Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
I stare at her. “He has a skin care routine?”
She looks like I need a good slap to knock me out of my confused state. “Focus, Win. This is huge. You have a professional hockey player who has asked you out on a date.”
My mind swims, my heart pounds. I’m equal parts fascinated and terrified at the prospect. In a million years, I never thought my video would catch the interest of a professional athlete who looks like a god carved from marble.
Eyes locking on to Kelsey, I stammer, “But… but… he’s not exceedingly average. I specifically said I was looking for average. He’s nowhere close to normal.”
Kelsey seems puzzled and then lifts a shoulder. “Well, he plays third line, so I guess that would be considered average by professional hockey standards.”
“I have no clue what that means,” I say, clueless.
My phone buzzes again. Probably another text, another alert, another five hundred strangers dissecting my facial expressions frame by frame.
I feel like I should crawl under a desk. But instead… I need to nip this in the bud so things can return to normal and I can await an average prince.
The final bell rings, indicating that we need to get into our classrooms before the kids revolt and mount a coup. “We’ve gotta go,” I mumble to Kelsey, pulling away and leaving her phone in her hands.
“But you’re going to accept the date, right?” she pleads, clutching it to her chest.
“He’s not average,” I remind her. “He doesn’t make the cut.”
Her last look bestowed upon me says, You’re crazy as hell and I’m embarrassed to call you a friend.
But I don’t have time to second-guess myself. TikTok goes on the back burner and my kindergarten hat is on. I walk into my classroom like I’m not internally combusting.
Even if I totally am.
♦
I shove the door open with my hip, juggling my phone, tote bag, keys and a bag of organic dandelion greens I picked up for Buttermilk because he’s spoiled and I live to serve him.
The second I step inside, I’m met with his signature thump from the living room. It’s either a warning or a welcome. Jury’s still out.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I call, kicking off my shoes and setting the greens on the counter. “But I bring tribute.”
I unclip the gate of his pen and he hops out with all the enthusiasm of a pejorative marshmallow. He circles my feet once, then darts for the treat bowl like he’s been starved for a week.
Lies. He had breakfast, second breakfast, and a hay cube.
I plop onto the couch, still wearing my coat, and groan as I watch him devour his dinner like the world’s most passive-aggressive food critic.
“So,” I say, pulling my phone from my coat pocket. “You’ll never guess who stitched me today.”
He pauses his chewing just long enough to give me one of his slow blinks.
“Lucky Branson,” I say, feeling like the name itself is radioactive. “As in the professional hockey player. Verified. Abs for days. Probably sleeps on Egyptian cotton and drinks protein shakes with ingredients I can’t pronounce.”
Buttermilk sits down, a dandelion green sticking out the side of his mouth. He stares at me intently and thumps three times.
“Exactly,” I whisper. “I’m as confused as you are.”
I toss my phone onto the coffee table like it might bite. “And the comments? Absolutely feral. People are tagging their friends, yelling at me to say yes, accusing me of being blind, dumb or in need of medical attention if I pass this up.”
I sigh and sink deeper into the cushions.
“I mean, I get it. He’s hot. Like, magazine-cover hot. And that voice? That smirk? If I had a dollar for every time someone said ‘This is your Roman Empire,’ I could retire from influencing tomorrow.”
Buttermilk hops onto the couch beside me and nibbles the zipper of my coat like I deserve to be punished.
“Oh, don’t worry, I googled him,” I say, grabbing a throw blanket to wrap around my legs. “Played for three teams before the Titans. Has a cult following on TikTok. Once did an underwear ad that I’m pretty sure added three degrees to global warming.”
My rabbit thumps again, back leg smacking my thigh.
“No, I’m not being dramatic. Okay, maybe a little. But tell me what part of that screams average to you? I specifically asked for normal.”
I pull my legs up, resting my chin on my knees. “This has all the makings of a comedy, yes. But also? Disaster. A beautiful, marble-sculpted, viral train wreck disaster.”
Buttermilk stretches out beside me, clearly done with this conversation. His ears flop over and his back leg twitches once like he’s had enough of my spiraling.
“Fine,” I say, reaching for my ring light and tripod from behind the couch. “I’ll be the mature one and respond with grace and clarity.”