Chapter Twelve #2
being around Harriet made the world make sense, even the thoughts and feelings he trash-compacted in the back of his mind.
“O-kay,” she responded, slowing her pace. “What’s up? Should I be worried? You’re not about to confess you’re secretly a Zamboni-driving
superhero or something, are you?”
“That’s pretty cringe.”
“No, I agree. I regretted it as soon as the words left my mouth.”
“Although for real? That would probably be easier to explain.”
“Alright, spill it,” Harriet said.
He ran a hand through his hair, struggling to find the right words. “I’m the same age now as my dad was when he had me. And
not all that much younger than he was when he left us. Just . . . vanished without a word. I mean, he and Mom got pregnant
with Brooke so young. Mom once told me he never felt like he got to have the youth he was owed. Wanted to sow his wild oats.
But he always seemed old to me in my head. Now I’m here and all I know is how much I don’t know. But I do have one thing on
lock—how it feels to be disappointed in someone. I . . . I just never guessed that I could be a disappointment too.”
Understanding dawned in Harriet’s eyes. “Oh, Gale . . .”
“I’ve got so much of him in me. I look like him. I talk like him. Hell, I know I play a lot like him. I’ve always been terrified
of becoming him, even though I know we are different. But maybe our legacies are bound to be the same. Promising stars who
burn out fast and become nobodies.”
“But you’re not him. You’re you.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to be depressing. You don’t need to hear this shit.”
“Listen to me,” Harriet said firmly, her gaze intense. “You are a good man, Gale. The fact that you’re tying yourself in knots
over this proves how different you are. Nobody is perfect and no one wins all the time.”
Their eyes locked, and Gale felt a surge of emotion so powerful it nearly knocked him off his feet. The world seemed to narrow
down to just the two of them, standing in the dimly lit parking lot. He found himself leaning in, drawn by an invisible force.
It wasn’t that she was beautiful, even though she was.
It wasn’t that he liked hanging out with her, even though he did.
This felt bigger, more dangerous, like his whole damn life could change.
Harriet’s breath hitched as their faces drew closer, their lips mere inches apart. The air crackled with tension, with possibility.
For a moment, it seemed as if they might close that final distance, that he’d get another chance to taste her, to see what
this was.
But then Harriet blinked, composing herself. She pulled back slightly, a determined look in her eyes. “I gotta get back. So
much work.”
He froze before shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“I have some things to wrap up at the office,” she said firmly, beeping her lock open. “I’ll let you know who E.M.M.A. suggests
would be the perfect match for you. I think we are really on the right path here.”
“Wait, Harri—”
“Good night,” Harriet said in a tone that brokered no further conversation. “I’ll text you with updates. Stay tuned.”
With that, she bolted into her car. Gale watched as she reversed out of the parking space and disappeared down the street,
a little over the speed limit.
“Shit,” he muttered, clenching one hand into a fist. A surge of frustration coursed through him, but he caught himself before
acting on the impulse to walk over and punch the nearby brick wall. The last thing he needed was someone snapping a picture
and sending it to the tabloids. He could already envision the sensational headline: “Dark Knight: A Threat to the Regals’
Playoff Hopes and Public Safety?”
No thanks.
His mind raced, a whirlwind of emotions leaving him dizzy. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots in frustration.
Get it together. The real issue wasn’t some stupid algorithm—it was her. The pull he felt, the one he’d been fighting forever, the one that
had him practically vibrating out of his skin.
Of course he found her magnetic—the way her nose scrunched up when she laughed, how her eyes lit up talking about her work.
But he couldn’t go there. She was Brooke’s best friend. His friend too. And getting tangled up while working on her project
and his performance? Recipe for disaster.
And if her creation said his perfect match was someone else . . . shouldn’t that mean something?
Besides, those kisses could’ve just been . . . kisses. People hooked up. Left it there. Maybe he was the idiot reading into
every smile, every time their eyes caught and held.
He was a big boy. He could handle this. Had to. Keep it professional, or at least try not to act on whatever this was. He wasn’t some lovesick teenager, but damn—he’d do just about anything to keep her happy.
