7. Breck
7
Breck
I feel like a fucking teenager with their first crush. I’m ready to slap myself over this shit. But, at the same time, I’m not giving up. I want this girl. I want her bad . More than I’m willing to admit.
I watch Del go—from where I’m definitely not hiding—with my treats in hand. I watch Greer as she adjusts the laces on her skates and slowly makes her way over to where I’m now standing. I try to act cool, but my hands are sweating inside my gloves.
"Hey," I call out, wincing at how my voice cracks. Smooth, Breck. Real smooth.
Greer looks up, a small smile playing at her lips. "Hey yourself, hockey boy. Ready for another day of stumbling around?"
I laugh, the tension easing a bit. "You know it. I live to embarrass myself in front of pretty girls."
Oh crap. Did I just say that out loud?
But Greer just rolls her eyes. "Speaking of pretty girls," she says, pulling out her phone, "I texted you Del's number."
My brain short-circuits. "You... what?"
"She wants the recipe. I got you the in," Greer explains, tapping something on her screen. My phone buzzes in my pocket. "The rest is up to you, Romeo."
“What?!” I blurt out before I can stop myself. My voice comes out way too high-pitched, but I couldn’t care less. “Wait—wait, hold on. You’re serious, right? You’re actually sending me her number?!”
Greer gives me a side-eye, clearly amused at my overreaction. “Yeah, Monroe. I’m sending you her number. Try to act cool about it, alright?”
Cool? Yeah, right. Like I could be anything but a complete mess right now. My fingers start twitching, and I resist the urge to start pacing in circles like some kind of nervous wreck. Instead, I fumble to grab my phone, nearly dropping it on the ice in my excitement. There it is—a new contact. Delaney Quinn. My thumb hovers over it, my mind racing with possibilities.
"This is... you're amazing, Greer! I could kiss you!" The words tumble out before I can stop them.
Greer raises an eyebrow. "Save it for Del, lover boy. Don’t make me regret this."
I nod, grinning so wide my face hurts. As I step onto the ice, I feel like I could fly. Del's number is burning a hole in my pocket, and suddenly, the final day of power skating doesn’t seem so daunting anymore. I've got a shot with the girl of my dreams, and right now, I feel invincible.
??????
I'm sprawled on my bed, phone held above my face like it's some kind of ticking bomb. Del's contact info glows on the screen, taunting me. I've been staring at it for what feels like hours, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard, paralyzed.
"Just text her already," I mutter to myself, then groan. "Fuck, why is this so hard?"
I roll onto my stomach, burying my face in my pillow. My mind races, replaying every fumbling, embarrassing moment of our first encounter.
“ Hi Del, it's Breck. The guy who accidentally suggested he drugged your water. Wanna grab coffee? " I mimic in a mocking tone, then snort. "Yeah, real smooth, Monroe."
I push myself up, flopping onto my back again. The ceiling fan whirs lazily above me, its steady rhythm doing nothing to calm my nerves. I tap my phone against my forehead, willing the perfect words to materialize.
"Come on, brain. Work with me here. You can recite every stat from the last three seasons, but you can't string together a simple text?"
I unlock my phone again, determination setting in. This is my shot. My do-over. I can't blow it.
"Okay, Breck. You've got this. Be cool. Be charming. Be... anything but the disaster you were last time."
I take a deep breath, fingers poised over the keyboard. It's now or never.
A sharp knock on my door jolts me out of my spiral. Before I can respond, Jett barges in, his broad frame filling the doorway. Cross trails behind him, looking sheepish.
"Dude, what's with the hermit act?" Jett demands. "We've got a Mario Kart tournament going downstairs."
I quickly flip my phone face-down, but it's too late. Jett's eyes narrow, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
"Oh ho, what do we have here?" He snatches my phone before I can react. "Breck's got a girl on the brain!"
"Hey, give that back!" I lunge for it, but Jett dances away, tossing the phone to Cross.
Cross catches it awkwardly, his freckled face flushing. "Maybe we should just—"
"Let me guess," Jett interrupts, stroking his scruff thoughtfully. "It's that figure skater, right? The one you’ve totally not been stalking?"
I feel my cheeks burning. "It's not like that," I mutter, knowing full well it's exactly like that.
Cross pipes up, his voice gentle. "Come on, Jett. Don't give him such a hard time."
Jett ignores him, his eyes gleaming. "Oh man, you should see your face right now. You've got it bad, Monroe."
I groan, flopping back onto my bed. "Is it that obvious?"
"Dude, a blind man could see it," Jett laughs. "You've been moping up here for hours. What's the hold-up? Just text her already."
"It's not that simple," I protest, running a hand through my hair. "I need to get this right. After the way I embarrassed myself in front of her..."
Cross perches on the edge of my bed, his expression sympathetic. "Hey, it couldn't have been that bad."
I shoot him a look. "I may have technically suggested that I drugged her water"
Tyson whistles from the doorway, where he’s leaning against the frame. "Damn, that's rough. But come on, you're Breck Monroe. Where's that famous charm I’ve heard so much about?"
I sit up, frustration bubbling over. "That's just it! I can't seem to find the right words. Everything I come up with sounds stupid or cheesy or—"
"Whoa, slow down there, dude," Tyson interrupts, holding up his hands. "You're overthinking this. Want some advice from the master?"
