Chapter 2
ELIJAH
We're less than a week out from the season officially starting, and Coach is already conditioning us like game day's around the corner. Longer skates. Fewer breaks.
"Again!" Coach's whistle pierces the heavy breathing that fills the rink. "What are you waiting for, an invitation? Let's go!"
We're doing longer skates than we did last week. Fewer water breaks. More reps stacked back to back until our legs go heavy and our thinking gets sloppy if we let it. Coach is squeezing every minute he can out of these last few days before classes sink their teeth into our schedule and start carving it to pieces.
Once that happens, ice time gets tighter. Mornings get earlier. Recovery windows shrink to nothing.
So right now, it's skate, lift, reset, repeat—no excuses about being tired because tired is the point.
And honestly? It's the right call.
This stretch matters more than people think. Not because we're sharpening anything flashy yet, but because this is where your body and your head start remembering what a season feels like. The routine. The grind. The constant low-level soreness that never really goes away once October hits. You stop fighting it and start moving through it instead.
From where I'm standing, I can see the difference already. Guys aren't dragging their feet onto the ice anymore. Nobody's surprised by the workload. The shock wears off fast, and what's left is muscle memory settling back in—lungs learning the pace, legs remembering how to push even when they want to quit.
That's what I want as a captain.
I want us stepping into the season already conditioned for it, already living in the rhythm of early mornings and hard skates and short tempers. Because once the games start, there's no time to adjust. No easing into anything. You either feel ready in your body, or you spend the first few weeks chasing everyone else.
I watch the guys during drills, during line changes, during those moments when Coach isn't saying anything and it's just us out there managing ourselves. Who keeps pace. Who talks. Who checks out when it gets monotonous.
September tells you things October won't.
And my job right now isn't to motivate anyone. It's to make sure we don't waste this window—these quiet, brutal days where we can still shape what kind of team we're going to be before anyone's watching.
Guys are bent forward along the boards during a brief reset, gloves resting on knees, breath coming hard through half-open mouths. A few shake out their legs, roll their ankles inside their skates. Davis spits water onto the ice and wipes his mouth with the back of his glove.
"Jesus Christ," mutters Luke, one of our top defensemen. His face is flushed deep red, sweat darkening the hair poking from beneath his helmet. "I think my nuts just ascended into my body cavity."
"At least something on you is ascending," Liam shoots back, his voice low enough that Coach won't hear. "Saw that chick from Sigma Kappa you hooked up with at the commons the other day. She said the altitude's affecting your performance."
A few tired laughs ripple through the guys nearest us. Luke flips his twin off.
Coach blows the whistle.
We're back at it.
Conditioning drills first—long, ugly ones. Blue line to red, red to far blue, back again. No puck at first. Just skating. Building that deep burn that sits in your thighs and doesn't go away once it shows up.
I push off hard, lean into the turns, feel my edges bite as I cut back toward center. I keep my head up as I skate, eyes flicking around without really meaning to.
The rookies are easy to spot at first—not because they're slower, but because they're trying too hard. Shoulders tense. Sticks gripped a little tighter than necessary. That look on their faces like they're constantly checking if they're doing it right.
But I'll give them this—they're keeping up.
A couple of them are hanging right in the pack, stride for stride with guys who've been doing this for years. No panic in their skating. No hands on hips during stops. One of them nearly eats it going into a turn, catches himself, and keeps going without missing a beat.
Good.
Coach finally gives us a brief breather. I rest my hands on the top of my stick and take a slow breath, eyes moving over the group again.
That's when I see her. Samantha Westbrook.
She's right by the glass, a few rows up in the bleachers. Not hard to spot—not because she's doing anything disruptive, but because she's the only one there, watching us skate laps and run drills.
She's been doing this every day since she arrived at Ridgewater last weekend. Like this is her new favorite way to kill time. Her personal little routine. Morning skate, front-row seat.
Same as always, her head's bowed, shoulders slightly hunched as she leans over a sketchpad balanced on her knees. One hand moves steadily, pencil scratching across the page. Every so often, she glances up at the ice then drops her gaze and keeps drawing.
Quiet. Focused. Completely in her own world.
I don't want to know what she's drawing.
I also can't help wondering what the hell she's drawing.
Yeah, yeah. I'm aware of the contradiction. I don't need it pointed out.
