Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
KATE
At first, I don’t notice it. I am crouched beside a student, assisting him with a word problem he finds personally offensive. The classroom buzzes around us, with chairs scraping, pencils tapping, and quiet murmurs from children tackling tasks that seem much larger than they really are.
“Break it down,” I say gently. “You know this.”
He frowns at the page like it’s betrayed him. “I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it. You just have to try.”
That earns me a reluctant sigh, but he leans in again, breaking it down into chunks instead this time. I give him a small smile of encouragement and straighten, brushing my hands against my trousers as I move back toward my desk.
That’s when I see the new email notification from an external address.
My stomach gives a strange little flip for no good reason.
I shouldn’t even be thinking about it. I get emails all the time from parents, admin, and many external services, but something about it pulls my attention before I even register the name.
And then I read it.
From: Lukas Devereaux
My brain stalls completely. For a full second, I just stare at the screen, as if it’s going to rearrange itself into something more logical. Something less… him.
It doesn’t.
The room continues around me, with the hum of children at work and pencils scratching, but everything feels slightly muted, as if I’ve stepped half a second out of sync with it.
He emailed me. At work. Oh my God, he emailed me at work.
A spike of heat rushes up my neck, settling in my cheeks as I glance far too quickly around the classroom, as if someone might somehow know what’s in my inbox.
No one is paying attention to me. Of course, they’re not; they’re all busy trying to figure out their answers. Still, I click the email open with a kind of cautious dread.
Bonjour Kate,
I hope this is not too strange. I promise I did not spend hours searching the internet like a creep (only a few minutes).
We have a home game this Friday night. I thought of you when I realised, mostly because you “notice patterns”, and I am now curious what you would see the second time.
If you and Hudson would like to come, I can arrange tickets. Good ones. No nosebleeds in the cheap seats.
No pressure. Just an invitation.
I promise not to be too distracting on the ice.
Lukas
I stare at the screen, then I read it again. And again.
There’s something deeply unfair about a man being this casually charming over email. It shouldn’t translate this well. It really shouldn’t.
My first coherent thought is neither romantic nor flustered, and it’s not even remotely appropriate.
It’s: This is my work email. My second thought is: Oh God, this is my work email.
Because it’s monitored. Not constantly, not in some Big Brother sense, anyway, but enough that the idea of this sitting in my inbox makes my entire body tense.
A professional hockey player has just emailed me, nope, flirted with me, through a school account that could, in theory, be accessed by admin.
Absolutely not.
I sit down quickly, fingers hovering over the keyboard as my brain scrambles to catch up with itself. I need to respond, but not here, not with this email address.
I type fast, before I can overthink it.
Hi
This is my work email, so probably not the best place for this conversation. You can reach me here instead:
I pause long enough to hesitate before typing my personal email address. Before I can rethink it or talk myself out of it, I hit send. The moment it’s gone, I lean back in my chair, my heart beating far faster than it has any right to.
What have I done? I’ve given a twenty-six-year-old hockey player my personal email address. A man who looks at me like I’m something interesting rather than something settled. A man who walked me to a tram and somehow made it feel like more than a tram ride.
“Kate?”
I blink, my attention snapping back into the classroom.
One of the teaching assistants is looking at me expectantly. “Sorry,” I say quickly, pushing myself upright. “Just checking something.”
I step back into the rhythm of the room because I have to.
There are children here who need my attention far more than my spiralling thoughts about an email.
But for the rest of the morning, I feel off, somewhat distracted.
Every time my laptop pings, my stomach jumps, and every time it doesn’t, I find myself thinking about it anyway.
By lunchtime, I’ve checked my personal email three times.
Nothing. Which is ridiculous. It’s been, what, an hour, maybe two?
He’s probably training, sleeping, or doing literally anything that isn’t sitting around waiting for me to reply.
I know that, and yet I’m still checking every thirty minutes.
To break the cycle I’ve found myself in, I head out to my car with my packed lunch and call Emma.
“Hey, you okay? You don’t normally call during the school day.”
“I guess so.”
“Kate.”
I sigh, because there’s no point pretending. Not with her. There never has been, so I tell her about Lukas's email.
“Oh my God,” she breathes.
“I know, right?” I almost squeal. I need to pull myself together. I’m a grown woman.
“This is incredible.”
“It’s not incredible,” I mutter, grabbing my sandwich just to have something to do with my hands.
“He emailed you,” she says, eyes wide. “At work.”
“I know. That’s the problem.”
