”
She holds up the screen and I see me first—my video, my rabbit, my voice from last night.
Then it cuts.
And suddenly, there he is.
Damp, wavy hair and brilliant blue-green eyes.
I can’t see much but his shoulders, and he obviously doesn’t have a shirt on.
Whoa… those are good shoulders decorated with a climbing vine of what looks like four-leaf clovers running up his neck.
He’s staring into the camera with a smile that could bring down empires.
He might be one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen, or maybe I’m just seeing that because everyone seems very excited by this stitch and I’m subconsciously buying into the hype.
“Lucky here—actual name, not just wishful thinking. Challenge accepted. I’m not perfect, but you won’t be sneaking out bathroom windows. I also bring snacks.” He leans closer, smile deepening. “Challenge accepted, Winnie.”
My stomach does a full somersault. My ears buzz. I forget how to breathe. The way he said my name… all deep and grumbly, like he was hungering for something.
No man has ever said my name like that.
I take Kelsey’s phone and watch the video again. His handle is @LuckyBranson69.
Second time watching it, a shiver shimmies up my spine.
He’s so… not normal or average.
Chiseled jaw. Crooked grin. Dimples that should require government approval as they could be a weapon. I’m so busy cataloging his features that I don’t quite understand what he’s actually saying.
“I—” I shake my head, dazed. “I think I blacked out halfway through that.”
Kelsey giggles, clutching my arm like I’ve won the lottery. “Right? I can’t believe this is happening to you. I mean… you so deserve it and I think you two would be a perfect match. So when are you going out with him?”
That penetrates my fog. “Huh?”
“Winnie! That was a date invitation. He’s accepting your challenge.”
I blink, staring at the frozen face of the gorgeous man named Lucky Branson. “You really think so?”
“Babe. He stitched you. That’s TikTok courtship. This is basically a proposal.”
“But why would he—” I stop mid-sentence, wondering at Kelsey’s excitement. Granted, he’s gorgeous, but people seem fixated on his name. As if… he’s famous? “Who the hell is Lucky Branson?”
Kelsey’s eyes flare wide in shock, her mouth forming into a perfect O of censuring surprise. “You seriously don’t know who he is? Lucky Branson. Hockey left-winger and a TikTok sensation.”
“I don’t watch hockey. Or sports, for that matter. And I’ve never seen him before.”
She gasps, hand going to her heart like I’ve personally offended her. “He’s a Pittsburgh Titan. You know… our professional hockey team. He’s, like, fan-favorite, viral hot guy. My sister sends me videos of him talking about his skin care routine in the locker room.”
I stare at her. “He has a skin care routine?”
She looks like I need a good slap to knock me out of my confused state. “Focus, Win. This is huge. You have a professional hockey player who has asked you out on a date.”
My mind swims, my heart pounds. I’m equal parts fascinated and terrified at the prospect. In a million years, I never thought my video would catch the interest of a professional athlete who looks like a god carved from marble.
Eyes locking on to Kelsey, I stammer, “But… but… he’s not exceedingly average. I specifically said I was looking for average. He’s nowhere close to normal.”
Kelsey seems puzzled and then lifts a shoulder. “Well, he plays third line, so I guess that would be considered average by professional hockey standards.”
“I have no clue what that means,” I say, clueless.
My phone buzzes again. Probably another text, another alert, another five hundred strangers dissecting my facial expressions frame by frame.
I feel like I should crawl under a desk. But instead… I need to nip this in the bud so things can return to normal and I can await an average prince.
The final bell rings, indicating that we need to get into our classrooms before the kids revolt and mount a coup. “We’ve gotta go,” I mumble to Kelsey, pulling away and leaving her phone in her hands.
“But you’re going to accept the date, right?” she pleads, clutching it to her chest.
“He’s not average,” I remind her. “He doesn’t make the cut.”
Her last look bestowed upon me says, You’re crazy as hell and I’m embarrassed to call you a friend.
But I don’t have time to second-guess myself. TikTok goes on the back burner and my kindergarten hat is on. I walk into my classroom like I’m not internally combusting.
Even if I totally am.
?
I shove the door open with my hip, juggling my phone, tote bag, keys and a bag of organic dandelion greens I picked up for Buttermilk because he’s spoiled and I live to serve him.
The second I step inside, I’m met with his signature thump from the living room. It’s either a warning or a welcome. Jury’s still out.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I call, kicking off my shoes and setting the greens on the counter. “But I bring tribute.”