I don't realize how long I've been looking until her face lights up the second our eyes meet. She spots me through the glass and immediately breaks into that blinding, unapologetic smile of hers, lifting one hand to wave like she just found Waldo.
Like a damn sunrise I didn't ask for.
Then she brings two fingers to her mouth, blows a kiss straight at me, and punctuates it with a wink.
Jesus Christ.
I jerk back when someone skates up beside me and slings an arm over my shoulder. I nearly lose an edge. When I glance over, Liam's already grinning, eyes flicking past me toward the stands. He lifts a hand and waves back at her like they're old friends.
"Damn," he says. "What a lucky prick you are, Cap. Got your fiancée watching practice every day? Must be riding that high right now."
I straighten instantly, shaking his arm off. "If there's anything high right now, it's my blood pressure," I mutter. "And if you don't shut up and stop calling her that, I'll have you running suicides until you can't walk anymore."
Liam raises both hands, already skating backward.
"Alright, alright," he says, that stupid goofy grin still plastered on his face. "Don't go using that threat on me, Cap. I like my legs functional." He glances back toward the stands. "But seriously, man, what's your deal? Most guys would be stoked to have a girl like that showing up to watch them."
"She's not watching me," I say, even though we both know that's a lie. "She's Zach's sister. She's probably here for him or she's just bored since classes haven't started yet."
"Right," Liam drawls, dragging out the word like it has ten syllables. "And I'm just here for the free water bottles." He skates in a lazy half-circle around me. "You know the whole team's talking about it, right? How you've got this hot girl showing up to every practice, drawing pictures of you—"
"She's not drawing pictures of me," I snap, though honestly, I have no fucking clue what she's drawing.
"—and yet you act like she's got the plague or something," Liam continues, as if I hadn't spoken. "It's weird, dude."
Coach's whistle cuts through the air before I can tell Liam exactly where he can shove his opinions. "Power play unit one! Let's go!"
I turn my attention back to the ice, grateful for the interruption. Back to the drills. Back to the guys. I force my focus where it belongs. First unit means me, which means no more time for this conversation.
"Later, Cap," Liam says with one more pointed glance toward the stands. "But this conversation isn't over."
"Yes, it is," I call after him, but he's already skating toward the bench, laughing under his breath.
I take position at the blue line, tapping my stick twice against the ice. Zach slides into place on my right, nodding once, ready for the drill.
But as I settle in, I can't help but feel her eyes on me, like a physical weight pressing against my shoulders.
She's not supposed to get to me.
And the fact that she does pisses me off more than it should. It's wasted energy—energy I don't have, energy I shouldn't be burning on her of all people.
I've got enough to worry about. The team. My grades. My last season before graduation. The weight of the C on my jersey that feels heavier with each passing day.
"Deveraux!" Coach shouts, and I snap to attention. "You planning on joining us today, or are you just here to admire the architecture?"
"Sorry, Coach," I say, forcing my mind back to the present. I can feel a few of the guys glancing at me, probably wondering what's gotten into me. I never lose focus during practice.
We run through the power play setup, and I nail my part, firing a one-timer from the slot that whistles past Donovan's glove. The guys tap their sticks on the ice in approval. Coach gives a curt nod.
"Again," he says, and we reset.
For the next few minutes, I manage to stay present, focused on nothing but the puck and my teammates' positions. This is what I'm good at. This makes sense. The ice, the stick in my hands, the rhythmic sound of skates cutting through frozen water—this has been my language since I was five years old.
But during a brief pause while Coach adjusts Cody's positioning, my gaze drifts back to the stands.
She's still there, still sketching, but now there's this small smile playing at the corners of her mouth, like she's keeping a secret. It's infuriating how comfortable she looks, how at home in our space, in my space.
I tell myself this is just something else I'm going to have to get used to—like early mornings, sore legs, and the grind of the season creeping closer. Sam's here now. She's a freshman. And Zach's sister.
Which means she's not going anywhere.
Just my luck.
I tighten my grip on my stick, and get back to work—conditioning my body for October, and apparently conditioning my patience for her being around a hell of a lot more than I'd like.
I finish the last hour of practice on autopilot, legs moving even as my head's somewhere else. By the time Coach blows the whistle and calls it, my jersey's soaked through and my shoulders feel like they're packed with wet sand.
