Page 80 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
Then I hear the chant.
"DATE-NIGHT! DATE-NIGHT! DATE-NIGHT!"
Before I can sit up properly, the door flies open like someone launched it with a battering ram, and in pours half the Ice Breakers roster, all grinning like teenagers.
Cade is leading the parade, wearing sunglasses indoors like he's in a music video. Jamie is behind him, shirtless for no reason, doing a shoulder shimmy that looks like it hurts just watching it. Asher follows with a portable speaker, and Weston—my dear temporary roommate—is trailing behind holding a single red rose like this is a TV dating show.
They burst into the apartment doing what I can only describe as a soul train line through the living room.
"MAKE WAY FOR THE FRENCH ROMANCE KING!" Weston yells, launching the rose at my head. "HE'S GOT A DATE WITH THE ACCOUNTANT!"
Lucian starts beatboxing. Cade moonwalks into the kitchenette. It is madness.
I am still horizontal on Weston’s sofa, wrapped in a blanket, one sock on, hair in every direction, and what might be a dried piece of cereal stuck to my cheek.
I try to smile. "Bonsoir, mes amis. So glad you’ve come to see my slow and inevitable decline in person."
"Oh, he’s brooding," Asher says. "Textbook Frenchie. Someone get him a journal and a candle."
Weston raises a hand, and to my surprise, the room actually quiets. Cade turns down the speaker. Jamie plops into a beanbag chair.
I try to sit up straighter, rubbing a hand over my face. "I appreciate the enthusiasm. Truly. But I am not feeling very much like the Romance King."
Carson tosses me a clean shirt. "You don’t have to feel like it. You just have to show up. The rest is instinct."
"Yeah," Jamie adds. "Also, she already likes you. So the hard part’s over."
I try to hold on to their absolute belief that this night will be exactly what I need. But inside, I’m still circling the drain.
Integration.
Maybe this is when I have to choose whether I continue to hide my illness and the stress of the construction and the fear of losing everything.
Or whether I show up for a woman who makes me feel like I’m enough, just as I am.
“Okay,” I say, standing up slowly. "Help me get my act together. But nothing over the top. This is a respectable date night."
"RESPECTABLE DATE NIGHT!" they all cheer.
The guys collapse on the couch in a tangle of limbs and laughter as I retreat into Weston’s bedroom. My heart won’t stop thudding.
I’ve got an array of clothing spread out over the bed. Button-up shirt. Athletic wear. A second button-up but with slightly more vibe. Black jeans. Sweat pants. A sweater I’ve never worn but brought with me from Paris because I thought it looked “American.”
“Rivière!” Carson yells from the living room. “You moisturizing in there or what?”
“I don’t know what to wear,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
“That’s because you’re French,” Asher calls out. “Just wearsomething.”
“She said to be prepared for anything,” I say louder, pulling out the sweater and then immediately putting it back. “What does that mean? Does that mean farm work? Bowling? Laser tag?”
“Could mean yoga,” Cade adds. “In which case, please wear the tight pants. For morale.”
Weston’s laughter rumbles from the kitchen.
I throw a clean white T-shirt in the pile and freeze, hands clenched. My palms are sweating. With what I face in my career, this almost feels ridiculous.
I’m nervous for adate.
