A moment later and the profile for “HockeyLife2222” is set up. Now, I just have to figure out what to say in the message.
Our goalie is closest to me, lacing up his dress shoes on the bench. He’s a decent-looking guy who probably gets lots of women.
“Yo, Vincent.”
He pauses his tying to point to his own chest with his eyebrows raised. “Me?”
“Yeah, you. Great game tonight.”
He blinks at me for a long moment. “Ah, thanks, Preston.”
Getting right down to it, I say, “How do you let a woman know you’re interested in her without sounding like a creep?”
“How do you…fuck, I dunno. Let’s ask, Bryan. Hey, Bryan!” he calls out.
“Yeah?”
“What should Preston say to a woman he’s interested in that won’t make her instantly block him?”
“Hmm. Well, I guess you could say, ‘Hey, baby. When can I see you again’?”
I stare at him, waiting for the rest of his words of wisdom. They don’t come. “That’s it? That’s what I should say?”
Bryan shrugs and winks. “Works every time for me.”
I decide to leave off the term of endearment and reword his suggestion to say,You look good in my jersey and yoursign was a big hit with the entire team. Can I see you again soon?I’ve already hit send when I realize I added the wordsoonsubconsciously. I didn’t mean to use that word. But still, I don’t regret it. I want to see Elle again now, not in a few days, because I won’t be here in a few days. After game two, we’ll be heading back to D.C. for games three and four. Hopefully that will be all it takes for the Warhawks to win the championship. If so, I won’t be coming back to North Carolina again this year.
When I get dressed, I keep checking my phone to see if she’s read the message. I stare at it on the way out of the locker room, and when I get outside, standing in the same spot where I first saw her.
And then I look up, and there she is, almost in the exact same spot at the fence, talking to Steve. I swear she’s glowing, or maybe that’s just a few pieces of glitter getting caught in the parking lot’s light.
“Hey,” I say when I walk over. “You’re here.”
“Hey. Great game!” she says with a wide smile.
“Thanks for the tickets!” another woman says, but I can’t pry my eyes off the peppy blonde.
“Right. Thank you for the tickets and the jersey. That’s all we came by to say,” Elle explains in a rush.
That’s all they came by to say? Thank you? I find that hard to believe.
“You’re welcome.” I drink Elle in from head to toe, certain she got prettier during the game even if I’m not sure what’s different other than my jersey hugging her curves. Her long blonde hair is now up in a messy ponytail, which is cute. Her cheeks are a little rosy, probably from being crammed into the arena surrounded by fans. But her eyes seem a little red too.
Wait. Has she been crying?
“What’s wrong, cupcake?”
“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong.”
“Are you sure? You look like you’ve been crying.”
“How would you know how I look when I’ve been crying?” she challenges with her chin raised stubbornly.
“Right, well, did you get my message?”
That seems to surprise her. “What message? How? You don’t have my number.”
“I sent you one on Insta.”
