Chapter 25
LEAH
I debate whether I should reply to Hudson’s texts or continue to torture myself with puck bunny posts.
Instead, I check out a decluttering account that keeps popping up on my feed.
She has a no-fail system that will turn my mess into tidiness.
I scroll and scroll, getting sucked into before and after transformations of rooms. They look like they were hit by a cyclone and then with a swipe, they’re neat spaces that are attractively decorated and functional. If only it were that easy.
Oh! And she has a free introductory workshop and a free ten-step printable!
This is right up my alley. Unfortunately, Lloyd is also practicing his operatic baritone snore while it sounds like Mirin and Branch are practicing roller derby.
Also, a strange clanking noise filters up from the actual alley below.
My phone beeps with an unread text reminder and I peek at what Hudson wrote.
Hudson: Hi! How’s the date going?
Me: Bro, you wouldn’t believe it … well, maybe you would because you matched me with a dud.
Hudson: What? Crew is a great dude.
Me: And it was obvious he thought of me as one of the dudes by calling me bro repeatedly.
Hudson: Oh, that. You get used to it.
Me: Afraid not.
Hudson: So you don’t like when people call you bro? Noted.
Me: Does the guy from Boston do that too?
Hudson: Of course not. It’s a unique quirk. I think you’ll like Boston, though. He’s cool.
The three little dots blink on my phone as I think of what to say next. Wait. Does that mean Hudson is doing the same thing or is he penning an essay? He could be writing a biography on the next guy, so I know what to expect.
But I should reply because he texted last.
What should I say? I bite my lip while thinking. Why am I overthinking this?
Thanks for the lousy date. No.
I hope the next one is better. Also no.
Let’s hope you’re more superior at net minding than you are at matchmaking. Even for me, that’s harsh.
Why does Hudson lift my hackles so much? Maybe I should talk to him about it. This town isn’t big enough for so much resentment.
I start to write an email, explaining my true identity, at last. Before I press send, I put it in my drafts folder. No. I can’t reveal that I’m his secret adversary. Not yet. Not ever. Because then he’ll think that I cared about the comment he made back in high school.
But I did.
I really, really did.
What could that mean?
Did I like Hudson rather than Hunter?
No, it was that Hudson thwarted my chances with Hunter. Not that Hunter was expressing interest. I mush my head into my pillow, which smells strangely like incense. I don’t burn it. I sniff the air but don’t catch a whiff and try my pillow again.
It smells like perfumed wet ash. I tear off the pillow case and stuff my pillow in a clean T-shirt since I need to do laundry. The last time Rasmus had one of his special circles in the living room, I found a very large and sweaty bald man sitting on my favorite boy band pillowcase from home.
I washed it three times, and it still smelled like sausage so I had Mami bleach it. I frown, feeling slightly homesick even though Cobbiton is only twenty minutes away, fifteen at this time of night with no traffic. I could go there now.
Nothing is stopping me.
Not until Hudson texts me again.
Hudson: So about the homecoming dinner and dance …
Me: What about it?
Hudson: You can’t very well bring a player from another team.
Me: Obviously.
Margo has been so excited about the first annual Cobbiton Hockey HoCo, it’s all she’s been talking about.
Well, and my wedding, which are only two weeks apart.
Is Hudson trying to ask me to go with him?
Badaszek made it clear that the new goalie and I would attend together.
My stomach does a little scrunch followed by a shimmy. What’s that all about?
Probably indigestion from the cheese balls. If Mami found out about my dinner choice, she’d set up a temporary kitchen on the roof and have the Hy-Vee air-drop bags of groceries.
Hudson: There’s a guy on the team who’d go with you.
Me: Can we be done talking about this?
Which is my way of saying we are. I practically throw my phone across the room, then I risk never seeing it again. The rats are busy after dark.
If Hudson wants to take me, why can’t he just ask?
Why hasn’t a male ever asked me on a date?
Out to dinner? To spend time with him? Well, except Marcel on the first floor of the building.
He suggested we get cozy early one morning when I was leaving to pick Abuela up at the airport. Said he had some waffles under his bed.
Go figure.
Not going to lie. I stew until I can’t take it anymore.
from:
to: Hudson Roboveitchek
date: September 29, 11:09 PM
subject: Re-Thinking Things
Dear Pumpkin Guts,
I find it very unlikely that you get fan mail, but in case you do, here’s some hate mail! This should be fun!
Let’s see, where to start? Your smile reminds me of spoiled milk. Your eyes are like two cane holes in a cow turd. Everything you say is an empty effort to get people to like you.
Just thinking about the sound of your voice makes me want to throw up in my mouth. How do you live with yourself?
Just a few days ago, I was in a coffee shop and someone dumped their entire cappuccino on me. If that happens to you, I hope they don’t apologize either. Also, if you have life goals, I hope they get blocked at every turn, sending you back to square one.
To be clear, you don’t matter to me. I don’t like you. And I’ll be happy if all your life and love plans backfire.
Wishing you unwell!
Coldest Regards,
Your Secret Adversary
However, for once, my missive doesn’t make me feel better. I feel crossed up like two hockey players are closing in on me. Only, I’m afraid there’s only one that I want.
I toss the notion out as quickly as it comes and return to my revenge bedtime procrastination routine and read a post about sorting items into three boxes: throw away, donate, and keep.