"Deveraux," Coach Hopper calls as guys start drifting toward the tunnel. "Meet me in my office after."
"Yes, Coach."
Thirty minutes after our practice ended, I knock on Hopper's door, three firm raps with my knuckles. His muffled "Come in" filters through the wood, and I push the door open, the familiar squeak of hinges announcing my arrival before I do.
Coach Hopper hunches over his desk, half-moon reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He glances up, his weathered face breaking into the hint of a smile that never quite reaches its full potential.
A half-empty coffee cup sits dangerously close to the edge of his desk—the same chipped Ridgewater mug he's had since before I was a freshman.
How it's survived this long remains one of the athletic department's greatest mysteries.
"Elijah," he says, removing his glasses and setting them on top of the scattered papers that cover nearly every inch of his desk. "Right on time."
I take in the organized chaos of his office. The walls are lined with certificates and plaques—testaments to over twenty years of coaching. Ridgewater team photos create a chronological history around the room, faces I recognize from my freshman year mixed with alumni whose names adorn NHL jerseys now.
Center stage, in a slightly larger frame, is last year's Frozen Four win—our faces frozen in that perfect moment of victory, Coach Hopper in the middle, arms raised, the most emotion I've ever seen from him captured in a single frame.
A worn gray couch sags by the door, having supported the weight of countless players seeking advice or receiving the occasional necessary ass-chewing. Next to it, slightly tilted, is a photo of Coach's daughter, Katie, in her high school graduation cap and gown, her smile matching the one he rarely shows.
I've only met her once—two years ago, when she stopped by the rink. She's nineteen now, studying at Brown, if I remember right. Coach doesn't talk about her much. Then again, he doesn't talk about his personal life at all.
Coach Hopper motions toward the door with a flick of his wrist. "Close that, would you?"
I shut the door and settle into the chair opposite his desk, the same one I sat in four years ago when he told me I'd made the team. The vinyl creaks under my weight—it knows me by now.
Hopper regards me with a knowing nod, his eyes narrowing slightly. He leans back in his chair, clasping his hands over his stomach. The gesture is so familiar I could sketch it from memory.
"So," he says, "...this is your last season. In college, anyway. You'll be playing pro next year."
I shift in my seat, suddenly conscious of my posture. "Yeah, that's the plan. Still feels weird to say it out loud, though."
"Nervous?" He raises an eyebrow, the slight crinkle at the corner of his eye telling me he already knows the answer.
"Excited," I correct him, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. "But honestly, Coach, I'm not thinking about that right now. I mean, yeah, it's there, but..."
I run a hand through my still-damp hair from the post-practice shower. "I'm focused on this season. On getting us back to the Frozen Four."
Hopper's mouth curls into a slow, proud smile—the real kind, not the polite one he gives to alumni donors or reporters.
"That's exactly what I wanted to hear." He taps his pen against the desk twice. "You know, when you first walked onto this campus, I told my assistant that you had the makings of a captain. Didn't tell you that, of course. Your head was big enough already." He chuckles, a gravelly sound that's as rare as a perfect game.
"Come on, Coach. I wasn't that bad," I protest, though we both know my freshman ego needed the humbling he provided.
"You were worse," he shoots back, but there's affection in his voice. "But you learned. And now..." His eyes drift to the captain's "C" embroidered on my Ridgewater Hockey sweatshirt. "You lead this group the right way, the rest will take care of itself."
I nod, feeling the weight of that letter, of his expectations, of twenty-five guys looking to me to set the tone.
"That's the plan."
Coach shifts forward a little, his forearms resting on the desk.
"How are things looking? Give me your assessment of preseason so far." He reaches for his coffee, grimaces when he discovers it's cold, but drinks it anyway.
I straighten up, shifting into captain mode. "Practices have been strong. Energy's good, especially considering it's still September. Guys came back in shape—even Matthews, and you know how he usually shows up after summer."
This earns a snort from Hopper, who had benched Matthews last year until he could complete the team fitness test.
"The new systems you introduced are clicking faster than I expected. Defense is communicating better on the breakout—that video session last week really helped." I tick off points on my fingers as I go, the way I've seen Hopper do in team meetings. "Powerplay units need more reps, but the bones are there. And the rookies..." I pause, considering how to phrase this.
