Chapter 12
Lucky
The gym at the team’s hotel in Dallas is about what you’d expect—rows of treadmills facing a muted television, a rack of mismatched dumbbells, and a pile of damp towels that I’m pretty sure haven’t been rotated out since Tuesday. But it’s quiet, which is what I need.
Just me, the low whir of my stationary bike, and an older man walking slowly on a treadmill.
He didn’t recognize me when I walked in, which isn’t unusual at away games.
Fans tend to know what their own players look like and not the enemy.
At least, not third-line enemies. Sure, Drake, Penn, Stone…
those guys always get recognized no matter what.
That doesn’t bother me in the slightest, and in fact, I just realized… that kind of makes me more normal.
More average.
More acceptable to Winnie’s high standards. Or are they low standards? I’m not clear on that, but I intend to address it on our next date.
I’ve already done weights, stretched and burned through a few miles of cardio. Now I’m killing time, scrolling TikTok like a stalker. Which, let’s be honest, isn’t far off.
Winnie posted a video last night about our breakfast—just her, sitting in her car with sunlight streaming through the windshield. She was smiling like she doesn’t quite trust it, hair a little windblown, eyes soft.
Her caption reads: When the guy who stitched your dating experiment buys you pancakes, listens more than he talks, and makes you laugh until your cheeks hurt.
#BreakfastWithLucky #SecondDateEnergy #StillNotAverage
I grinned like a fool when I watched it and maybe about ten times since.
Something about the way she looks in that video knocks the wind out of me.
No filter, no fancy angles—just her. Her eyes are this ridiculous shade of hazel that catch every bit of light.
And her mouth… God, when she talks, it’s expressive in a way that pulls you in.
The corners lift before she even finishes a thought. It’s not just pretty, it’s disarming.
It makes me want to kiss the fuck out of her and that realization hits me hard. This isn’t just about experimenting and gaining more TikTok fame. I’m attracted to her in a way that I know I’ll never be satisfied with a few dates.
And that hits me square in the gut. This woman, with her smart mouth and soft eyes, is rapidly becoming the only thing I want to keep watching.
I glance through the comments and they’re a mix of support, swooning and some douchey comments.
@BookishBarista: You two are so cute I’m filing a formal complaint with the universe.
@TenureTrackChaos: Is it too soon to ask if Buttermilk approves?
@WafflesOverMen: This is what serotonin looks like.
I heart a few, even reply to one. Then I keep scrolling until another catches my eye.
@RealityCheckRenee: He’s way out of her league and we all know it.
The flare of anger within me burns hot and I have to restrain myself not to blast this person. Winnie didn’t, nor does she ever. I’ve seen the way she handles negativity, and that’s simply to ignore it.
She’s a better person than I am and without thinking about it, I respond: @RealityCheckRenee. You have it backward. She’s way out of mine.
“Fucking morons,” I mutter, and the old man turns around to glare at me. “Sorry.”
I continue the slow pedaling cool-down on the bike, and that’s when I get a new notification that @WinnieTheNotWild has posted.
I immediately tap on it, my heart beat speeding up when I see it’s a post-date debrief from her date with the other guy last night. I have no clue who the person was, where they were going or how it went. I haven’t talked to Winnie since breakfast and part of me doesn’t want to know.
Still, I peer at the screen as Winnie appears. She’s at home in her kitchen, hair pulled into a messy bun, no makeup, glasses on. She looks beautiful, but my stomach knots anyway.
“So, the experiment continues,” she says, as she scoops chocolate ice cream into a bowl, periodically glancing between it and the camera.
“Tonight I went out for a drink with a very sweet guy named Nate.” My chest squeezes slightly that she thinks he’s sweet.
“He’s a fourth grade teacher but at another school, drinks hot tea even in the summer, and has an encyclopedic knowledge of niche board games. Very normal in the best way.”
She smiles. Not the kind she gave me this morning, but it’s still… warm.
“He was thoughtful.” I hate him already. “Walked me to my car, didn’t talk over me, and like a gentleman, picked up the tab even though it was just two iced teas and some hummus.”
I pause the video.
Hummus?
I run a hand through my hair, drop my phone on the seat of the empty bike next to me, and mutter, “Board games and hummus. I’m going to lose her to Jeopardy Night.”
The thing is… I’m not mad. Not really. She told me up front she was going to keep dating.
I encouraged it. But watching her talk about someone else like that—even if it wasn’t with the same energy she had with me—it stings.
Because this guy? He’s normal. Predictable.
Probably has a cat and records his TV shows. He’s everything she claims to want.
And no matter how many pancakes I buy her or how many laughs we share, I’ll never be that.
Still, I pick my phone back up and watch the rest of the video.
She ends it with a laugh. “Will I see him again? Maybe. But the experiment’s not over yet. Stay tuned.”
#NiceGuysFinishDates #TikTokDatingChallenge #NoHummusHate
I stare at the screen a long time after it fades to black. Fucking Nate restored her faith in men? What a tool.
Then, because I’m petty in the exact right way, I open the TikTok camera and hit stitch.
