Chapter 6
Winnie
I arrive at school a full fifteen minutes early, which might be a sign of the apocalypse.
The sky is that washed-out gray that always seems to hover over Pittsburgh for most of March.
The color and dampness produce a moody feeling, like it can’t decide if it wants to rain or simply inconvenience everyone with a steady mist. My windshield wipers give a lazy swipe as I pull into the small staff lot behind the school, tires crunching over leftover grit from last week’s snow.
Across the lot, the main drop-off loop is busy with minivan and SUV doors flinging open, backpacks half-zipped, tiny humans darting out with jackets flapping and sneakers untied.
I can’t help but grin at the chaos of it all and while it can be just…
a lot… that right there epitomizes why I love teaching five-year-olds.
Parents shout reminders about lunch boxes and I spot Mr. Martin from third grade already intercepting a rogue dodgeball that escaped the playground.
Bloomfield Elementary isn’t exactly Pinterest-worthy.
The brick exterior is faded, the flower beds are dormant and filled with last fall’s forgotten mulch, and the playground fence leans slightly like the kids take a battering ram to it at recess.
But it’s ours. Warm, lived-in, and full of crayon-scented memories.
And today, for once, I’m early enough to witness it coming to life.
I’ve got my coffee, my tote bag full of construction paper for a new art project, and a mental checklist running at high speed.
Bulletin board refresh. Counting bears inventory.
Find out who keeps putting googly eyes on the math manipulatives and rather than chastise, I intend to praise their creativity.
And maybe—just maybe—try not to obsess over the fact that a professional hockey player made two TikToks about me this week.
Last night, I saw his stitch come through.
I didn’t need my friends texting me that they saw it, because despite the fact I turned him down, I’d been wondering if he’d give up.
I expected him to, because why would a man like that want to waste time on my social experiment?
He has nothing to prove, which led me down darker paths.
Maybe he’s using me as a joke. Maybe he’s going to turn this into some sort of fodder for his own TikTok channel. The idea of it makes me queasy and the more I think about it, the more I have to consider that’s exactly what’s going on.
I mean… his stitch wasn’t much of anything.
“I can be average. And I think you’re seriously discounting the value of snacks. I bet I can change your mind.”
I have no clue if that was a rebuke to me to not be so short-sighted or perhaps it was a promise he’d show me just that. It’s been playing on a loop in my brain like a cursed earworm.
With his smirk. That ridiculous face. The unreasonably charming delivery like he was already imagining us on a picnic blanket sharing Doritos and childhood embarrassments.
When I woke up this morning, I told myself I wouldn’t watch it anymore.
But I’m weak willed and watched it three times while Buttermilk stared at me disapprovingly. I avoided his gaze that said Girl… you are being stupid.
The comments didn’t help my resolve. My followers and those who don’t even follow me were resoundingly in favor of me going out with him.
Sure, there was the occasional nasty comment that he was way out of my league, but I ignored those.
I learned early on if you put yourself out there in the public realm, you must grow a thick skin.
Besides… they’re not wrong. He’s totally out of my league.
In an effort to push the idea of Lucky Branson away, I did go through a variety of other stitches that came in from men who wanted a date. While very cute, they were all incredibly average in their stitches and I DM’d two of them that I thought had potential to at least meet up for coffee.
I head across the teacher parking lot, my brain filled with a wild jumble of kindergarten and hot athletes.
Now, I don’t believe in manifestation or serendipity, but I have an almost out-of-body experience when a large man steps out from behind a beat-up Toyota Corolla with a dented fender and a No thoughts, just vibes bumper sticker.
Said large man is instantly recognizable as Lucky Branson and I resist rubbing my eyes because I think I might be seeing things.
He’s wearing worn jeans, a hoodie with frayed cuffs and sneakers that have clearly seen things better left unmentioned.
There’s no posh millionaire athlete standing before me.
His hair’s unstyled, he’s wearing wire-rimmed glasses, and he’s holding a brown paper bag that looks suspiciously like it contains a bologna sandwich and a pack of Fruit Gushers.
I freeze, my hand fluttering near my throat. “Oh my God.”
“Hey,” he says, smiling like we bump into each other in school parking lots all the time. “Hope this isn’t creepy.”
I just stare at him. “You’re outside my workplace.”
“So… bordering on creepy.” He tilts his head, grimaces. “Fair.”
There’s something about that move, the tone, that weirdly puts me at ease. “What are you doing here?”
“Showing you how aggressively average I can be.” He holds up the brown bag. “I brought snacks.”
I stare at him, my eyes cutting to the car in confusion. “You drove a Corolla to my school.”
“Astute observation,” he commends.
“It’s so very… average.” I cock a well-warranted eyebrow. “And it seems staged.”
“Busted. I borrowed it from our equipment manager’s son,” he says proudly. “Also this hoodie, which smells like Axe body spray. Trying too hard?”
I blink.
Lucky shifts his weight like he’s suddenly not sure if this was a good idea, and I find that so relatable. I feel like that all the time, but I also don’t let it deter me.
I seriously doubt it would deter him either.
“Look, I know this is weird, and I probably should’ve just sent another video, but I figured—why not make my case in person?”
“Your case?”
“That you should go out with me.”
“Wait a minute,” I say, holding up a hand. “How did you find me? That’s a bit stalkerish.”
