Merc shows dressed in casual attire, thank God. He’s decked out in his long leather Matrix jacket, but other than that, it’s jeans and a nice t-shirt. When he said “wear something nice”, I somehow knew that simply meant “not sweats”. Mercy might have a stronger pull to wear suits and other fancy things than I do, but we’re on the same page about that kind of thing generally.
Rhett and I were on opposite ends of the spectrum. He always wanted to do things that required formal attire. Plus, he always had to look good for the media, in case someone was around to take picture of Maxwell Elkington’s son. We had to keep the Elkington image wherever we went. I didn’t complain because I was happy being with him no matter what, but I was happy to shed that shit once we broke up. I put on a pair of sweats the very next day and lived in those seventy-five percent of the time from then on.
I went all out tonight—for me—in a pair of sexy ripped jeans and one of my best white t-shirts versus the worn-through ones Dad keeps threatening to burn if he gets his hands on. Short sleeves ensure that my tatt sleeves will be on full display if we go to a restaurant. Otherwise, it’s my lined leather jacket, which goes well with my jeans and black boots.
Merc shakes his head at me. “You look hot, but you’re gonna freeze in that.”
“We’re not going to an inside place?”
“We are.”
“I’m sure I’ll survive the short trips in and out of the car.”
“One of these days, Leslie,” he threatens as I shut the door and we head to the front of the building.
“One of these days what? You gonna make me?” I told him I wanted that. Him telling me things “for my own good” or whatever, but he refuses to take any of that stuff too far until we have a foundation.
Personally, I think we’re fine, which I told him to which he replied, “If I’m in charge then I’ll be in charge of when we do that stuff too, buttercup.”
Couldn’t argue that. It made sense. In any case, I’m happy with the way things are for now too. We’re new, but with big feelings. Sometimes it feels like I’ve misjudged my skate speed and am pummeling toward the glass. He seems to sense these instances and pumps the brakes though I think he would rather tumble down the ice with me.
For a moment, I second-guess my gift. It might have been reckless in the sense of too much too soon, but besides winning Valentine’s Day, I wanted to show him I was serious about us. We’re both terrified of commitment. That’s already a foolhardy combination. The only way I know to deal with fear is to jump without a parachute. Wouldn’t be a hockey player if I played it safe once I made the decision to tackle a fear like that.
Merc and I are cut from the same cloth that way. Could turn out amazing. Could turn out to be the biggest catastrophe since the last time the Vancouver Orcas lost to Boston in the playoffs and the people of Vancouver decided to set the city on fire.
He takes me to one of the nicer restaurants in town and I make an immature joke about us getting some oysters since they’re an aphrodisiac. When he laughs instead of the appropriate scolding response, I realize how nervous he is. The great Mercy Meyer is nervous. Holy shit.
Right, his first real date ever, but he needs to chill out or he won’t enjoy himself. I know just what to do: bring out his competitive nature. “If your only plan is taking me to a restaurant, good. I’ve got news for you. I win.”
He relaxes and gets the look he gets when he knows we’ve got a game in the bag. It’s a dangerous smile. I’ve never seen him lose when he gets that kind of confidence in his eyes. “The only reason I took you out of the house was that I wasn’t letting another date opportunity pass us by—however short—without capitalizing on it. Our lives will never be normal, Jack. It’ll always be like this. We’ve got to seize the day.”
That hits in the wrong way from how I know he means it. And I do know that he means we should do whatever it takes, squeezing in dates when we can, but there’s a pang of Rhett. Not missing him, which is surprising in and of itself, but of how right he was.
The only reason Merc and I see each other at all is because I play for his team, and we live in the same building. Essentially, we “play house”. It’s all fun sex and no worries. If we continue down this boyfriend path, it could get serious, and then what? We don’t see each other for seven months of the year? I’d hate that. Thinking about parting with Merc feels like if all the color in the world was sucked away.
Now I sound like Rhett.
And wait, I didn’t care about not seeing Rhett for seven months of the year when it was Rhett.
I do care about not seeing Mercy.
Okay, that’s a mind fuck I’m gonna leave on the shelf for now. Valentine’s Day enjoyment engaged. I grip his hand tighter.
He’s made a reservation. The nice hostess shows us to our table, smiling at us, knowing we’re a “we” and I fucking like that. “We’ve got a special Valentine’s Day menu available and for five extra dollars you can add champagne. Your server is Donovan. He’ll be right with you.”
“We gonna have bubbles, Coach?” I call him Coach on purpose because it’s Coach and not my boyfriend who decides whether his players can kick it with booze or not.
“We can have bubbles, Leslie. We’re celebrating tonight.”
We order the champagne. We start with oysters. We both get the steak and lobster. It’s fucking glorious. I keep looking around though.
“Watcha looking for, Jack?”
“I dunno. The parade or the singing telegram. Not that this isn’t awesome, but I was expecting something wild considering our competition.”
“Nope. This is gonna be a regular date. Normal even. Just you and me out for dinner. Never done this. I like it.”
“Hey now. You say that like you’re planning on making it a regular thing.”
