Page 34 of Forecasting the Forward

“Did I …” she stammers breathlessly. “Did I do something wrong?”

“What?” I ask incredulously, whipping my head up to stare at her. “No. Fuck no. You did nothing wrong.”

“Then why did you stop?” she asks quietly. I can see the uncertainty in her eyes. The emotion. The fear. I let out a long exhale as I rest my forehead against hers. There’s a calming scent of lavender in the air, and I know it has to be a product she uses. Obviously this shitty ass hotel would have picked a pink flower to dump in this room, so I know the lovely lavender scent is coming from Becca.

“I don’t want to push you too far,” I confess.

Becca’s eyes widen. “What? Why? How?”

A grin tugs at my lips. She’s pretty fucking cute when she stammers like this. “I know it’s been a really emotional day, and your head is all over the place. I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret later.”

“You think I’ll do … you,” she says with a tiny giggle, “and I might regret it?”

“Well, yeah,” I answer. “Listen. I’ve been trying to get you to give me a chance for weeks, darlin’. I don’t want this to happen because you’re wanting to feel anything but sadness. I want you to want me for me.”

Understanding dawns in her eyes. “Do you get that a lot? Women who want the celebrity of it all?”

“More often than I ever thought possible. At first, it was cool. Not gonna lie, I enjoyed it. But it gets old. I’ve been in the league for over a decade. I have no interest being a notch on a puck bunny’s bedpost. And I’ve been lied to so many times. Fucking can’t stand liars.” People came out of the woodwork when Imade the NHL. I became famous. But they weren’t interested in me. Just the status it came with. And definitely my paycheck.

I feel Becca stiffen slightly against me, and I wonder what triggered her. Before I can ask, she sits up. “Are you StickUM92? I feel like you are, and I should have said something about it when you told me your name and that you play hockey, but I didn’t know how to handle it. I couldn’t process how the hot hockey guy and the online friend I had were the same person, you know? And then we had that really nice dinner, and you sent me flowers, and I got all up in my head. So, are you?”

“I am, in fact, StickUM92. Hello, NerdGirl1025.”

Becca lets out a whoosh of breath as her shoulders slump. “You knew it was me? For how long?”

“I realized it the day I told you my name. Well, actually it was after our pizza date. You had told me your favorite flower was a hyacinth, and when I went to order you a bouquet, I thought of your ChatBook profile picture. The convo where I told you my name was me trying to sleuth out if it was really you or not.”

“And then I just left you on ‘read’ for weeks,” she breathes, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m so sorry, Jacob.”

“I didn’t think you’d ghost me for as long as you did, but now I can understand how surprising that must have been for you,” I explain. “Looking back, I can hear your voice. I should have realized it earlier.”

“I thought you lived in Texas,” she blurts out, her neck reddening. “It never occurred to me I had befriended someone local.”

“For a self-described nerd, we should probably work on your understanding of algorithms, Spitfire. They tend to lump people together by region,” I tease.

Becca rolls her eyes as she lets out a light laugh. “I’m nerdy inscience, not social media technology.”

“Were you freaked out when you realized it was me?” I ask quietly.

Becca hesitates, looking down at her hands as she waits to answer. “I wasn’t sure how to combine the two of you in my head. It was easier to shut the door, ignoring that it was something I had to deal with. Not that you gave me much time to think, though. The weekly flowers must have cost a fortune. I wanted to tell you to stop sending them, but secretly it was the highlight of my week.”

“I’m glad,” I whisper, reaching up to tuck an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m the same man, darlin’. Just a Texan who loves hockey, cowboy hats, and pizza. And I’d really like to take you out on a proper date.”

The corner of her mouth turns up in a soft smile. “I think I’d like that.”

“So when we’re back in Denver, you promise not to ghost me again?”

Becca laughs. “I promise.”

I’m about to lean in to kiss her when Becca’s phone blares with an awful ringtone. “What the fuck is that for?”

“The sound I have for my brother. Undoubtedly he’s reminding me about the rules for the evening. I have to go get changed for their stupid dinner.”

“Why? You look fine,” I comment. She’s wearing fitted black pants, a slate blue silk blouse, and black heels. I walked next to her, but I didn’t realize she had heels on. I want to see where her height puts her now.

“It’s expected to wear cocktail attire to this kind of dinner,” Becca says snottily, flipping her hair over her shoulder to regard me with a dramatic roll of the eyes.

“But I’m okay like this?” I ask, standing to retrieve my suit jacket.

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