I unclip the gate of his pen and he hops out with all the enthusiasm of a pejorative marshmallow. He circles my feet once, then darts for the treat bowl like he’s been starved for a week.
Lies. He had breakfast, second breakfast, and a hay cube.
I plop onto the couch, still wearing my coat, and groan as I watch him devour his dinner like the world’s most passive-aggressive food critic.
“So,” I say, pulling my phone from my coat pocket. “You’ll never guess who stitched me today.”
He pauses his chewing just long enough to give me one of his slow blinks.
“Lucky Branson,” I say, feeling like the name itself is radioactive. “As in the professional hockey player. Verified. Abs for days. Probably sleeps on Egyptian cotton and drinks protein shakes with ingredients I can’t pronounce.”
Buttermilk sits down, a dandelion green sticking out the side of his mouth. He stares at me intently and thumps three times.
“Exactly,” I whisper. “I’m as confused as you are.”
I toss my phone onto the coffee table like it might bite. “And the comments? Absolutely feral. People are tagging their friends, yelling at me to say yes, accusing me of being blind, dumb or in need of medical attention if I pass this up.”
I sigh and sink deeper into the cushions.
“I mean, I get it. He’s hot. Like, magazine-cover hot. And that voice? That smirk? If I had a dollar for every time someone said ‘This is your Roman Empire,’ I could retire from influencing tomorrow.”
Buttermilk hops onto the couch beside me and nibbles the zipper of my coat like I deserve to be punished.
“Oh, don’t worry, I googled him,” I say, grabbing a throw blanket to wrap around my legs. “Played for three teams before the Titans. Has a cult following on TikTok. Once did an underwear ad that I’m pretty sure added three degrees to global warming.”
My rabbit thumps again, back leg smacking my thigh.
“No, I’m not being dramatic. Okay, maybe a little. But tell me what part of that screams average to you? I specifically asked for normal.”
I pull my legs up, resting my chin on my knees. “This has all the makings of a comedy, yes. But also? Disaster. A beautiful, marble-sculpted, viral train wreck disaster.”
Buttermilk stretches out beside me, clearly done with this conversation. His ears flop over and his back leg twitches once like he’s had enough of my spiraling.
“Fine,” I say, reaching for my ring light and tripod from behind the couch. “I’ll be the mature one and respond with grace and clarity.”
He opens one eye.
“Which obviously means sarcasm and a healthy dose of self-preservation.”
After shrugging out of my coat, I set up the tripod, balance the ring stand, and adjust the angle until the lighting is flattering. I run my fingers through my hair, swipe on a little lip balm, and try not to look like I’ve been having an in-depth conversation with a rabbit.
I take a breath. Then another.
“Okay,” I murmur. “Let’s do this.”
I tap record.
The screen splits with Lucky’s TikTok still rolling on the left—his cocky grin, that annoyingly symmetrical face, the glint in his eye when he says, “Challenge accepted.”
I stare into the camera, already regretting everything.
“Okay, besties. Remember how I said I wanted one decent, average guy? Like, someone who drinks regular coffee and forgets where he put his car keys and maybe has mild back pain by thirty?”
I point toward Lucky’s profile. “This is @LuckyBranson69. He’s apparently a professional hockey player.
I googled him. He has the requisite six-pack of an athlete, a verified checkmark, and the face of a man who has definitely been told he’s someone’s Roman Empire.
He’s apparently accepted my dating challenge. ”
Cut to me again, eyes wide.
“Average? He is not. I guarantee he owns a suit tailored to his jawline.” I sigh, slumping into my couch.
“As for accepting my challenge… I mean… I appreciate the offer, I really do. But this is way above my pay grade. I was thinking I would date someone with divorced CPA energy. Not Excuse me, ma’am, your jaw is on the floor energy. ”
I smile softly, biting my lip.
“So, respectfully—and with deep appreciation for the cheekbones—I’m gonna have to pass. I don’t think I’d mesh with anyone that… shiny.” I toss Buttermilk a piece of arugula. “He agrees.”
I stop the recording and add a few hashtags. #OneDecentGuy #AveragePlease #SendCPA
I don’t post it though. I’ll do it tomorrow because I have a scheduled post on the three funniest things my kindergarteners said this week, which I do religiously on Fridays, and I couldn’t possibly deny my followers that level of cuteness.