Puck Shy (Carolina Comets)

HockeyGuy69: Go out with me.

I throw my phone.

Like clean across the room, just give it a toss.

Because what. The. Fuck?!

My phone buzzes over where it landed, and I’m scared to pick it up.

This must be what people mean when they say their heart leaped into their throat.

Because that’s where mine is right now.

A…date?

Not that I haven’t considered the possibility before. I mean, that’s what this whole thing is supposed to be leading to, right?

All of a sudden it just feels so real. Tangible.

Exciting.

Because I think I’d like a date with Wright.

I want to know if he’s this funny and bold in real life. If he’s this charming.

I scramble across the room at the thought of seeing him all dressed up and pluck my phone from the floor.

HockeyGuy69: Shit. I freaked you out, didn’t I?

HorrorHarper: No.

HorrorHarper: Okay, fine. Maybe.

HockeyGuy69: I guess what I should have asked was… Are you free next Saturday?

HorrorHarper: I’m always free on Saturdays.

HorrorHarper: Oh god. That makes it sound like I have no life. I swear I have a wife.

HorrorHarper: Crap! I meant LIFE.

HorrorHarper: I have a LIFE. Not a wife. Though if Kate Beckinsale came knocking at my door, I’m not entirely sure I’d turn her down.

HockeyGuy69: No sane person would.

HockeyGuy69: Also, your panicked texting is so cute.

HorrorHarper: Ah. The dreaded “cute” word.

HockeyGuy69: Is it a bad thing to be cute?

HorrorHarper: Not entirely. It’s just… Well, cute always seems to be delegated to the best friend’s tagalong little sister. Or the friend who makes you laugh but doesn’t make you…you know…hard.

HorrorHarper: Like your penis. I’m talking about your penis getting hard.

HockeyGuy69: Harper?

HockeyGuy69: I mean this with absolutely all the respect in the world, but shut up.

HockeyGuy69: Women overthink shit way too much.

HockeyGuy69: Your rambling is cute because it means you actually care about what I think of you. You’re cute because you’re funny and quick-witted. Cute because you’re unapologetically into what you’re into. Cute because you’re brave enough to put yourself out there for online dating.

HockeyGuy69: But, Harper? You’re also fucking gorgeous, and I’d be damn lucky if you said yes to going on a date with me.

I read his messages over and over again with shaking hands and heated cheeks.

I feel so silly getting flustered over the word cute, but when he spells it all out like that…

HockeyGuy69: Did I scare you away?

HorrorHarper: No.

HockeyGuy69: No I didn’t scare you or no to a date.

HorrorHarper: I’m not scared. Well, maybe a little. But I’m only scared because I really want to say YES to next Saturday but…I’m also worried.

HockeyGuy69: What’s to worry about?

HorrorHarper: Well, you could totally murder me for starters. I’m a horror movie lover. I am well versed in the dangers of meeting strangers.

HockeyGuy69: I promise not to murder you.

HorrorHarper: Promise promise?

HockeyGuy69: Yes. I look really good in a suit as long as it’s not a jumpsuit.

HorrorHarper: Why did I just get visions of you looking all hot in a Michael Myers jumpsuit?

HockeyGuy69: Because you’re demented.

HockeyGuy69: Speaking of Michael…I thought your profile specifically stated you were no Laurie Strode looking for her Michael. A good time, not a long time.

HorrorHarper: True…

HockeyGuy69: Then come have a good time with me, Harper.

A date with Hockey Guy?

It’s a bad idea. I just know it is.

I’m almost certain I’ll be stood up or let down. That’s usually how this whole internet-dating thing goes.

But I can’t stop myself from letting those thoughts of maybe creep in.

Maybe it won’t be bad.

Maybe he’ll be everything I hope he is.

Maybe even more.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I respond.

HorrorHarper: Yes.

“Okay, what the hell is going on? You’ve looked at your phone no less than six times in the last ten minutes. This is supposed to be our time, remember?”

My cheeks flush under Ryan’s watchful gaze.

Of course she’d pick up on that.

I don’t want to be that glued-to-the-phone type of girl, but I haven’t heard from him tonight and it’s way past the time when he usually texts.

Did he realize he made a mistake? Was this all a game? Is he ghosting me?

