Chapter 6
SIX
Of all the terrible ideas I’ve had in my life, this one might have been the worst. I feel like I’m going to be sick. My knee bounces as I watch the Moonshot High School JV team take the ice.
The stands are pretty full for a high school game. Parents, families, friends, and students are packed in for the home opener. I spot Pepper and Landon. They fist-bump, sharing cocky smiles before settling into place for the puck drop. I could use a little of that confidence now.
“Relax,” D-Low says, as if it were that easy.
I still my leg, but anxiety still vibrates my insides. We’re sitting three rows from the top behind the visitor’s bench. We didn’t want to be visible enough that we might distract the boys—or at least that was Penn and D-Low’s reasoning. I didn’t want to be anywhere that Whitney might see me.
For about the millionth time since we sat down, I glance to where she stands behind the Moonshot bench.
She looks great. She’s in black dress pants and a white long-sleeved shirt and the same purple Converse from our first date.
Her dark hair is pulled back, but a few strands escape as she stares down at her clipboard.
“She’s going to think it’s weird I’m here,” I say, gut swirling with unease. The last time I saw her, she couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
“Only if you keep acting weird.” Penn doesn’t look my way as he talks from D-Low’s other side.
“I’m not acting.” I drag my sweaty palms down my thighs. “This is just me.”
Me panicking about facing her again. And even more stressed by the idea of not doing it.
She deserves an explanation, but the thought of giving her one after months of silence has acid climbing up my throat.
It’s a real catch-22. Maybe she forgot me altogether.
I can’t decide if that would be better or worse.
After the game starts, it’s easier to get lost in the action and forget why I’m here. Moonshot High is leading, one to zero. They’re a little sloppy at times, but they have potential.
“You see that girl over there?” D-Low asks.
I briefly follow his line of sight, but there are a lot of women in attendance, and it’s impossible to know which one he’s referring to.
“Brown hair, blue dress,” he clarifies. “Far right next to the man in the black hat.”
With a little more searching, I find her.
“Yeah, I see her,” I say.
“Does she look familiar to you?”
“No. Why?”
He shakes his head. “I feel like I know her from somewhere.”
“Are you sure you didn’t hook up with her?” Penn asks.
“Shut up. It’s not like I’ve lost track.”
Penn chuckles. “Says the guy who can’t decide if he knows a woman he sees across the arena.”
Their chatter puts me at ease, and I find my gaze moving to Whitney.
She’s laser-focused on the team. I can’t hear her, but she speaks to each kid as they come off the ice, giving them some instruction or attaboy.
And in response, they give her their full attention as she speaks.
They respect her. I knew that from watching her interact with them at camp, but it’s fun to see her in action.
“Can you imagine if your high school hockey coach would have been a stunner?” D-Low nudges me as he asks, pulling my attention back to him and the game happening on the ice.
“God, no. I can barely speak to her at twenty-five.” I’d have had to quit the team at fourteen.
“You like hockey. She likes hockey. Just talk about that.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” I wish it did.
“What happens exactly?” D-Low asks. Penn leans forward like he’s interested in my answer as well.
“I freeze up.” Just talking about it sends my body into high alert, tension pulling at every muscle.
“And your mind goes totally blank?” Penn looks sympathetic even as he asks it.
“No. Well, sometimes. But it’s more like I’m three moves ahead, imagining all the ways in which future me is going to fuck it up.
Let’s say I open with something simple like ‘Hello,’ then she replies ‘Hi’ back.
What do I ask next? ‘How are you?’ is overdone and doesn’t lead into an easy next question; talking about the weather is sad and also dead-ends.
I’m aware that there’s a broad range of topics outside of those examples, but none of them magically fix my ability to carry a conversation when I’m constantly freaking out about fucking it all up. ”
“That’s grim, my man,” D-Low says.
“Yeah, no kidding.”
“I didn’t peg you for such a pessimist,” Penn says.
“He isn’t.” D-Low sounds so certain.
Am I? When it comes to dating, probably.
“It’s statistical analysis,” D-Low says. “You’re constantly predicting the future based on past scenarios. What you need is to change the outcomes, so your brain isn’t planning for the worst case every time you talk to a woman.”
“And how do you suppose I do that?” I ask with a hint of sarcasm because if I knew the answer to that, I’d have done it years ago. But I wait for his reply anyway with a sliver of hope that he can help.
“The details are fuzzy, but we need to get you a win.”
The crowd around us cheers. On the ice, the Moonshot High players are celebrating. My stare shifts to Whitney. Her smile takes my breath away.
“A win sounds nice.” Specifically, a win with Whitney. Anyone else would feel like a consolation prize. I may not have gotten to know her that well, but I felt a spark of something that was entirely nerves and panic.
The three of us clap as the celebration winds down and the game resets. D-Low angles his body to better give me his attention. “Tell me more about the girl.”
“She’s . . .” I swallow down the lump forming in my throat. “She’s great.”
“Obviously, but give me specifics.”
“I already told you all about the date.”
“Yeah, but that was mostly how you fucked it up. Tell me about her. Where’s she from? What’s she into? Let’s map this thing out. We’ll make it foolproof.”
“Foolproof, huh?” I huff a quiet laugh.
“As in, she’d be a fool to turn you down.” He reaches forward and smacks me lightly on the left side of my face. His phone buzzes and he looks at the screen, then taps out a reply before he says, “Make it quick because I need to leave in twenty minutes to meet up with Erin.”
“See? It’s that easy,” Penn mutters.
“Exactly,” D-Low says. “Now start talking.”