“That’s not a problem. That’s commitment.”
“That’s inappropriate,” I counter.
Emma sighs dismissively. “It’s adorable.”
“It’s a monitored inbox,” I stress.
“Which is why you gave him your personal email,” she shoots back, far too quickly.
“That was damage control,” I say, even though it sounds weak the second it leaves my mouth.
“Mm-hmm. Of course it was.”
I drop my head into my hand. “Emma.”
I can feel her voice practically vibrating with excitement. “He asked you to a game. As his guest, with the good seats.”
“Yes, Emma. I can read,” I mutter.
“And you’re still pretending this is nothing?”
I drag my hand down my face. “I don’t know what it is.”
She’s silent for a moment, then says, “Okay. Then let’s figure it out.”
I exhale slowly, staring at the sandwich in my hand. “It’s… a lot.”
“It’s an invitation.”
“It’s not just that,” I say quietly. “It’s him.
It’s the age difference. It’s Hudson. It’s—” I gesture vaguely.
“Everything.” Emma doesn’t interrupt this time.
She just listens. “He’s twenty-six,” I continue, “A professional athlete. His life is completely different to mine. I have a fourteen-year-old son and a job that involves maths sheets and emotional regulation charts.”
“And?”
“And those things don’t mix,” I say, frustration creeping in. “Men like him don’t want this.” I gesture to myself even though she can’t see me.
Emma questions me. “What do you mean by ‘this’?”
I hesitate. “Responsibility,” I say finally. “Routine. A life that isn’t spontaneous.”
Emma huffs out her disagreement. “You think he doesn’t have responsibility?”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” she challenges gently. “From what I can see, his entire career depends on discipline, structure and commitment.” I falter slightly at that.
“He trains constantly,” she continues. “He performs under pressure. He has expectations of him all the time. That doesn’t sound like someone who only wants easy.
He left his home country to chase his dream for god’s sake. ”
I don’t have an immediate answer for that.
“He saw you,” she adds, softer now. “Not just at the game, but at the school with the kids. And he still emailed you.”
I look down at my hands, trying to make sense of it all.
“He didn’t accidentally stumble into this,” Emma says. “He chose it.” She allows me a moment to process that.
“What if it’s nothing?” I say quietly. “What if it’s just flirting? Something to pass the time?”
Emma shrugs. “Then you’ll find out.”
“And get hurt?”
“Or have fun,” she counters. “Or both. That’s kind of how it works.”
I blow out a small, humourless laugh. “You’re very relaxed about this.”
“Because it’s not that deep yet,” she says simply. “It’s a game. Not a marriage proposal.”
“A hockey game,” I add as though it makes a difference at this point.
“Exactly.”
I shake my head, but I can feel my resistance slipping. “And Hudson?” I ask, because that’s the one thing that matters most.
Emma softens. “Hudson already likes him.”
“He said he ‘seems alright,’ he doesn’t know him other than what he’s googled.” I correct.
“That’s basically a glowing endorsement from a fourteen-year-old boy.”
I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips. “He noticed how he played,” I admit. “He was analysing him.”
“Of course he was,” Emma says. “He gets that from you.”
I glance at her. “I do not analyse people. Okay, maybe a little.”
I lean back in my seat, staring at the car park for a moment. This is ridiculous. It’s one game, one evening. Not a commitment or a declaration. Just an opportunity.
“What if I say yes,” I say slowly, “and it makes things… complicated?”
Emma shrugs. “What if you say no and you regret it?”
That hits home. The truth is, I already know I would. I think about the stadium car park. The way he looked at me and listened. Something shifted, even if I can’t quite define what. I exhale slowly, trying to relieve some tension.
“Say yes,” she says gently. “Not because it has to mean something. But because you want to. For fun.”
I sit there for a long moment before answering. “Okay,” I say, more to myself than to her.
Emma’s chuckle is immediate and unstoppable as she squeals. “Yes!”
“I haven’t replied yet.”
“You’re going to.”
I don’t argue because she’s right. As soon as I end the call, I open my personal email. My heart picks up speed again as I start typing.
Hi Lukas,
I pause, staring at the screen for a second before continuing.
Probably a safer place to reply from here.
Thank you for the invite, it’s very kind of you. Hudson would definitely be interested (he’s doing “research,” apparently), and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious to see another game.
So, yes. We’d like to come.
I hesitate, then add, “Try not to be too distracting.”
I stare at it for a second, my lips curving slightly despite myself.
Then I hit send.