Thoughts of Hudson Roboveitchek belong in the first bin. Right?
The next week, while I nibble on a croissant at book club, the girls discuss which tropes to pick for our next romcom read.
“Definitely hate to love,” Ella says.
“What about forbidden romance like best friend’s brother?” Cara asks.
Gracie waves her finger for everyone’s attention. “I vote it should include small town.”
Margo adds, “How about arranged marriage, too?”
I slant my gaze at her. At all of them.
Then Whit adds, “With pining.”
“So a second chance?” Delaney asks.
Cara says, “Second chance-ish.”
“Like second chance adjacent?” Delaney clarifies.
Heidi helps herself to a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. “But is it a second chance if the love interests knew each other but didn’t necessarily like each other originally?”
They get the full Leah Smith glare because their suggestions are none too subtle.
Then Ella asks, “Leah, the first date was a dud, did you go on the second two or did you realize—?”
Thankful for a slight change of subject, I tell them about how John Z from Boston and I went to the zoo.
“I used to love visiting there when I was a kid,” Heidi says and comments on how we should all visit soon.
“I think Meg has a family pass. She’ll meet us,” Delaney says.
That settled, they turn back to me. Even though they include me most of the time, without my own hockey guy, I sometimes feel like an outsider.
Margo asks, “So John Z.”
“Wait. Are you calling him John Z as in zebra or—?” Gracie looks slightly puzzled.
Heidi asks, “Did you see the zebras?”
This is as bad as trying to have a conversation with my family, which makes me extra glad that none of my dates worked out because it would mean trying to do something long-distance … or moving.
Omaha is far enough.
I say, “John Zimmer. He plays for Boston.”
“But you keep calling him John Z.”
“That’s what he told me to call him.”
“Is he stuck in the third grade when there were three Johns so they had to add the surname initial? We had three Jennifers,” Whit says.
I sigh because that wasn’t the worst of it.
Ella interjects and tells them about how Crew from the Swashbucklers repeatedly called me bro.
“Okay, so back to the date with John Z,” Whit says as if she anticipates a story inbound.
“We went to the zoo and he was on his phone the whole time.”
“Even with the new otter exhibit?” Jess asks, looking up from her device as she checks out the zoo’s offerings.
“Didn’t even take a peek at them.” Lips pressed together, I shake my head.
Delaney chops her hand through the air. “Major red flag.”
“That’s two out of three. What about Houston?”
I drop my head into my hands. “He was the worst, which just proves that I’m undatable.”
The girls circle around me, rub my arm and back, and tell me that it’s not true. I’m not looking for kind words or pity. More like I can’t hold back the truth any longer.
“Darlin’, what did he do?” Gracie asks.
“You’d better believe we will take him downtown during his next game,” Jess says, her usual sweet tone laced with menace.
“We went out to eat after the game. He pretended it was his birthday because the restaurant offered free dessert. Afterward, I was all enthusiastic like, ‘You should’ve told me ahead of time.’ To which he said, ‘Oh, it’s not my birthday. I just wanted the free cake and ice cream.’”
“Meanwhile, he makes an NHL player’s salary,” Whit says with disgust.
“But that’s not the worst of it. He left me with the bill.”
“It’s not uncommon for people to split it on the first date,” Delaney says carefully.
“No, I mean he just left. I excused myself to use the bathroom and he was gone.”
Ella breathes, “No way.”
I nod.
Whit says, “A date and dash is unforgivable.”
“Cheapskate.” Ella shakes her head. “Literally.”
Jess leaps to her feet, arm lifted like she’s wielding a sword. “Revenge is ours.”
We all look at her in silence.
“Too much?”
“Thanks for having my back, but …” I trail off because this just really drives home the point.
I’m not enough. Never have been. I’m fine for a chat about hockey.
Know my way around a conversation about dekes and drop passes, who won the finals, and the promising prospects for the season.
I’ve won fantasy hockey three times. But I’ve never had a real date. Or even a guy genuinely interested.
Maybe I should have a pity party. Just me, myself, and I to get it out of my system because while my best friends mean well, maybe it’ll just never happen for me.
The girls split off into conversations about bad dates.
Delaney was once taken to a timeshare seminar.
Whit tells a story about a guy who argued with her about what they’d do if they had a million dollars.
She shut it down after thirty minutes, telling him that she did have a million dollars—back when she worked a corporate job in the city.
“So what’s next for you?” Cara asks.
Margo says, “The Cobbiton HoCo, of course.”
“Since it’s just for the Knights, shouldn’t it have the team name in the title so Nancy Linderberg doesn’t think she can show up?”
“I like the CoHoHoCo,” I suggest.
Heidi says, “What about Hockey Town HoCo.”
“Has a ring to it,” I say, then immediately regret the word choice.
“Still too broad,” Gracie says.
I know it’s silly to let anything that happened in high school have any bearing on my life today, but I made the mistake of holding out for Hunter to ask me to a school dance. He said proms were for losers. I suggested we do something fun instead. He said he had band practice.
While what people say on social media might be one big fabrication after the other, photographs don’t lie and the next day, I saw several with Hunter at a prom party getting cozy with a girl from our chemistry class.
I convinced myself the guys in the band insisted Hunter go with them to the party and he was probably just helping Vicky get home safely.
I’m really starting to wonder about the stories I’ve told myself about the Roboveitchek brothers.