Chapter 9
Winnie
The energy inside the arena is… a lot.
I expected noise. I expected overpriced nachos and a sea of Titans’ jerseys. What I didn’t expect was the feeling that hits me when Lucky Branson skates onto the ice for the Titans’ warm-up.
Kelsey nudges me hard with her elbow. “There he is. Mr. Not Average himself.”
I follow her gaze and spot him instantly—dark jersey, #27, moving across the ice with a power that makes it hard to look away.
His stride is confident, effortless, like the rink is an extension of his body.
The crowd screams with approval as he drops a puck over the glass to a little Titans fan on the other side.
I try not to, but I can’t help smiling a little.
What I really want to do is stand up and scream, “I know him. I’ve had a date with him,” but that would only point out the fact that this world is foreign to me.
In my mind, an average guy is steady and reliable. A not-average guy—one like Lucky—has no reason to be steady and reliable. Ergo, he’s not the one for me.
Except even entertaining that thought makes my heart sink a little because no matter if he’s a professional athlete or stock boy at the grocery store, I learned enough about him last night to know he’s simply a good man.
That’s the draw right now. He seems genuine—both in word and action—and I can’t discount the reality of that. I also keep reminding myself… I may only think I’m good enough for average, but I deserve so much more, and here this guy wants to offer it to me with a second date.
“Lucky seems like a really good player,” I say, trying to come up with something that sounds semi-intelligent about the sport. I have never watched a hockey game in my life and I know nothing about it.
This was a fact that Lucky found hilarious last night. To my surprise, he didn’t attempt to teach me about it. In fact, I think he decidedly kept talk of his career away from us, not wanting to draw attention to the one thing that I think might make us incompatible.
Kelsey snorts. “Oh, Winnie… you’re adorable in your ignorance. He’s not just good. He’s poetry with a slap shot.”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t argue, because I don’t know what a slap shot is. Kelsey is a hard-core hockey fan so I expect she’ll teach me a lot during this game.
?
I learn that there are three periods, not four quarters as I had assumed—I know a little about football since my brothers played in high school.
The first period moves fast. My eyes cut back and forth between the clock winding down with only two minutes left and the on-ice action.
I also learn there are three player shifts that rotate on and off the ice, and while all the guys seem quite accomplished, it’s my (biased) opinion that Lucky’s the best. His shift is currently out there, and I basically hold my breath the entire time, although it comes out in a short burst each time he touches the puck.
He glides like it’s his natural habitat.
Nothing but power and grace in a way that feels unfair to all men in the universe.
And then, something happens—I mean, a lot of somethings happen, very fast—but it starts when Lucky steals the puck from a guy who was skating toward our end like he meant business.
There’s a loud crack when their sticks hit and then Lucky is racing the other direction like he has rocket boosters strapped to his skates.
The crowd roars. I think someone behind me yells his name, but it’s hard to tell over the pounding in my ears.
He’s weaving past guys like they’re cones in a parking lot—one, two, three of them—and then at the very last second, he flicks the puck sideways with this magical wrist motion.
It slides across the ice like it’s got GPS, and one of his teammates with the name Turner on the back taps it in like he’s done it a hundred times before.
The red light flashes. Horns blare. People leap to their feet like they’ve just won the lottery.
I’m up too, clapping like a lunatic and half laughing because I have no idea what I just saw—but I know it was impressive. I shout over the roar of the crowd to Kelsey, “Did he score or… did the other guy score?”
She’s grinning so wide her cheeks might crack and then she hugs me. “Lucky got the assist.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he gets a point for setting up that goal. That pass was insane.”
“That goal wouldn’t have happened without it,” I exclaim proudly.
We grab each other’s shoulders and jump up and down screaming, the adrenaline shooting through my veins.
I glance back toward the ice where Lucky is grinning, helmet pushed up slightly, gliding toward the bench like it’s no big deal. Like he didn’t just pull off something that made an entire arena lose its collective mind.
And yeah… okay. I’m glad he’s not average.
Just before he hops over the low wall, he glances up where Kelsey and I are sitting. His eyes scan quickly, pass over me and then slam right back.
Kelsey murmurs, “Oh my,” and I can’t help but stare back at him. It’s brief—half a second—but I feel it. That zing of awareness. That feeling of being seen. I smile at him. He returns it and my pulse skips. Then he’s on the bench, back to me and talking to a teammate.
Even without his eyes on me, my pulse still thrums, and I can only think, This is such a mistake.