"The rookies are attentive, working hard, asking the right questions. Not too cocky, not too timid." I tap my thumb against my leg, a nervous habit from childhood. "All in all, I think we'll be ready when the season starts."
Hopper's face remains impassive, but I catch the subtle nod of approval. He's seen enough seasons to know when a captain is blowing smoke and when he's giving it straight.
"Speaking of rookies," he says, leaning back in his chair again, "anyone standing out to you? Good or bad?"
This is part of our ritual. Hopper values my eyes on the ice, knows I see things from a player's perspective that he might miss from behind the bench. It's a trust we've built over four years.
"Ben's looking solid on defense," I say without hesitation. "His skating is clean—smoother than most freshmen. Doesn't panic with the puck, which is rare for a young D-man. His positioning is impressive too. Doesn't chase hits, stays home when he needs to."
I remember how Ben calmly handled a 3-on-2 drill yesterday, cutting down the angle perfectly. "He needs to work on his shot from the point, but the foundation is there."
Hopper nods, making a mental note. He doesn't write anything down during these conversations—never has to. His memory for hockey details is eerily perfect.
"And that transfer? Dylan?" he prompts.
I feel a smile tugging at my lips.
"Dylan's been a surprise, honestly. For a second-year guy coming into a new program, he's finding his groove fast. His forecheck is heavy—uses all of that six-foot-two frame. Smart with his body too, doesn't just throw it around without purpose." I gesture with my hands, pantomiming a shot. "His positioning in the slot is almost always right, and his release is quick. Like, blink-and-you'll-miss-it quick."
I lean forward, warming to the topic. "Yesterday in scrimmage, he read Luke's pass before Luke even knew he was making it. Intercepted, two strides, top corner—Kentaro didn't even move in net. That kind of hockey sense isn't something you can teach."
A faint smile crosses Hopper's face as he absorbs this information. He values this kind of detailed observation, has been teaching me to look for these things since I was a sophomore.
"He's got the right attitude too," I add. "After practice, I saw him working with Zach on timing their cycle along the boards. Taking initiative, you know?"
"Good," Hopper says simply, and in that single word, I hear his appreciation for both Dylan's effort and my attention to it. "Anything else I should know?"
I consider mentioning some concerns about our third line's chemistry, but decide to hold off until I've had more time to observe. "Nothing major. Few small things we're ironing out, but nothing that won't be fixed with more ice time together."
Hopper studies me for a moment, as if deciding whether I'm holding something back. Apparently satisfied, he nods and glances at his watch.
"Alright, I won't keep you any longer. Go grab something to eat—you look like you're about to pass out."
Only when he mentions food do I realize how hungry I am. Post-practice metabolism is no joke, especially with our conditioning regimen.
"Sounds good," I say as I stand. "See you tomorrow, Coach."
"See you."
I push through the double doors of the rink, my gear bag weighs a ton on my shoulder, practice was brutal, and all I want is to collapse onto my bed. But there she is—Sam—sitting on the steps with her sketchbook balanced on her knees, pretending she hasn't been waiting for exactly this moment. As soon as our eyes meet, she snaps the book shut with a mischievous little smile that tells me everything I need to know about how accidental this encounter is.
"Are we leaving?" she asks, hopping to her feet.
"We?"
"Uh, yeah." She makes an exaggerated point of scanning the empty parking lot around the rink, turning in a full circle with her hand shading her eyes like some explorer searching for signs of life. "Were you not paying attention? We're the only people left in this desolate wasteland." She gestures dramatically toward the building behind us.
I start walking toward my truck without answering. Sam falls into step beside me, her shorter legs working double-time to keep up with my stride. Her boots crunch against the gravel of the parking lot, a syncopated rhythm to my heavier footfalls.
"Why didn't you leave with your brother?" I finally ask, though I already know the answer. Sam is nothing if not predictable in her unpredictability.
"Uhm, about that..." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking at me with those wide eyes that might fool someone who hasn't known her since she was a kid and an even more obvious crush on me. "So I went to use the restroom for a bit, and Zach thought I already left, so he left without me..." She sighs deeply as though she's the victim of some great cosmic injustice.