Ryan gasps, slapping at the table. “Oh my gosh. Puh-lease tell me you met someone on that app and you’ve been a really bad friend by holding out on me?”

Her eyes are bright and shiny and all kinds of excited as she wiggles her fingers.

I don’t want to lie to her, but I also kind of don’t want to share Hockey Guy with her just yet.

But Ryan being Ryan, she knows the truth before I can even say anything.

“You are! You’re totally holding out on me! Who is he? I want to see!” She reaches for my phone, but I pull it out of the way just in time. She pushes her lip out and crosses her arms over her chest, pouting. “You suck.”

“These are our private messages, you nosy brat.”

“Wait a minute…” She sits forward like it hits her all at once. “Harper Dolores, have you gone out on a date with this person?”

“No.”

She narrows her eyes. “Why does that feel like a loaded answer?”

I shrink back from her piercing dark green gaze.

Not much scares me, but Ryan?

Terrifies the crap out of me.

“Because it’s missing the words ‘not yet,’” I mumble, taking a sip of my frozen daiquiri to avoid looking at her, waiting for her reaction.

“You…you have a date and you didn’t tell me?”

She sounds…hurt.

And I didn’t mean to hurt her.

“Yes. But the only reason I didn’t say anything is because I didn’t want to jinx it. We’ve been talking every night, and things have been going well. He asked me out.”

“Shut up. When?”

“For Saturday.”

“Saturday Saturday? Like three days from now?” I nod, and she squeals with delight. “Oh my gosh. I’m so excited for you!”

“Me too.”

It’s true. Even though our texts have been brief since he asked me out, there is something low in my gut telling me I can trust him.

It’s that same feeling I had when I let Collin into my car.

My mind begins to drift to the stranger again, but I don’t let it get far. I shouldn’t be thinking of him still, not really. He was nobody. Just a fun story to tell people. That’s all.

“So we’ve given up on Hot Hitchhiker, then?” Ryan asks like she knows I’m thinking about him.

I lift my eyes skyward. “We were never ‘on’ Hot Hitchhiker. You were the one obsessed with him.”

“Uh-huh. Says the girl who blushed the entire time she talked about him.” She takes a sip of her cocktail, lifting a pointed brow my way. “Anyway, let’s see our new boyfriend. Is he hot?”

I click on his profile and read it to her, letting her take a peek at the few photos he has. The same photos I’ve spent way too long staring at.

“Holy shit. Are those real?” She squints, leaning closer. “Because good lord. I swear I could wash my laundry on those bad boys. Specifically my panties.”

“Ryan!”

“What? I’d wash yours too. How come there are no pictures of his face?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. A lot of profiles are like that though.”

“Doesn’t that worry you?”

“Not really.”

“Hockey Guy, huh?” she asks, still staring down at his abs. “But you hate sports. What’s with you attracting dudes who like sports recently?”

“I know.” I wrinkle my nose, setting my phone aside. “It’s his one flaw. But we’ve clicked on other stuff, so I’m choosing to ignore that little passion of his.”

“Does he play or just a fan?”

I snort. “Right, because a hockey player needs to get on some dating app to get a girl to date him.”

“Hey, you never know. I saw a movie once where—”

“Ryan, we’ve talked about mixing up fairy tales and real life before.”

She sticks her tongue out at my teasing. “Fine. Either way, I’m just glad you are finally going to go out with someone. It’s been ages since you have.”

“It hasn’t been ages. Just…” I think back to the last time I did go on a date. Oh crap. “It’s been like a year,” I whisper.

She laughs. “Yeah, like I said, ages. You’ve been cooped up in your apartment being a badass girl boss and I think that’s great, but you haven’t been paying attention to your other needs.” Her brows bounce up and down. “If you catch my drift.”

“I take plenty care of myself, thank you very much.”

“Sure, the vibe is great, but we both know the real thing is better.”

“My vibrator always makes sure I come first.”

She groans. “Ugh. That is the worst. They either rail into you like they’re humping a couch or they can’t find your clit. Um, sir, it is literally right there!”

“What? You mean it’s not the fat roll on my thigh?”

