Max
I was back at the same restaurant, hoping for a date that wouldn’t include a seventy-slide tribute to her cats like the last one. So I ordered a beer and braced myself. Then Jill walked in, moving like she was on a catwalk. Her entrance only added to my growing unease.
“Finn!” she said in a high-pitched voice. “Oh my God, you’re, like, taller in person. I mean, duh, hockey player, but still. Wow.”
“Thanks,” I said, pulling out her chair.
She immediately pulled out her phone.
“Hold on,” she said, already angling for a selfie. “We need, like, a cute picture of us right now.”
Before I could even answer, she leaned in with her phone. “Say ‘date night!’”
“Date night,” I muttered, but only half a smile as the shutter clicked five times in a row. Five photos in two seconds. That had to be some kind of record.
“Perfect,” she said as she scrolled. “I’ll edit later.
Filters are everything.” Her eyes flicked up at me after reviewing the selfies.
“I just can’t believe I’m on a date with Max Finnegan!
You’re, like, huge. Not just tall, but like, broad.
You must live at the gym or something.” She reached for her phone again, tilting her head.
“And your hair, it’s so good, you know. Messy on top, but in that way that looks on purpose.
Do you put any product in it, or does it just fall like that? ”
I took a long drink of beer. This was going to be something.
The waiter appeared.
“Ugh, hi,” Jill said, not looking up from her phone. “I’ll have a martini. Extra olives. Like, really extra. Don’t skimp.”
“We never skimp, madam.” The waiter gave me a look that said good luck with that, and walked off.
Finally, Jill put her phone down and leaned in. “So, Finn, tell me everything. Like, what’s it like being famous?”
“I’m not famous.”
“Um, yes, you are. You’re, like, a hockey player. People recognize you. That’s, like, literally fame.”
“Mostly people just want me to block shots and not screw up line changes,” I said.
She giggled. “Oh my God, that’s so funny. But seriously, do you get, like, free stuff? Clothes, cars, whatever? Because you totally should.”
I forced a smile, nodding as I took another drink, wondering if I could survive the evening with my sanity intact.
Dinner arrived, and Jill’s eyes lit up, not because of the food, but because of the presentation.
“Wait, wait, don’t touch it!” she shrieked as she grabbed her phone again. “I need to get the shot.”
She stood, angled the plate, shifted the candle. “Hold your glass up a little higher. No, higher. Tilt it. Tilt! Okay, perfect. Ugh, this lighting is tragic. Can you, like, lean closer? Closer. Smile! Oh my God, gorgeous.”
The waiter stood nearby, holding a tray with a neutral expression, though a flicker of amusement danced in his eyes. When Jill finally sat down again, he asked with a wry smile, “Should I reheat the food, since it’s had its photoshoot?”
Jill blinked. “What?”
“Never mind,” he said smoothly, turning away.
I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing.
As the evening wore on, Jill’s monologue continued unabated.
Jill: “I mean, I could never eat carbs. Like, look at me. Do I look like I eat carbs? No. But, like, bread smells so good, right?”
Me: “Sure.”
Jill: “I go to the gym twice a day. Not because I need to, obviously, but because, like, wellness is a lifestyle. I mean, I could teach classes. People always ask me, like, ‘How do you stay so skinny?’ and I’m like, ‘Genes, babe.’”
Me: (nodding, cutting steak) “Makes sense.”
Jill: “You’re so lucky you’re tall. Like, tall guys can wear anything. I swear, if I were a guy, I’d be a model. I mean, not that you’re not handsome. You definitely are. But, like, models are next level, you know?”
Me: “Right.”
Dessert was tiramisu, which Jill photographed from four angles before pushing it aside. “Too many calories. But it looks amazing on camera, right?”
“Absolutely,” I said, stabbing mine with gusto.
She frowned. “Are you really going to eat that?”
“Yep.”
“I mean, wow. Must be nice not having to care about calories.”
“Burns off in practice,” I said, deliberately taking another large bite. And if I was being honest, I wasn’t about to let a woman who hadn’t taken a single real bite of anything all night make me feel guilty about tiramisu.
By the time we stood to leave, my patience was stretched thin. I’d smiled, nodded and put up with the endless likes, you knows and I means, until they had lost all meaning.
On the sidewalk, Jill clung to my arm, her phone poised for yet another selfie. “Okay, one last one. Streetlight vibes, so chic.”
I forced a smile, my mind already halfway to my truck, when two guys across the street spotted me.
“Finn!” one shouted, jogging over. “Man, can we get a picture?”
“Sure,” I said, glad for the interruption. I posed, but Jill couldn’t resist getting into the frame.
“Dude,” one of the guys said, grinning, “where you two headed next?”
Jill’s face lit up. “We’re going to a club! Drinks and dancing, you know.”
I looked the guy straight in the eye. “She is. I’m going home.”
There was a moment of silence. Then the guys laughed, slapped my shoulder, and wandered off.
Jill blinked up at me and pouted. “Wait, what?”
I held the door of her cab open. “Thanks for dinner. Have a good night.”
Her mouth opened, then shut again, clearly not used to being dismissed, before huffing into the backseat and slamming the door. I stood there, with my hands in my pockets, staring at the empty curb.
Wow, that was brutal.
I exhaled, squared my shoulders, and started the walk back to my truck.
Two dates down. God knew how many to go.