Chapter 7 #2
I nod. “Nonna started calling me her piccolo fortunato—her ‘little lucky one.’ Said I must’ve tricked fate into blessing instead of cursing me.
And after that, everyone called me Lucky.
I never really stopped being lucky. It really stuck in hockey, though.
My career has been everything I could want and more. ”
“Yeah, but I’m thinking that’s more talent and hard work than luck,” she observes and doesn’t wait for me to confirm. “What do you want me to call you?”
I lift a shoulder. “Doesn’t really matter to me. What do you like?”
She thinks about it, eyes flicking briefly to my four-leaf clover tat. “I like Lucky. It fits your personality.”
“Well, there you go.” I grin at her. “What about your family?”
She laughs as if what she’s about to say will be good material for a stand-up routine. “I’ve got the full sitcom setup. Mom, dad, two brothers, family dinners every Sunday. It’s chaotic but good.”
“Sounds nice. That’s something we obviously have in common—we believe family is important.”
“It is,” she says, then smirks. “Although my brother once ate a whole tub of frosting and puked in my shoes, so…”
“Sibling love,” I say solemnly. “Unmatched.”
She giggles and I catch myself watching her again. She’s funny and bright and sharp as hell. And yeah, I want to go out on another date with her.
But I don’t say that. Not yet.
I drive us to the bowling alley, and we trade our shoes for hideous lace-up rentals.
Thankfully, the place is kind of dead, but then again, it is a Thursday night.
A few people recognize me by the way they whisper when we walk by, but they keep their distance.
I’m grateful for that because I want to be an average dude with Winnie tonight and there’s nothing that dispels normalcy quicker than having fans rush you for autographs and pictures.
I teach her how to hold the tiny candlepin ball, but she insists on “granny bowling.”
“That form won’t do you any favors,” I explain.
She releases the ball with a two-handed shove between her legs and manages a strike.
My jaw drops.
“Now you’re just showing off,” I tell her as she pumps her fists like she’s won Olympic gold.
“I peaked,” she says solemnly. “It’s all downhill from here.”
We bowl three full games. She wins two, I win one, and my ego is only a little bruised.
By the time we’re back in the Tahoe and headed for her house, I know without a doubt this was one of the best dates I’ve ever been on.
Granted, most of my dates start with the sole intention of ending up in the woman’s bed, but none of them compare to tonight.
I don’t know that I’ve laughed as hard as I have with her.
She’s lightning fast on her snarky responses and her humor is dry as a bone, which is just my type, but she’s also wicked smart.
I kept looking for this “average” vibe she thinks she has going, but by the end of the night, I am only more attracted to her.
The drive to her house is nonstop conversation. I pull up in front and she hops out, meeting me at the side. Without asking, I take her hand and tuck it into the crook of my arm, same position as when we walked out.
She chuckles and gives me an affectionate squeeze.
Once on her porch, she pulls her phone from her purse and asks, “Ready to TikTok?”
I hold out my arms and give her a sly grin. “When am I not ready to TikTok?”
Winnie balances her phone against a small plant stand on the porch rail. The light by the door casts a soft glow as she adjusts the angle. “Okay. One take. No filters. Just vibes.”
“Should we rehearse?” I ask, loitering at the top of the steps.
She snorts. “Guys got jokes. You’re the king of spontaneity. I expect you to show it.”
I clap, straighten and move close to her side. “Let’s do this.”
Winnie hits record and we both stare into the camera. Then she turns to me and s, “You really drove a black, tricked-out Tahoe and tried to convince me you’re average.”
I hold up a finger. “It’s not a Ferrari. Or a Lambo. By professional athlete standards, I’m practically a broke substitute teacher.”
She makes a face. “You wore designer sneakers and opened my door like it was a Met Gala arrival.”
“But I brought car snacks,” I shoot back. “That’s commitment.”
Winnie grins, glancing at the camera. “For the record, this is date number one in my Find One Decent Guy challenge.”
“Hi.” I wave. “I’m the not-so-average curveball, but I knocked it out of the park.”
She squints at me. “Still undecided on whether you count.”
“Brutal.”
She turns back to the phone. “Anyway, the date was… surprisingly fun.”
I nod, drape my arm over her shoulders in an easy, affectionate way. I wait for her to stiffen, but she doesn’t. “She didn’t walk out on me even after I admitted I own matching luggage and know my Myers-Briggs type.”
“ENTP,” she tells the camera with mock seriousness.
“Serial killer,” I confirm, drolly.
“But seriously… we had a lot of fun, and I want to thank Lucky for a great evening. I didn’t once think about absconding out the bathroom window.”
“I had a great time too,” I say. “Any man who says Winnie is refreshingly average deserves to be banned from dating—and probably slapped by someone’s grandma.”
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” Winnie says, pulling away from me and offering a curtsy.
I give a flourishing bow. “Of course, my lady.”
When I straighten, Winnie reaches for the phone to turn off the recording, but I stop her cold when I ask, “When can we go out again?”
She freezes, hand outstretched, and slowly turns her head my way. “Go out again?”
“Yeah… it’s clear we both had a great time. So why not?”
Her gaze cuts between me and the camera. “Well, because… this is an experiment and I have to compare data, which means I have to date other guys. I wasn’t planning on doing a second date with anyone. This whole thing was meant to be kind of lighthearted.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re going to date other guys?”
She nods. “I think I should. For the data.”
“Ah, the heartbreak of science.” I turn to the camera, wink at the audience, and then pin her with my most smoldering look. “I think it’s short-sighted not to consider a second date.”
That catches her off guard. She blinks. “You do?”
“I think we had fun. And yeah, I’m not average. But neither are you.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m so average and you’re a hockey god.”
“That’s true. I am a hockey god. But you talk to a rabbit on camera, drink three kinds of tea before noon, and got recognized in a grocery store for a video about your failed Hinge date with Ghost Emoji Guy. You’re not average. You’re electric.”
She turns back to the camera. “He used the word electric. You guys heard that, right?”
“Tell me I’m wrong,” I challenge.
She doesn’t. Just smiles at me in that way that feels like maybe I’ve won something.
Then she looks at the camera one last time. “So, yeah. One date down. Many left to go. This one? Not terrible.”
Then she stops the recording and shoves her phone into her purse. “You ambushed me,” she accuses, but there’s no heat to it. In fact, those very full lips twitch as she tries to hold back a smile.
“Yes, I did.” I nod solemnly. “Also, I accept my not-terrible status with honor. And kindly repeat my request for another date.”
She tilts her head, lips puckered with curiosity. “You really think I’m electric?”
“Statistically, yes. Emotionally? Maybe.”
She smiles again—small, but real—and turns for her door. “Good night, Lucky Branson.”
“When can we go out again?” I press.
“Good night, Lucky,” she repeats, sliding her key in the lock.
I reach out, grab her wrist and give it a gentle tug so she turns to face me. She lets out a small gasp of surprise.
“I didn’t get a good-night kiss,” I say, reeling her in closer.
“Oh, but… you… I’m not sure…”
Her stammering is adorable and I ignore every bit of it. Putting my hand behind her neck, I bend and brush my lips across hers, feeling victorious when she sighs in a melting sort of way.
When I pull back, I squeeze her neck and ask one more time, “Will you go out with me again?”
Her eyes are half open, glassy, but she nods. “Yeah… okay.”
Grinning, I draw away from her. “Good night, Winnie Shaw.”
She mumbles something and disappears inside.
I walk back to the Tahoe smiling like a lunatic.