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)
“Is this considered the second date?” Kelsey muses as I stare at the tickets.
“I don’t know,” I answer.
Truthfully, I don’t know what this means other than it’s impressing me and I’m hard to impress. And part of me doesn’t want to be impressed. I want to remain bitter and skeptical of men because otherwise I’ll have nothing left to poke fun at.
“I think you should go to the game, Win.” Kelsey puts her hand on my shoulder, her face a mask of empathy. “I get it’s hard to choose between an accountant and a professional hockey player. The only thing that you really need to know is that if you go to that game, I better be the one you take.”
I snort and pat her hand. “You’re the one I’d take. I’m going to think about it. I’ll let you know.”
I head back to my classroom and prep everything for Monday. I pack up my things and drive home with the flowers belted in like a passenger. I glance at them at every stoplight, like they’re going to offer me guidance or whisper secrets from Lucky’s subconscious.
When I get inside, Buttermilk thumps three times from his favorite corner as if to say, “You’re late and I’m starving.”
“Same, fluffball,” I mutter, setting my bag down and opening his pen. He jets out and zooms in circles while I head into the kitchen, then fuss with the flower arrangement and force myself not to smile like a giddy schoolgirl.
I open the fridge. It’s a sad graveyard of almond milk, expired salsa and half a lemon. Dinner is either popcorn or making an effort, and I am not emotionally available for effort.
Buttermilk hops to my feet and glares up at me with the quiet disdain of a barista who knows I spelled my own name wrong on the mobile order. “Don’t start,” I say, grabbing a carrot and placing it on the floor before him. “I’m having a moral crisis.”
He crunches loudly without a single note of sympathy in his beady eyes.
Typical.
I flop onto the couch and grab my phone. The TikTok I posted during lunch has now passed two hundred thousand views. The comments are a mix of encouraging and downright nosy.
@DogMomJen: “Winnie. Bestie. You HAVE to give Lucky a second date and ditch any other potentials. We’re all living vicariously through you.”
@GretchenWithAPlan: “No offense, but if you don’t go out with him again, I will.”
@ChaosGoblin420: “He’s too hot to be trusted. This is the beginning of a rom-com or a court case.”
I scroll, heart pounding, then set the phone down.
“Okay,” I say aloud, looking over the back of the couch at Buttermilk still munching his carrot in the kitchen. “Let’s be reasonable. I have two options tonight. I can go meet Mark, an accountant who made one joke and might unironically enjoy spreadsheets… or go to a professional hockey game to watch a guy who has already made me laugh more in one night than most men have in a year.”
I pause. Then throw my head back and groan into the couch cushion.
“Why is this so hard?” I say, muffled into the fabric. “Why do I always feel like choosing fun is a trap?”
Buttermilk hops onto the rug in front of me, sits like a small, fluffy therapist, and gives me his usual look of passive reproach.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mumble. “You don’t even date.”
The thing is… I know what I want. I’ve known since I opened that envelope and saw the tickets. I wanted to hug Kelsey and scream. I wanted to put on something cute and fun and go cheer Lucky Branson on. But I didn’t want to admit that out loud. Because that feels like giving something up. Like maybe I’ve already lost control of the experiment.
Of myself.
But maybe—just maybe—this is the fun part. The spontaneous part. The part where I let myself feel instead of strategize.
I pick up my phone and text Kelsey, You free tonight?
Her reply is almost instantaneous. If this is about a hockey game, I’m already putting on my lipstick.
I grin and rise from the couch, intent to put on that cute outfit, maybe some more makeup and possibly curl my hair. I type back a quick message. Pick you up at 6. And bring your foam finger.
I turn to Buttermilk. “We’re doing this. We’re going. And I’m not going to worry about the what ifs. Deal?”
He thumps once.
I take that as approval.
CHAPTER 9
Winnie
The energy inside the arena is… a lot.
I expected noise. I expected overpriced nachos and a sea of Titans’ jerseys. What I didn’t expect was the feeling that hits me when Lucky Branson skates onto the ice for the Titans’ warm-up.
Kelsey nudges me hard with her elbow. “There he is. Mr. Not Average himself.”
I follow her gaze and spot him instantly—dark jersey, #27, moving across the ice with a power that makes it hard to look away. His stride is confident, effortless, like the rink is an extension of his body. The crowd screams with approval as he drops a puck over the glass to a little Titans fan on the other side. I try not to, but I can’t help smiling a little.