4. Mackie
MACKIE
He comes back the next day. And the next. And the next.
By Friday, I’ve figured out that he likes maple and vanilla, hates caramel, and will drink basically anything I put in front of him as long as I’m the one handing it over.
I’ve been using him as a test subject for new recipes all week and he hasn’t complained once, he simply takes whatever I make and thanks me like I’ve done him some huge favor when really I’m just seeing how far I can push it before he admits he doesn’t actually like black coffee.
It’s annoying how endearing that is.
He’s also terrible at small talk. On Tuesday he asked if it was a busy day when there were exactly two other people in the cafe.
On Wednesday he asked about the espresso machine and I joked that it takes years of training, I’m basically a surgeon, and he nodded seriously like he believed me.
I almost felt bad. Almost. Thursday he tried to compliment the music, which was Mr. Brightside for the nine hundredth time, and I said “it’s a classic” with a straight face and watched him agree like we were discussing Beethoven.
Every single day he stands at the counter a little too long, ears pink, fumbling for something to say. Every single day he chickens out of whatever he actually wants.
I know what he wants. I’ve known since day two.
He wants my number.
And I could make this easy for him. I could offer it, write it on his cup, pass it across the counter with a wink. That’s what a nice person would do.
But I don’t want to make it easy.
I want to watch this six-foot-something hockey player who throws himself in front of pucks for a living stumble over his words trying to ask me out.
I want to see his ears turn red and his hands fidget and his eyes dart everywhere except my face.
I want him to want it badly enough to be terrified and do it anyway.
That’s probably mean. I don’t care.
Now it’s Saturday and there’s an actual line that he’s standing in, looking like he’s about to face a firing squad.
His lips are moving and it takes me a second to realize he’s rehearsing, oh my god he’s actually rehearsing, and he keeps running his hand through his hair and then stopping himself and then doing it again.
He’s wearing a Puckaneers hoodie that’s a little too big and gray sweatpants and he looks like he just rolled out of bed.
I want to put him in my pocket and keep him forever.
Which is such a problem, because I’ve been a little bit obsessed with Zach Almardon since before he ever walked into my coffee shop behind Rodriguez.
Watching him stutter over the menu is giving me whiplash because there’s a significant difference between the guy who aggressively kissed me on a dark patio two weeks ago and this guy who can’t even form a sentence.
And then he opened his mouth and fumbled the coffee order so badly that I realized—he’s shy. Genuinely, deeply shy. And something about that, about this giant stoic goalie turning pink over an espresso menu because he likes me that much, made me want to tease him until he smiled.
So I did.
Which makes it even worse that my dad would absolutely murder this man if he knew I’ve spent the last week thinking about his hands.
Big hands. Goalie hands. Yeah, I’ve definitely noticed that.
I also know according to my dad that Zach has “solid fundamentals and a good head on his shoulders.” I know my dad likes him.
I know my dad has been mentoring him. I know he probably walked into Pucks & Pucks and recognized me when Rodriguez said my name and connected the dots the way anyone in the organization would, because everyone in the Puckaneers universe knows who I am. I’m not exactly hiding.
The line moves. He’s two people away and he looks panicked.
One person away.
And then he’s in front of me, looking at me with that little half smile like he’s not quite sure how he ended up here.
“Hey,” I say. “The usual?”
“Actually—” His voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. “Actually, I was wondering if—”
He pauses and stares at the menu like it might feed him his lines.
“If?” I prompt.
“If you wanted to—” Another pause. His hand comes out of his hoodie pocket and runs through his hair before he shoves it back in. “I mean, if you’re not busy, and you don’t have to say yes, but I was thinking maybe—”
“Zach.”
He stops and looks at me with wide eyes.
“Are you trying to ask for my number?”
His face goes from pink to full red. “I—yes. Yeah. I’m trying to—” He exhales. “I’m really bad at this.”
“I noticed.”
“I’ve been practicing in the car.”
“I believe you.”
“I looked up what to say and everything but now I’m here and none of it—I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do after you give me your number, is there a waiting period before I text or—”
“Zach.”
He stops again. I’m grinning. I can’t help it. He’s such a disaster and I’m so into it.
“Give me your phone,” I say.
He hands it over immediately, like I’m a cop asking for his license and registration. I type in my number, text myself so I have his, and hand it back.
“There,” I say. “Now you have my number and I have yours and you can stop stressing about it.”
He looks between me and his phone.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“I didn’t even—I had a whole thing prepared. There were talking points.”
“I’m sure they were great talking points.”
“They really weren’t.” He’s smiling and slightly stunned, like he prepared for every outcome except the one where it actually worked. “Thank you. For putting me out of my misery.”
“You were starting to scare the other customers.”
He laughs and motions at the line forming behind him.
“I should let you work,” he says.