An hour later, Gale sank into his leather couch, his hair still damp from a long chilly shower. As the tension in his shoulders
eased, Deke and Biscuit mewed softly from the box with Little Mama in it—cozy on their heating pad.
His phone buzzed. Harriet. His heart did its usual little jump at her name. “Get it together, man,” he muttered as he opened
the message:
Harriet: Are you ready? I got some exciting news from E.M.M.A.!
Gale’s brow furrowed. He typed back: Oh? What’s up?
Harriet: As expected, E.M.M.A. found your perfect match! And you won’t believe who it is . . .
A knot formed in his stomach. He didn’t want to know any more.
Gale: Ok . . .
Harriet: It’s Seraphim! THE Seraphim! “Polaroid Daydream,” “Siren,” and “Undertow” Seraphim. Nominated for a Grammy last year. That’s
incredible, right?
Gale blinked, rereading the message. Seraphim? The pop star? He was supposed to go on a date with her?
Gale: Very funny.
Harriet: I’m serious! E.M.M.A.’s algorithms are strong on this point. Oh, and I may have passed the info to your manager . . . ??
“Well, shit,” Gale muttered.
Seraphim. Everyone knew Seraphim. Hell, you’d have to be living under a rock not to. Her songs dominated the airwaves, her
face plastered across billboards and magazine covers. She was more than just a singer—she was a cultural phenomenon.
Gale’s mind flashed through what he knew about her. Famously kind to fans, and sharp and witty in interviews. Donated to charities.
A Grammy? Or was it three? The woman who could sell out stadiums in minutes, whose every social media post sent fans into
a frenzy of decoding hidden messages and Easter eggs.
What would they even talk about? “Hey, nice song about your ex. Wanna hear about my stats?” The similarities between choreographing
a dance routine and running drills at practice? The subtle differences between a power ballad and a power play?
His phone screen glowed accusingly in the dim room, cursor blinking like a metronome counting down to a decision he wasn’t
ready to make. The truth sat heavy on his chest: he wanted to date Harriet. But watching her AI play matchmaker with the enthusiasm of a proud parent felt like a knife twisting in his gut. How could
he tell her that her creation’s perfect match algorithm had failed in the most ironic way possible—by matching him with anyone
but her?
And Seraphim . . . she deserved better than to be some AI’s idea of destiny. She was a real person, not a variable in an equation.
The thought of using her as a distraction from his feelings for Harriet made him feel hollow.
He wandered over to the kitten’s box and lightly pet Little Mama, curled around her babies, while imagining locker room fallout if this went ahead: Tuck would be unbearable, probably serenading the whole team with off-key renditions of “Siren” while Orlenko lobbied to get her to sing the national anthem.
Coach would give him that look—the one that said “I don’t care if you’re dating the Queen of England as long as you can still stop a puck. ”
But could he?
Dating one of the biggest pop stars on the planet wasn’t exactly conducive to keeping his head in the game. Hockey fans were
ruthless enough when it came to analyzing every play, every missed shot. Add Seraphim’s rabid fan base to the mix, and his
life could become a 24/7 performance where every gesture, every word, every breath would be dissected for hidden meaning.
One bad game and they’d blame it on relationship drama. One good game and they’d credit her as his “lucky charm.” Either way,
he’d lose himself in the narrative.
“What do I do, girls?” he asked the kittens. They just purred, unconcerned with the complexities of human relationships and
viral algorithms. Must be nice.
The cursor kept blinking, patient and relentless.
The worst part was, he knew Harriet wanted him to go through with it. Her eyes would light up with that familiar spark of
pride and excitement she got whenever she talked about work. The same spark that made his heart skip every time he saw it.
The same spark he might have to sacrifice if he wanted to be honest with himself—and with her.
In the end, he typed: I just want you to be happy.
He hit send before he could second-guess himself.
It wasn’t quite a lie—seeing that spark whenever E.M.M.A.
was mentioned made something warm unfurl in his chest. But there was a bitter irony in watching her push him into data-driven dating while never seeming to notice what was right in front of her.
Or maybe she did, and just didn’t feel the same way.
He stared at those three dots appearing on his screen, waiting for a response and trying not to hope for something he probably didn’t deserve anyway.