"Don't worry," she continues, talking with her hands now, "I already texted him, and he wanted to drive back here, but I told him not to bother because you're still here and you can drive me back to the pond." She flutters her eyelashes in what I assume is supposed to be an irresistible manner. "You wouldn't let me walk back there, would you? It's a twenty minute walking distance."
If I didn't know better, I might have believed this little devil who always has so many tricks up her sleeve. Unfortunately, I know exactly what happened: she purposely left the bleachers when practice was over so her brother would leave without her, then came back to wait for me and hitch a ride.
It's a Sam Special, a classic move from her playbook of "How to Trap Elijah Into Spending Time With Me."
"Well, you can order yourself an Uber," I say, reaching my truck and tossing my gear in the back. "I'm not going back to the pond yet. I have somewhere to be."
Her eyebrows shoot up with interest. "Where?"
I rack my brain for somewhere that's not on the route to the hockey house—somewhere that might discourage her from tagging along. "Gotta go to the Cornerstone bookstore."
Really? That's the best I could come up with? A bookstore? I internally wince as soon as the words leave my mouth.
Just as I feared, her face lights up. "Oh, perfect!" She claps her hands together once, her sketchbook tucked under her arm. "It's very close to my art studio. You can just drop me off there."
Damn it.
Before I can protest, Sam is already opening the passenger door of my truck and hopping in with the practiced ease of someone who's done this many times before. She settles into the seat with a wide, toothy grin, her sketchbook placed carefully on her lap.
"Hurry up, Eli," she calls through the open window. "The morning is young and full of possibilities!"
I take my time walking around to the driver's side, as if those extra seconds might somehow save me from what's about to be an excruciating drive. When I slide behind the wheel, Sam is already fiddling with the radio, switching it from my preferred sports talk to some indie station with a singer whose voice sounds like he's being strangled by his own skinny jeans.
"Make yourself at home," I mutter, but there's no heat behind it. This is our routine by now.
I pull out of the parking lot, making a left toward downtown instead of the right that would take us to the hockey house—nicknamed "the pond" by the team years ago. For a few minutes, we drive in relative silence, broken only by Sam humming along to the radio and drumming her fingers against her sketchbook. The rhythmic tap-tap-tap draws my eyes briefly from the road.
She's always carrying that thing around.
Every time she shows up at practice, she's got her nose buried in it, pencil moving furiously across the page. Curiosity gnaws at me despite my better judgment.
"What are you always drawing in that thing anyway?" I finally ask, keeping my voice deliberately casual, like I don't really care about the answer.
Sam's fingers freeze mid-tap. She turns to me with a slow, spreading smile that immediately makes me regret asking.
"Elijah Deveraux," she says, drawing out each syllable of my name. "Are you paying attention to little old me during your practices? Noticing my artistic endeavors while you're supposed to be focusing on your stick handling?"
I snort, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead. "Hard not to notice when you're always there, scratching away like you're documenting wildlife for National Geographic."
"Mmm, that's not far off," she says, running her hand over the cover of her sketchbook almost... lovingly? "This is a special sketchbook, you know."
"Special how?" The words are out before I can stop them.
She shifts in her seat to face me more fully, her knee now touching the center console. "This, my dear Eli, is my dedicated Elijah sketchbook."
"Your what?"
"You heard me." Her smile is so wide I can see it in my peripheral vision.
"This entire book is filled with drawings of you. Eli skating. Eli scoring. Eli in the penalty box looking all broody and magnificent. Eli laughing with his teammates. Eli concentrating during warm-ups with that little crease between your eyebrows." She reaches out as if to touch the spot she's referring to, but I dodge her finger without taking my eyes off the road.
"That's..." I search for the right word. "Disturbing."
"That's dedication," she corrects, not remotely offended. "Earlier today I was drawing our future wedding. Wanna know what it's going to be like?"
"No."
"I'll tell you anyway." She settles back in her seat, clutching the sketchbook to her chest like it's a treasured artifact. "Don't worry—I'm not going to ask for a lot. I only want a very intimate, small wedding with just our families and close friends."
"Sam—"
"We're going to get married in this beautiful lavender field garden," she continues, completely ignoring my attempt to stop her. Her hands paint pictures in the air as she speaks. "We'll be standing at the center of it as we promise to love each other 'til death do us part. And it's going to be during sunset, so the light will be all golden and perfect on your face when you look at me with those adoring eyes."