“Probably.”
“But I’ll text you?”
“You’d better.”
He’s still standing there, smiling and still looking at me like he can’t quite believe this is happening when the girl behind him in line clears her throat.
“Go,” I say. “Before I change my mind.”
He goes. Nearly walking into someone on his way out because he’s looking back at me instead of where he’s going. The door closes behind him and I watch through the window as he gets to his car, sits in the driver’s seat, and immediately puts his head on the steering wheel.
I’m laughing when I turn to the next customer.
He texts me forty-five minutes later.
Zach
Hi. This is Zach. From the coffee shop. You probably already know that because you put your number in my phone. So you know it’s me. Anyway. Hi.
Me
Hi Zach from the coffee shop.
Zach
I wanted to make sure I had the right number. Not that you would give me a fake one.
I mean, maybe you would. People do that sometimes. Not that I think you would.
I’m going to stop typing now.
Me
Please don’t. This is the most entertainment I’ve had all week.
Zach
Great. Glad my suffering is useful.
Me
Extremely.
Zach
Cool cool cool
So
I know this is fast, and you can say no, but
Would you want to hang out sometime? Outside of the coffee shop? In a location where I haven’t humiliated myself?
Me
Bold of you to assume you won’t humiliate yourself elsewhere.
Zach
Fair. Humiliation is probably inevitable at this point.
But maybe you could be there to witness it?
Me
Wow. You really know how to sell a girl on a date.
Zach
Is that a yes?
I make him wait exactly two minutes before I respond. Not because I need to think about it, I knew my answer before he finished asking, but because I like the idea of him staring at his phone right now, probably convinced I’ve changed my mind.
Me
Yes, Zach. That’s a yes.
Zach
Really?
Me
Really.
Zach
Okay. Cool. Great. I’m going to go lay down now
Me
Try not to die before our date.
Zach
No promises.
I’m still grinning when I get home and flop on my bed with my phone, scrolling back through our conversation even though I basically have it memorized already.
Zach
Try not to think about me too much before Saturday.
Me
You’re assuming that I’ll think about you at all.
Zach
You’re right. Why would you. I’m very forgettable. Just a guy. Average height. Normal face. Nothing special.
Me
You’re over 6 feet
Zach
Is that tall? I hadn’t noticed.
I’m laughing at my phone when my dad knocks on my open door.
“What’s got you so giggly?”
I look up. He’s leaning in the doorway. Jack Anderson. Alternate captain. Twenty years in the NHL. The reason I know what icing means and what a power play is and why you never, ever date hockey players.
“Nothing,” I say. “Just texting.”
“Mhmm.” He gives me the dad look. “That’s a lot of smiling for nothing.”
“I have a date, okay? With a guy. Don’t make it a thing, please.”
I can feel the shift in the room before he even says anything, the way the casual lean against the doorframe stops being casual. “A date,” he repeats. “With a guy.”
“That’s typically how dates work.”
“What kind of guy?”
“A nice guy.”
“He better be.” He crosses his arms. “I hope he’s not one of these hockey types.
I’m serious, Mack. I’ve been around these guys for twenty years and I love them but half of them have the emotional maturity of a golden retriever and the other half think—” He stops.
“Actually, no, some of the guys on the team are great. Rodriguez is great. Luca’s a good guy underneath all the—” He waves his hand.
“But as a general rule. For dating purposes. Hockey players are a gamble.”
“Dad, you ARE a hockey player.”
“Which is how I know. I was terrible in my twenties. Ask your mother. She’ll tell you stories that would make you lose all respect for me.” He points at me. “I just don’t want you dealing with the schedule, the travel, the ego stuff. You’re too smart for that.”
“Noted.”
“Is he an athlete?”
“Oh my god, goodbye.”
“I’m just asking!”
“Goodbye, Dad.”
He lingers for a second like he wants to keep going, then shakes his head and leaves. I hear him telling Mom in the hallway, ‘She’s got a date with some guy and she won’t tell me anything about him,’ and Mom’s response, muffled but clearly amused, something along the lines of leave her alone, Jack.
He’s not wrong, is the thing. Everything he said about hockey players is true. The schedule is brutal, the travel is constant, and the ego thing is real. I’ve seen it my whole life, watched guys let the league turn them into people their families barely recognize.
And I’m going on a date with one anyway. The quiet one who sits at the end of the bench and works harder than anyone, who has these big, bright eyes that go all panicked when he’s trying to talk to me.
This is either going to be really great or really, really stupid.
He texts me one more time before I fall asleep.
Zach
So Saturday. Mini golf. 6pm. Prepare to lose.
Me
Bold words from a guy who couldn’t even order coffee without having a meltdown.
Zach
That was different. You were there.
Me
I’ll be there Saturday too.
Zach
Yeah. I’m counting on it.