I replay her line: “He was thoughtful. Walked me to my car, didn’t talk over me, and even picked up the check…”
Then I cut in. “Shocking plot twist.” The old man looks at me again, this time curiously and I shoot him a quick wink. “I, too, walked you to your car, listened without interrupting and picked up the tab. But did he make you laugh, Winnie? The way I did? That’s the real question.”
I hit post. No hashtags.
Thirty seconds later, the comments start rolling in:
@ChaosGoblin420: We got ourselves a hummus war, folks.
@ButtermilkForPresident: Dump the teacher. Lucky is the real deal.
@ExistentialSpork: Be still my emotionally starved heart.
I smile despite myself, then hop off the stationary bike. I pick up a clean towel from a shelf and mop my face. Throwing it over my shoulder, I start walking back to my room where I intend to take a long shower and order room service breakfast.
On the way there, I pull up my contacts and hit call.
“Matty!” My mom’s voice comes through, warm and scratchy like always.
“Hey, Ma.”
“You okay? You never call me on game nights unless you’re injured or in love.”
I groan. “Jesus. Why are those your only two categories?”
“Because I know my son,” she replies dryly. “So, which is it?”
I rub a hand down my face as I step into the elevator, which is thankfully empty. “Neither,” I insist.
“Matteo,” she says, her tone warning that if I lie to her, she’s going to lay into me next time I see her.
She waits. My mom is good like that. She lets silence do the heavy lifting.
“There’s this girl,” I say finally.
“Winnie the Not So Wild,” my mom says, and well… of course, she’d know. She knows everything. “I love her channel.”
“Yeah… it’s great content.” The elevator reaches my floor and I get off.
“You like her,” she teases.
“No, I don’t,” I insist out of habit more than anything. I enter my room, letting the door fall shut behind me.
“Matteo,” she says, her voice already loaded with suspicion. “Don’t lie. I can hear your guilty face through the phone.”
I snort as I plop down on the bed, leaning against the headboard. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is. You get all squinty and weird like you’re passing a kidney stone.”
“Wow. Thanks, Ma.”
She waits. Doesn’t press. Lets the silence stretch like she’s got all day and knows I’ll crack.
“Yeah… so she’s got great content.”
And then I lamely go quiet.
“Her rabbit’s a menace,” my mom says in a tone that is meant to prod me into conversation.
“Yeah… Buttermilk is basically a scathing ball of fluff on four legs.” I chuckle. “So you’ve seen the videos?”
“Matty, please. I know everything about my kids and grandkids.”
I laugh. “Of course you do. Well… she’s just—she’s something else. Smart, hilarious, sharp as hell. But this whole dating challenge, trying to find a ‘normal guy…’”
“And you’re the curveball,” she says firmly.
“I’m the extra-credit essay she didn’t ask for.” I glance at the clock on the bedside table. “She says I’m not normal enough.”
“Oh, honey,” she drawls, “you haven’t been normal since you were born with those ocean-colored eyes and eyelashes that make girls swoon. But you are steady. You’re good. You open doors and remember birthdays and say thank you to waitstaff. That counts.”
“Yeah, but she had a date with a guy last night that she apparently found to be refreshingly normal.”
“She also went to breakfast with you and posted about it like she just met her leading man in a movie,” my mom counters. “I’ve seen the way she talks about you in those videos. That girl really likes you.”
“She apparently likes Nate too,” I grumble.
“But he’s not you,” she says, as only a mother can with that pride in her voice. “He can’t hold a candle to you.”
I reach over and grab the room service menu and place it on my lap to flip through it. “You’re saying that because you’re my mom.”
“So sue me,” she teases. “What do you like about her?”
“She’s adorable,” I admit, eyeballing the eggs Benedict but reconciling probably not the best choice on game day. “And it’s fun. Like, genuinely fun. I feel like I’m getting to know someone worth getting to know and that’s not happened to me before.”
“Then stop worrying about what box you fit in. You’re not average, but you’re not a circus act either. You’re Lucky. And if she doesn’t see how rare that is, then she’s not as smart as I thought.”
I grin, because honestly, I don’t need advice—I just wanted to talk to someone who gets it.
“Thanks, Ma.”
“Text me when you kiss her,” she says. “Not a selfie. I’m not a creep. Just confirmation. And maybe an ETA on grandkids.”
“Bye, Ma.”
“I’m just saying, Matteo, that girl’s got future daughter-in-law potential.”
I let that settle and I’m not as wigged out by that as I should be.
“Bye, Ma.” I don’t bother addressing the potential wife thing.
“You call me after the game,” she orders. “Unless you break something. Then call the trainer first and me second.”
“Deal.”
“I’ll be watching. Good luck and I love you.”
“Love you too.”
We hang up and I stare at my phone for a while. My thumb hovers over Winnie’s name in my messages.
But I don’t type anything.
Not now.
I’ll wait.
Let her mull over her experiment. Let her test the waters and see what’s out there.
Because I know what I bring to the table. And when she’s ready?
She’ll know too.