I glance over at her, finding her staring at me with a dreamy expression that would be comical if it weren't so unsettling.
"You're insane," I tell her, turning back to the road. "You know that's never going to happen, right?"
"Don't worry, Eli," she says with absolute confidence. "I'm a very patient woman. I've still got plenty of time to woo you and make you love me." She punctuates this with an exaggerated wink that I catch from the corner of my eye.
"Guys are supposed to woo women," I point out. "Not the other way around."
Sam gives me a dismissive wave of her hand, laughing like I've just said something adorably archaic. "That's some serious 1950s thinking you've got going on there, hockey boy. I'm a modern woman living in modern times." She taps her temple with one finger. "Women don't need to wait around for the guys they're interested in to make a move. We can do the wooing ourselves."
"Is that what you call this?" I gesture vaguely between us. "Wooing?"
"This," she says, mimicking my gesture but with more flourish, "is just the beginning. I have a ten-year plan."
"Ten years?" I can't help the laugh that escapes me. "You've been at this for almost that long already."
"And look how far we've come." She gestures to the truck interior. "Alone at last."
"Because you manipulated your way into my truck."
"Semantics." She shrugs, completely unrepentant. "The point is, I'm here and you're here and we're having a lovely conversation about our future."
I sigh exasperatedly because why am I even wasting time trying to talk sense into this girl? She never listens. It's like trying to convince a tornado to change direction—pointless and potentially hazardous to my mental health.
We're approaching a red light when Sam suddenly gasps and points at something through the windshield. "Oh my god, look at that dog!" she exclaims.
I automatically look where she's pointing, but there's nothing there. When I turn back to her with a confused expression, she's doubled over laughing.
"Made you look," she says between giggles. "Your face!"
"Very mature."
"Hey, I never claimed to be mature," she says, wiping at her eyes. "Just persistent."
The light turns green and I press the gas perhaps a bit harder than necessary. The bookstore is only a few blocks away now, and then I'll be free of Hurricane Sam for at least the rest of the day.
"You know," she says thoughtfully, her laughter subsiding, "some people might find my dedication charming."
"Some people might also enjoy getting teeth pulled without anesthetic," I counter. "Doesn't make it a good time."
She places a hand over her heart in mock offense. "Are you comparing my company to dental torture? That hurts, Eli. It really does."
Despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch upward. "If the dental drill fits..."
"You love it," she declares confidently. "Deep down, beneath that tough hockey player exterior, you enjoy our little chats."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night."
"You know what would help me sleep at night?" she asks, her voice suddenly taking on that suggestive tone that makes me grip the steering wheel tighter.
"I don't want to know."
"Sure you do." She leans closer, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. "A goodnight text from you. Just a simple 'sweet dreams, Sam' would do wonders for my insomnia."
I roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't get stuck. "I'm not texting you goodnight."
"Not yet," she says with unwavering confidence. "But I'm wearing you down. I can feel it."
We pull up to the bookstore, and I've never been so happy to see a building in my life. Sam looks out the window, then back at me, then at the sketchbook in her lap.
"Well," she says, making no move to get out. "This has been lovely."
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, waiting.
"Your art studio?" I prompt.
"Oh, right." She nods slowly. "It's just a couple blocks down that way." She points vaguely down the street. "But you know, since we're already here, I might as well check out the new art books they just got in..."
Before I can protest, she's out of the truck and walking around to my side. She taps on my window until I roll it down.
"Come on, Eli," she says, her expression innocent but her eyes anything but. "A little culture won't kill you. Besides, I need someone tall to reach the top shelves."
I should drive away. I should absolutely, one hundred percent, put this truck in gear and leave her standing there on the curb. Instead, I find myself turning off the engine and getting out.
"Ten minutes," I say firmly. "Then I'm leaving, with or without you."
Sam's smile is blinding. "That's what you said last time. We were there for an hour."
"And it won't happen again."
"Sure it won't," she agrees, in a tone that suggests she believes the exact opposite.
As we walk toward the bookstore entrance, Sam deliberately brushes her arm against mine. "See? Wooing. It's working."
I hold the door open for her, not because I'm being wooed but because that's what gentlemen do. "It's really not."