The way he moves, the way people cheer for him, the way he commands every inch of space he inhabits… Lucky Branson is bigger than life and that intimidates me.
The rest of the game is an absolute blur.
I’m not sure if it’s the fact I know Lucky or the fast-paced action that holds my attention, but when the final buzzer sounds, I have become a diehard Titans fan.
I make plans to get a jersey, maybe a hat, and I will definitely figure out how to watch the games on TV.
Kelsey and I stand in our seats cheering the Titans’ win and I watch as Lucky skates off into the tunnel and disappears. Admittedly, I’m a bit sad, but I push it away to cheer for the MVPs announced.
Then Kelsey and I start the slow journey out of the arena as thousands of fans shuffle along. We’re barely up onto the concourse when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out and see it’s a text from Lucky. Any interest in hanging out with me and the team for a bit? Bring your friend.
I stop right in the middle of the stream of fans and grab Kelsey’s wrist, pulling her to the side so we don’t get trampled.
“What is it?” she asks.
I hold out the phone. “Lucky invited us to hang with the team tonight.”
Kelsey’s eyes light up. “Oh, hell yes, we’re doing that. Ask him when and where.”
While her enthusiasm is contagious, and I realize this is probably a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I dig deep for a gut check. “I need to think about it,” I murmur.
“What’s to think about?” Kelsey exclaims. “We’re talking about hanging out with the Pittsburgh Titans hockey team.”
“I know, I know,” I say, waving my hand to shush her. “Just give me a minute.”
And surprisingly, she does. She crosses her arms and stares at me pointedly like there’s only one possible answer to my dilemma and that I shouldn’t be thinking about this. Eerily, her gaze looks a lot like Buttermilk’s when he’s judging me.
“Come on,” Kelsey whines, having abandoned patience after only five seconds. She squirms and hops around like she has to pee.
“Leave me alone,” I grumble as I close my eyes and press my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “I’m stuck in a spiral of existential doubt.”
“Oh my God… it’s you!” a woman practically shrieks as she grabs my arm and my eyes snap open. “You’re Winnie. From TikTok.”
I stare at her like a deer catching a full face of high beams. My mouth opens but nothing comes out.
Kelsey steps in and nods. “She is. Winnie. TikTok Winnie.”
That was redundant.
“Oh my heavens,” the woman says, eyes wide. “You and Lucky were so cute in that video. Are you guys dating?”
“Not really,” I say with a polite smile. “It was just a date.”
“But he wants to go out with her again,” Kelsey says as she leans in, cutting me a pointed look. “Tonight, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” the woman gushes. “Well, good luck. I’m rooting for you. You’re the hope of all us average women.”
I internally wince because yes, that is me, but I don’t want to be anybody’s hero, especially not over this dating experiment.
The woman leaves and Kelsey drapes her arm over my shoulders. “You’re basically the Bachelorette now. Hope you brought a rose.”
I laugh, but the tightness in my chest doesn’t ease.
Because this? All of this? It’s exactly why I started this experiment. Because real dating felt impossible. Because it was too easy to fall for a smile or a pair of nice shoulders and lose myself in the idea of something instead of the reality of it.
And the reality is… Lucky is not normal. Not simple. Not safe.
Kelsey looks at me with such hope in those pretty eyes. “Are we going?”
I stare at Lucky’s text and think of all the reasons I should say yes. I then think of the reasons I shouldn’t. Because if I say yes tonight, I might not stop saying yes and this was never designed for me to find a serious relationship.
I shake my head with an apologetic smile at Kelsey. “Not tonight. It doesn’t feel right.”
I type out a quick text while ignoring the heavy look of disappointment I’m getting from my friend. I think I’m going to sit this one out. It’s a little too not-average for me tonight.
Even as I hit send, I wonder if I’ve just ended this experiment with Lucky.
It’s a clear message that I’m not all that interested in the total package.
My throat tightens because while my brain says I’m doing the right thing, my heart is telling me something different.
Part of me is actually sad that this might be it and I already start to mourn what could have been.
Lucky’s reply comes through quickly and my pulse skitters. Understood. But I’m not giving up. We still have that second date you promised me.
A smile breaks out on my face. He’s not giving up! I glance at Kelsey, show her the text and even though she’s disappointed to not hang out with the Titans, she gives a little squeal of delight.
“He’s not giving up,” I whisper to myself, slipping my phone back into my bag.