Lucky’s chin pulls inward, his eyebrows furrowed as if I just said something stupid. “You say where you work in your TikToks. You have several videos on being a teacher.”
“Okay, not so stalkerish,” I admit. I did put that info out there because a lot of my content has funny stories about my kids.
“I’ve watched all your videos,” he says.
“That’s totally stalkerish,” I accuse with a pointed finger, but I’ll never admit… I’m a little flattered. But my eyes land on a black cord hanging low on his neck, edging the collarbone. “Is that… a rabbit’s foot hanging from your necklace?”
Lucky winces, absently rubs at it. “Oh, yeah… wow. I watched a lot of your videos and you have a rabbit. That must seem insensitive.”
“Not to me,” I say drolly. “But Buttermilk would probably be offended. Really, why are you here?”
“Like I said… to get you to change your mind. Go on a date with me. And I’m thinking you’ll say yes since you just implied I’ll meet Buttermilk.”
I huff out a frustrated breath, glancing over at the kids and then back to him. “It would be a waste of time. I’m totally not your type.”
That seems to catch him off guard. “Not my type?”
I nod, waving my hand at him. “You’re you. Verified. Viral. Made of jawlines, chiseled abs and offshore accounts to hide your wealth. Why go to this much trouble for someone who’s merely average? You should be dating a supermodel or a pop star or something.”
He takes a beat before answering, eyes steady on mine. “Because I don’t think you’re average at all.”
I go still, my eyes locked on him suspiciously. That sounded genuine, but… no. No way he thinks that. This has to be a joke. He’s doing something so he can make a TikTok about it later to get views.
Lucky steps closer, the early-morning light catching the faint hint of stubble on his jaw.
“Listen… WinnieTheNotWild… you’re smart and funny and I think your best friend might be a rabbit, which is as far from average as you can get.
You record videos in messy rooms and don’t apologize for it.
You talk about things people are afraid to say out loud and somehow make it feel like a hug.
That’s also not average. That’s kind of extraordinary. ”
My breath catches. God, he sounds so authentic that it hurts my heart. No man has ever said such kind things about who I am at my core.
“And yeah, I’m not technically average either,” he adds, holding up the bag.
“But I think the fact I bring snacks has got to make up for that. I do forget where I put my keys. I once cried during a Pixar movie. And my family isn’t perfect either.
My mom raised me alone. My dad skipped out before I was born.
I’ve had to figure a lot out on my own. Maybe that’s not what you meant when you said average, but I promise I’m not as shiny as you think. ”
I press a hand to my stomach because it’s fluttering again. Why the hell is he doing this to me?
Lucky shrugs, sheepish. “So I figured, what’s the harm in asking you to give me one shot? One date. As part of your experiment. If we’re a disaster, you’ll at least have new content.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, all my skepticism about this man’s intentions evaporating.
I might be a magnet for awful dates, but I am a good judge of character.
This guy seems to have it, and besides… I stalked his content as much as he did mine.
His good-guy, happy-go-lucky persona doesn’t put on airs.
I also read articles about him, watched video interviews.
He’s consistently Lucky Branson if you peel away the whole professional hockey player gig.
He grins. “Was that a yes laugh or a ‘Please call security’ laugh?”
I sigh, grabbing the strap of my cross-body bag with both hands. “More like a ‘What the hell is happening’ laugh.”
Lucky lifts the paper bag again. “There’s a pudding cup in here.”
I groan. “What flavor?”
“Butterscotch.”
“Shit,” I mutter. It’s my favorite. I know I’ve eaten several on my TikToks.
“And a juice box.”
I’ve definitely had my share of those. “You’re really going for it, huh?”
He shrugs. “I believe in commitment.”
I study him for a long moment and consider my options. The way he’s standing there, smiling, patient, a little hopeful, I realize… I kind of hate how charming he is. I also kind of don’t.
Even though I think he’s a genuinely nice guy, there’s no way we can be a match. However, he would provide a nice control data point in my experiment. I decide to throw caution to the wind.
“Fine,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “One date.”
He brightens.
“But if you show up with a charcuterie board and call it snacks, I swear to God—”
He throws up both hands. “I promise. No meat folded like roses. Where should I pick you up? I’m thinking seven o’clock.”
I shake my head adamantly. “Sorry… I don’t share my home address with a first date. You could be a murderer or something.”
“I’m a public figure,” he exclaims with a lopsided grin. “I’ve announced to the world I’m seeking a date with you. If you end up dead tonight, I will be the prime suspect and I’m not willing to put my career at risk just to satisfy my murderous desires.”
I squint at him, holding back a smirk. “Have you ever killed before?”
He holds up the scout’s honor sign and shakes his head. “Cross my heart.”
I stare at him another second, then start a backward walk toward the school doors. “I’ll DM you my number. Text me later and we’ll discuss when and where the date will start.”
“You got it, Ms. NotSoWild.”
“It’s Shaw,” I say as I turn away from him.
“Winnie Shaw,” he says, as if tasting the sound of it on his tongue. “I like that.”
I don’t turn back, but I hear him behind me, humming what suspiciously sounds like a victory song. I can’t help the smile that comes to my lips, but I’m not about to let him know he amuses me more than anyone ever has before.