Chapter 5 #2
sit up straight, and steady my hands on the wheel—ten and two. It’s a miracle she’s still standing after I literally ran her
over. I’m not letting anything else happen to her; I’m about to drive like I’m taking my driver’s test.
“Hmm, I think Toyota has a similar model.” Her eyes scan the interior of my car, from the overflowing bag of clothes in the
back seat, to the hairbrush and bottle of leave-in conditioner in the cup holder, and then to my Nintendo Switch 2 balancing
on the dashboard.
I quickly toss the handheld gaming console in the back on top of a pile of dirty clothes. I’m not usually this messy, but
I’ve got nowhere to put everything. Looking around at the chaos makes me realize it’s a good thing I’m apartment hunting this
afternoon because even if Chef is too nice to say anything, it’s time I get my own place.
The radio cuts to commercial and a jingle for a personal-injury lawyer begins to play. Someone sings, “Run me over and I will
sue. Hit me with your car and legally I’m going to come for you.” I slam the power button on my console.
Cutting through the silence, I say, “I’m Brody by the way.”
I keep my composure on the outside, but internally I’m sweating more than that time I took a cheap penalty during a double
overtime in my first playoff appearance. Oh no, she is totally going to sue me over this. And then, after she sues me, my dad’s going to kill me.
“Olivia,” she says, glancing over at me with a coy smile. As it breaks into a toothy grin, I feel like the one being hit by
a car. She’s beautiful.
“Olivia from the stick rack,” I say, hoping I’m not the only one who remembers our brief encounter in the hall. It’s awkward enough that I hit her with my car; I can’t sit here any longer pretending I don’t recognize her.
She nods sheepishly. “Brody from the Minnesota Freeze.”
“So, you do know who I am.”
“The whole state won’t shut up about you.” Her top lip curls into a snarl before being tamed into a tight smile. “I mean,
your deal was major news.”
“Do you work for the team?”
“No,” she blurts out.
“But when we met, you were . . .”
Olivia interrupts. “I was lost,” she says curtly.
“In the authorized-personnel-only section of a locked rink?” My eyes drift over to her.
She shrugs. No longer batting her eyelashes at me, she turns to look out the passenger window as we pass a park. Instead of
admiring the changing leaves, I notice her rubbing her neck and wincing in pain as she presses her fingers into her muscle.
I white-knuckle the steering wheel.
She knows who I am, but we’re ten minutes into this car ride and I only know her name. Why was she at the stick rack? And
today, why was she hanging around the underground player parking lot? Paranoia makes my palms prickle.
If she’s starstruck, she’s hiding it well. She isn’t asking me for an autograph or a picture. She isn’t telling me some obscure
personal hockey story with little to no relevance to my life. She’s comfortable enough to let me drive her home, but indifferent
enough to not make a big deal of it. The way she’s sitting on her hands makes me think there’s more to the story.
“You’re not a stalker fan, are you?” I force a laugh out, but it’s pinched.
“Absolutely not,” she says. “Why? Do you run a lot of fans over with your car?” Her tone is as casual as her emotionless face.
“Only the cute ones.” I lay on the Parker charm heavier than a body check.
“Uff da.”
“Bless you.”
She starts to laugh but restrains herself, painfully clutching at her ribs instead. “If you think I’m some superfan, then
you’ve got the wrong impression of me.”
“I don’t know what to make of you, which is really intriguing.”
Her cheeks dimple. “Fine, I’ll tell you why I was down there, but you can’t tell anyone,” she says. I nod in agreement. “I
was at the rink for an interview when I got lost and ran into you. I was back there today to pick up my uniform—I’m selling
mini donuts on the concourse at Five-Hole Donuts this season.” She winces again, but this time it’s her ego.
“Sweet,” I say, but she doesn’t appreciate the pun.
She keeps giving me just enough to make me crave more. As a man who loves to read, I’m going to get a read on her. No engagement
ring, no tattoos, matching athleisure clothing, and nothing with designer labels.
“Are you a college student?” I ask.
“I was for six years. Now I sell donuts and I’m a freelance data scientist.”
Beauty and brains. And old enough to be sitting in my passenger seat.
I lean back in my seat and rest one hand on the top of the steering wheel. My other arm lounges on the center console, inconspicuously
bridging the distance between us. “Freelance data scientist. That sounds like three words you just put together to sound impressive.”
“If you think that’s impressive, you should try my donuts.” She smirks.
As we near our destination, Olivia’s quick wit, undeniable beauty, and indifference to my stardom has propelled her as the
front-runner for tomorrow’s plus-one. Well, that and the fact that no one else has jumped out in front of my car today.
It’s the perfect win-win: I’ve got an excuse to keep my dad away and Olivia gets an invitation to the coolest party of the
year. People who get an invitation to the coolest party of the year definitely don’t sue.
“Don’t have to twist my arm. Can I place a custom order for tomorrow night?” I ask.
“Won’t you be busy tomorrow?” She points out the window, reminding me of her upcoming exit.
“Tomorrow? What’s tomorrow?” I play dumb.
Olivia tosses her head to the side. I catch her eyes turn in their sockets. The sight of which I find rather amusing.
“Fine,” I concede. “You clocked me. A Parker would never miss a hockey game.” Girls usually love it when I remind them that
I’m hockey royalty, and as much as I hate my namesake, I can’t deny the privilege it’s provided me.
“Are donuts part of the Parker pregame meal plan?” Olivia unzips her sweater and slowly peels it off her arms, revealing a
tight tank top underneath. I swallow. Eyes on the road.
“No, but I’d love for yours to be part of my postgame plan. Can I place a pickup order for tomorrow night?”
“Just so we’re clear, my donut,” she says, wincing, “isn’t on the menu for the first date.”
“Oh, no.” I panic. “Of course not. I meant an actual food order. I’m always starving after the game and donuts would be an
amazing postgame snack.”
“Oh.” Her voice pinches. She wraps her arms around herself in a hug.
“They would actually be perfect to bring to the home-opener after-party, and so would you,” I blurt out like a contestant
who just buzzed in their answer. Why did I say it like that? I’m making it sound creepy. Maybe she doesn’t like to party. Am I staring at her boobs? Shit.
Olivia points to an apartment complex on the corner. I slow to a stop on the curb outside the entrance. She fidgets with the
sweater lying across her lap, avoiding eye contact. “A party?”
“Don’t worry about your food services job, there are no rules against us hanging out,” I assure her. “It’s the least I can
do after—”
“Okay.” She nods, looking up at me. “I’ll give you my number.”
The wave of relief is as instant as flipping a switch. As I get one last good look into her big brown eyes, all I can think
about is how this would please my dad.
Olivia puts a heart emoji in lieu of her last name and saves her number in my phone. Grabbing on to the holy-shit handle in
my car, she pulls herself up and out of the seat with a grunt.
I roll down my car window as she turns to leave and shout out to her, “It was nice running into you today!” She stares back
at me blankly over her shoulder. “Well, you know what I mean.”
“See you tomorrow, Brody.”
Olivia hobbles up the entrance with incredible agility for someone who was recently run over. She ignores the railing and
slips back into her sweater while speeding away from my parked car.
Wow. She’s beautiful, funny, and tough as nails—that’s a hat trick.