23. Chapter Twenty-Three #3
"It's supposed to be." I move closer, tucking a strand of still-damp hair behind her ear.
"I want to take you on an actual date, Sarah.
Not just hanging out or grabbing food between your rescue shifts and my games.
A real date where I pick you up and take you somewhere nice and treat you like someone who deserves my best effort. "
"You don't have to put together some big plan to impress me."
"I want to."
She's quiet for a moment, then nods. "Okay. Seven o'clock."
"Seven o'clock."
She takes her tea and toast back toward her room, and I pull out my phone and pull up the What the Puck chat.
??What the Puck ??
Taking Sarah on a real date tonight. Need restaurant recs
Crash
FINALLY
about fucking time Sunshine
Sticks
Wing Weds cancelled for Thanksgiving anyway. What do you need
Somewhere fancy. Want to do this right
Crash
Uchi. upscale sushi she'll love it
Not taking a pregnant woman to a sushi place. But I can't tell Crash that yet.
Sticks
Jeffrey's. Classic steakhouse can't go wrong
Crash
wait no
Marie's Brasserie
French. romantic as hell
you might even get laid. girls love French shit
ooh la la and all that
Sticks
Quacking Duck for farm to table vibes
but this isn't friend casual Kev
this is "you're special" fancy. Go big
Crash
flowers too. dress up. show her you planned it
My parents are coming in tomorrow for Thanksgiving
Pause in the chat.
Crash
U said that in Carolina. they know about her?
Not really. They know we're friends bc of Ranger
Anything else is tomorrow's problem
Sticks
Dude
you're bringing a girl home for Thanksgiving?
I hadn't thought about it like that. But yeah. That's exactly what I'm doing.
Technically they're coming here
Crash
this is serious isn't it
Yeah. It is
Sticks
Then Marie's. 7:30 reservation. Tell them it's an anniversary
Crash
it's not their anniversary you dumb fuck
U have to have more than 1 date for that
Sticks
Marie's doesn't have to know — let them think you need the good table
Twenty minutes later, I've got a reservation at Marie's for 7:30, a corner table, and I've already ordered flowers to be delivered to my place by six.
Now I just have to figure out how to tell Sarah that Vegas wants me, Vancouver's asking questions, and Austin might not make a competitive offer.
And that our entire future might depend on which team I sign with.
But first, I need to get through this date without fucking it up.
At six-thirty, I'm standing in front of my closet with enough nerves to rival a playoff game. Navy suit or charcoal? I settle on the navy — brings out my eyes, according to my mom. And if you can't trust your mom's fashion advice before a first date, who can you trust?
Shirt. Tie. The good shoes that Biscuit didn't eat.
I check my reflection. I look like I'm headed to a press conference, not a date. Too much game-day Kevin. Not enough "please let me not fuck this up" Kevin.
I lose the tie. Unbutton the top button.
Better. I think.
Maybe.
The flowers arrived an hour ago—white roses, simple and elegant. I'm holding them when I knock on the guest room door at 6:55.
"Kevin, this is ridiculous. I can just—"
She opens the door and I forget all the nerves. I forget everything else in the whole world.
She's in a deep green dress that eyes look even brighter. It hits just above her knees and she's wearing heels that make her almost tall enough to kiss without me having to lean down quite so far.
Her hair's down in soft curls that make me want to forget dinner and run my fingers through them.
My brain completely flatlines. Every coherent thought I had about tonight just evaporated.
"You look beautiful," I manage.
She ducks her head, cheeks flushing. "You clean up pretty well yourself, St. Clair."
I hand her the roses. "These are for you."
"Kevin..." She takes them and her eyes get a little shiny. "You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to."
She walks toward the kitchen, her nose close to the petals. Rose scent doesn’t appear to trigger pregnancy nausea. I feel like this is a significant piece of knowledge. Maybe I’ll buy her roses every day from here on out.
"Ready?"
"Ready."
The drive to Marie's is quiet but there’s electricity running throughout the cab of my truck. Sarah keeps smoothing her dress over her thighs. I keep adjusting my grip on the steering wheel, trying to remember how to be a normal human on a date.
I've taken girls out before. Plenty of times. This shouldn't be this hard.
Except it's Sarah. And somehow that changes everything.
"This feels different," she says finally.
"It is different. I wanted to take you on a real date. Not just Wing Wednesday with the team. Not just Whataburger at midnight after games.”
I wanted to take this incredible woman on an actual date where I pick her up and take her somewhere nice and don't share her attention with six hockey players or where our interactions revolve around a dog.
I'm trying to show her what I can't say yet. That I'm all in. That it’s not just because she's my friend or because of my dog or because she’s now the mother of my kid.
It’s because she's everything.
And I'm not fucking this up.
I parallel park on the street — perfectly, thankyouverymuch — and come around to open her door.
"Very chivalrous, St. Clair," she says, but she's smiling.
"I'm trying here."
"I can tell."