“Does that feel good, baby?” she mocks in a deep voice. “I don’t know, Brad. Does it feel good when I lick your belly button instead of your dick? Because that’s about how far you are from my clit right now.”

We fall into a fit of giggles, several people staring at us. I can’t tell if it’s our loud laughter or if it’s Ryan they’re all staring at, no doubt recognizing her from social media. That tends to happen often when we go out.

“We should date better men,” Ryan says, composing herself. She tips her drink toward me. “Here’s hoping your Hockey Guy takes care of all your needs.”

“Ryan! I’m not going to sleep with him on the first date!”

“Hello, have you seen his abs? Maybe you need to look again.” She reaches for my phone again and I snatch it away. “Boo!”

“You know what? Maybe you should find someone to date. You’re clearly horny.”

“I’m, uh, actually seeing Steven again tomorrow night at my showing,” she says quietly. “You’re still coming, right?”

Ugh. Steven.

He’s a piece of work, and I don’t understand what Ryan sees in him. He’s an artsy type who is a little too heavy into the whole moody artist trope. To be frank, he’s a dick, and Ryan deserves better.

“You know I’ll be there. I can’t wait to see Steven again.” And punch him right in the taint.

Knowing my distaste for him, she laughs off my words, but I see the uncertainty in her own eyes.

“Anyway,” she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder and resting her arms against the table. “I know how you can make it up to me.”

“Make what up to you?”

“Not telling me about your absolute”—she winks at her own joke—“hockey hottie.”

“I told you, it was because—”

“You didn’t want to jinx it, didn’t know if it was going to be a thing…yeah, yeah.” She waves off my excuses. “Just let me guilt-trip you, okay?”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to tell me you’re guilt-tripping me.”

“I got some tickets…”

“No!” I hold my hand up, shaking my head. “Nope. I know where this is going already.”

“Come on, Harper, please!” She folds her hands together. “Please! You’re my best friend in the whole wide world and I want to experience my first ever live hockey game with you.”

“Where did you even get tickets to a hockey game? Are you even a hockey fan?”

“I like the butts.”

Okay, that’s fair.

“And remember those photographs I sold to that former pro-baseball player? I guess he’s some sort of hotshot sports agent now and had some tickets to spare. I wasn’t about to say no.” She bats her lashes at me. “Please, Harper, please. It’s this Friday and I really want to go.”

“I hate sports. You know that.”

“I do know that. But you know I hate when you hide things from me, and well”—she waves her hand across the table, sitting back in her chair with confidence—“look at us now.”

Dammit.

“That’s a low blow.”

She lifts a shoulder. “Told you I’d guilt-trip you.”

She did. She warned me.

“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “Fine. But I plan to complain the entire time.”

She grins triumphantly. “I would expect nothing less.”

“Oh god.”

A low moan escapes my lips, and I don’t even care.

I pull my other shoe off and another moan slips free as I sink my toes into the soft rug, loving the feel under my aching feet. I’m not used to wearing real shoes for more than a quick errand, and I am definitely not used to wearing heels.

Ryan had a small showing at a gallery downtown, so I was peopling for the past four hours, which is way too long for me. I’m going to have to do the same thing tomorrow at the hockey game I’m being forced to attend.

I’m beat. And starving. The hors d’oeuvres they were serving were way too tiny.

I need food and a bed—in that order.

I make my way to my bedroom and don’t feel an ounce of shame when I moan the moment my boobs fall out of my bra. I swap my jeans for pajama shorts and my silky blouse for an oversized shirt that has roughly twenty holes in it.

I’m scrubbing off the minimal amount of makeup I wore tonight when my phone buzzes against the counter.

I hurry to check it, hoping it’s Wright and feeling like a fiend looking for my next thrill.

HockeyGuy69: Say I’m on the hunt for something tasty and need a pick-me-up in the morning. What’s the best coffee shop in the city?

HorrorHarper: Mine.

HockeyGuy69: You own a coffee shop?

HorrorHarper: No. I make my own coffee.

HockeyGuy69: So let me get this straight—I ask for something tasty and you invite me over?

HockeyGuy69: Because if that’s the case, the answer is yes.

I chuckle. Of course that’s where he goes.

HorrorHarper: Slow your roll there, Mr. Romance.