I eye him skeptically. "The master?"
I don’t know him that well yet. I mean, I’ve seen him play enough times to know he’s good in the net—damn good. But off the ice? I don’t know him like that. We’ve only ever been opponents, locked in heated rivalries, trying to rip each other's throats out on the rink. He only transferred to Hawthorne this year, so I haven’t had much chance to really get to know him.
But…never once have I seen him with a girl, and if he’s really the "master" of whatever he’s about to advise me on, I’ll eat my skate.
Still, I can’t help but wonder if he knows something I don’t. He certainly acts like he does.
I stare down at my phone, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. My heart's pounding like I'm about to take a penalty shot in overtime.
"Just be yourself," Cross's words echo in my head. Easy for him to say. Myself can’t even figure out how to start a damn text.
Tyson seems to sense my hesitation. He shrugs like this is the easiest thing in the world, then leans in a little closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to reveal a secret.
"Here’s the thing, man. You can overthink it all you want, but the best way to do this is to keep it simple. Don’t try to be some perfect version of yourself. If you wanna make an impression, just be genuine. Girls can spot bullshit a mile away. You don’t need fancy words. Just... say what you feel. And if she doesn’t like it? Well, move on. Plenty more fish in the sea, right?"
He pauses for a beat, then adds with a smirk, "But, hey, it wouldn’t hurt to throw in a little charm. Works for me."
I type out a message, delete it. Type another, delete that too. Why is this so freaking hard? I'm usually smooth as butter on the ice, but right now I feel like I've got two left skates.
"Screw it," I mutter, and start typing again. My fingers move faster than my brain, and before I know it, I've sent:
Hey Del! It's Breck (aka the guy who swears he didn’t drug your water bottle). Sorry again about the misunderstanding—and everything else. Anyway, hope the treats helped soften the blow! Anyway, Greer mentioned you might want the recipe. Let me know ??
As soon as I hit send, panic floods my system. "Oh shit," I breathe, staring at the screen in horror. "What did I just do?"
I toss the phone onto my bed like it's suddenly turned into a live grenade. My palms are sweaty. I feel like I can’t breathe—am I breathing?
"It's fine," I tell myself, pacing the room. "It's totally cool. She probably won't even—"
My phone buzzes.
I lunge for it, nearly face-planting again in my haste. With shaking hands, I unlock the screen and read:
Hey Breck! It’s Del (aka your favorite water bottle recipient). No worries about the whole 'not-drugging-my-water' thing—you had me laughing. But seriously, those treats? Absolute game-changers. I NEED the recipe. Are they a family secret? Do I need to bribe you for it?
A grin splits my face so wide it almost hurts. I pump my fist in the air, barely resisting the urge to shout. "Yes!" I whisper-yell instead, mindful of my teammates downstairs.
I flop back onto my bed, phone clutched to my chest, feeling like I just scored the game-winning goal. Del responded. To me. Breck Monroe, disaster on legs.
Maybe I'm not such a lost cause after all.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart as I type out a reply:
Hey, thanks! Glad the treats scored high marks. I do guard my recipes like a goalie, but I might know a way around that... How do you feel about baking lessons?
"You're really going with that?" Jett asks, leaning over my shoulder before I can hit send.
I twist away, holding the phone out of his reach. "You got a better idea?"
Jett grins. "Yeah. Say something cool. Like, 'I’ll show you my baking skills if you show me some off-ice moves.'"
Cross sighs. "That’s terrible."
"Terrible? That’s gold!" Jett protests.
"Guys," I say, exasperated. "Do you mind? This is hard enough without the peanut gallery."
"Hey, we’re just trying to help," Jett says, holding his hands up. "But fine, do your thing, Romeo."
I hit send before I can second-guess myself again, ignoring Jett's laughter. Tyson, still lounging against the doorframe, gives me a small thumbs-up.
A buzz from my phone has me scrambling to check the screen.
Baking lessons? Bold move, Monroe. But I might be game—if only to see if you live up to the hype. Let me think about it, okay?
I grin like an idiot, rereading the message twice. "She didn’t shoot me down," I say aloud, half to myself.
"Not bad," Cross says, giving me a nod of approval.
"Not bad?" Jett repeats. "She’s totally into it! Look at him—Breck’s practically glowing."
"Shut up," I mutter, though I can’t stop the grin spreading across my face.
Tyson smirks. "So, what’s the plan? You gonna wait around for her to decide, or are you gonna follow up with some smooth moves?"
I groan, flopping back onto my bed. "Can I just enjoy this small win before you guys ruin it?”
"Small win?" Jett scoffs. "Bro, this is huge. You’ve got her on the hook. Now you just gotta reel her in."
Cross pats my shoulder. "Ignore him. Just take it slow and let her set the pace. Sounds like she’s interested."
I nod, staring at my phone again, fingers itching to type another message. But Cross is right—I don’t want to push my luck.
"Alright," Jett says, clapping his hands together. "Now that your love life’s sorted, can we get back to the Mario Kart tournament? Tyson’s been talking mad smack, and I need to take him down."
"Like that’s gonna happen," Tyson shoots back, already heading for the door.
I glance down at Del’s message one more time before following them out. A "maybe" isn’t a yes, but it’s better than I could’ve hoped for.
And for now, that’s enough.