HockeyGuy69: I’m sensing sarcasm regarding the name.

HorrorHarper: You’ve sensed right.

HorrorHarper: As for coffee, I have a whole coffee bar in my apartment and everything. Though Jennie’s Java isn’t too bad if you’re in a pinch.

HockeyGuy69: A coffee bar? Like a booze bar but for coffee?

I head into my kitchen, snap a quick picture of my setup, and send it to him.

While I wait for his response, I rifle through my cabinets for food, but there’s next to nothing in them and what I do have doesn’t sound good at all.

I place an order for a sub from my favorite place just a few miles away, then grab a glass of wine and settle onto the couch while I wait.

HockeyGuy69: How Pinterest of you.

HorrorHarper: Don’t poke fun. It’s genius! I save SO much money doing it this way.

HockeyGuy69: I’ve always thought coffee was equivalent to sandwiches or salads—they always taste better when someone else makes them.

HorrorHarper: Sure. If you don’t know what you’re doing.

HockeyGuy69: I feel like you’ve just insulted my cooking abilities.

HorrorHarper: Sandwiches and salads don’t count as cooking.

HockeyGuy69: That’s fair. And to be honest, I don’t really cook much anyway.

HorrorHarper: But you can cook, right? You just choose not to? Because a guy who can cook…wowza. *fans self*

HockeyGuy69: Cooking turns you on, huh?

HorrorHarper: Very much so.

HockeyGuy69: *signs up for cooking lessons*

HockeyGuy69: Honestly, though, sometimes my schedule doesn’t afford me much time to mess around in the kitchen, so I often opt for takeout or prepared meals from the nutritionist.

HorrorHarper: Is “nutritionist” a code word for mom?

HockeyGuy69: I just spit out my beer and now all my buddies are looking at me weird.

HorrorHarper: You’re out with friends right now?

HockeyGuy69: Unfortunately. I’d rather be at home, but I also kind of need to be here. It’s a work thing.

HockeyGuy69: And no, I actually mean my nutritionist.

HorrorHarper: *whistles* Someone’s fancy.

HockeyGuy69: Eh. Perks of the job.

HorrorHarper: I guess working in sports you would have access to things like that.

HorrorHarper: And no, that is not an invitation to start talking sports. I refuse to like them.

HockeyGuy69: We’ll see about that.

HorrorHarper: Might as well quit while you’re ahead. It’s not going to happen.

HockeyGuy69: I can be very persuasive, you know.

HorrorHarper: Oh, I don’t doubt that for a second.

HorrorHarper: Even though you don’t show your face in your profile pictures, I’m willing to bet you have a stupid dimple in your stupid face and it gets you all the stupid things you want.

HockeyGuy69: Would you like some fries to go with that salt?

HorrorHarper: YES!

HorrorHarper: But only because I’m hungry and haven’t had dinner yet.

HockeyGuy69: It’s like 9 PM! That is way past nom-noms time.

HorrorHarper: Agreed. And if I don’t get some nom-noms soon, I may rage.

HorrorHarper: I ordered some delivery.

HockeyGuy69: Please do not hurt the delivery person. I don’t want to have to go to court and testify against you. I mean, like I said, I look really good in a suit, so I’d do it, but please don’t make me.

HorrorHarper: You’d testify against me just to prove to everyone how good you look in a suit?

HockeyGuy69: 100%

Dots dance across the screen, then disappear.

It happens again.

Then again.

Hmm.

I set my phone aside, giving him time to figure out what he’s clearly struggling to say. I give my attention to the TV I’ve had on for background noise.

I wish I could say that by the time the delivery person rings the bell and I buzz them up, pay, and then settle back down with my food, I’ve forgotten all about the dancing dots.

But I haven’t.

Finally, when I’m halfway through my dinner, my phone buzzes again.

HockeyGuy69: I’m sorry I’ve been a little MIA lately.

HockeyGuy69: I don’t want to give the lame excuse of work but…work. The hours kind of suck sometimes.

I trust his words, but something is telling me it’s not the whole story.

I deserve the whole story.

HockeyGuy69: I’m sure you’re asleep by now, but I just wanted you to know that.

HockeyGuy69: Good night, Harper.

I don’t text him back.