Page 10 of The Slapshot and the Single Mom
He squints at me and tilts his head again as he considers the question. “To a well-deserved night off for the most longsuffering woman I’ve met.”
Laughing, I clink my glass against his. “To a night off.” We both drink, and he holds my eyes, making me feel caught in his gaze once again. My grand plan to scare him off doesn’t seem to be working, and his next words confirm it.
“Now,” he says, setting his drink down again and pulling out his phone. “We need to make a plan. Operation Night Off is under way.”
CHAPTER SIX
Jack
I pullup a community website that lists events in the area. It’s summertime, so there’s always something going on, even on a Tuesday evening. This woman needs some fun in her life, and I’ve impulsively decided that I’m going to be the one to help her find it. At least for tonight.
Her story about not knowing what to do with herself without her usual structure and obligations is all too relatable. It’s different, of course, because I’m adrift without the hockey season and all its attendant training, practices, and games to keep me busy, making a night at home feel almost luxurious, especially after a long stint on the road.
In a lot of ways, I’m in the same boat. I can’t do my normal activities to keep me occupied in the off season. I don’t want to just sit at home. So what do I do?
End up at the Salty Salmon. Which is fine, I guess, but can’t be the only thing I do all summer. That would suck.
It’s easier to figure out what to do for somebody else, though. Or with somebody else. And while I tried to get Connor to do that, he’s really only interested in going to clubs and hooking up. That’s firmly off my agenda for the summer, though, so it’s time to figure out something else.
“It’s too late to try to go to a professional baseball game tonight, if they’re even playing at home this week.”
She shakes her head. “They’re not.”
I glance at her, eyebrows raised. “Noted. I take it you’re a baseball fan?”
She grins. “You could say that.”
“What?” I ask, faking offense. “Not hockey? I’m crushed, Maggie. Truly crushed.”
Her eyes twinkle, and she takes a drink of her beer. “Oh, poor baby,” she coos, reaching over and patting my arm. Sparks shoot up my nervous system at her touch, and I do my best to ignore her. She was clearly trying to see how easy I’d scare off by dumping her whole story on me like she was—including the tidbit about having a kid—which means I need to tread lightly so I don’t spook her. Especially if I want to segue this into something beyond tonight. And with chemistry like this? I definitely do.
She’s interesting. Fresh-faced and pretty, a weird mix of jaded experience and uncertainty, and clearly in need of someone to help her figure out who she is and what she wants outside of her kid, her ex, and her shitty boss. Beyond the physical chemistry that I can’t ignore, she provokes my inner protective instinct. I want to help her out, even though she doesn’t seem like she accepts help easily.
Plus, she might be able to help me stay out of trouble. And it hasn’t escaped my notice that being seen repeatedly with a woman who’s more than barely legal might help make me seem more stable as well, should we get spotted and photographed somewhere together. And according to Molly, after that interview, it’s more likely that tabloids will pay for photos of me out even under the most innocuous of circumstances. I went from hockey’s sometime “bad boy” with a reputation for partying and scoring despite that to a dissolute reprobate—Molly’s words—who’s responsible for extending our team’s streak of making the playoffs but not making it past round two of the playoffs. Which seems like a ridiculous thing to pin all on one guy. And if I were really drunk or hungover, why would Coach Bowers even play me? We have a deep bench, there were plenty of guys who could’ve taken my place even if Ihadshowed up shit-faced the day of the game—which I would never, ever do.
But logic doesn’t matter to the kinds of people who listen to Brock Savage. Even though my coach, my team, and the league all know the truth, that doesn’t matter to the general public, especially the people who only casually follow sports. It doesn’t help that the video stayed up for far too long and even some major sports talk shows picked up the story and ran with it without bothering to fact check. And why would they when that kind of trash hooks viewers and gets them to stay and argue in the comment sections over what a piece of shit I am.
I made the mistake of reading the comments on one video that referenced the original when it popped up on my feed last week, even though the original has been taken down. It was a shitshow.
Suffice to say, I’ve deleted all social media apps from my phone for now. They’re not worth having when they only piss me off every time I get a notification.
I scroll through the calendar on the website, trying to see if there’s anything interesting going on tonight. “There’s an art show at a gallery not far from here. The opening was last weekend, and oh, damn. Never mind. They close at four on Tuesdays, and it’s already six.” I glance at her. “Have you eaten? Do you want to grab some dinner? We could order something here, of course, but if you want”—cutting myself off, I glance around to see if Ryan’s listening and lower my voice—“if you want something different than bar food, we could check out a couple other spots that are walking distance.”
She blinks at me, her mouth opening and closing a few times like she’s not sure what to say.
I hitch my mouth to one side, mildly amused by her reaction. Usually women are more than happy to keep me company, which is flattering for my ego, of course, but part of me enjoys the fact that I have to work a little harder to win her over.
I like a challenge.
“Or we could see a movie? With a ten year old in tow, I’m guessing any movies you see are more family friendly. Anything you’ve heard about that looked interesting? My treat.”
Her wide-eyed shock has worn off, and now she’s giving me a narrow-eyed, assessing glare. “What is this?” she asks, wiggling a finger between us. “What’s happening right now?”
Grinning, I turn in my seat to face her. “We’re planning what to do with this empty Tuesday evening that we find ourselves spending together.”
Her eyes narrow even more. “But why exactly are we spending this evening together? I know whyI’mhere of course, but whyareyouhere? And why are you sitting here next to me trying to take me to a movie?”
I rest my elbow on the bar and lean my cheek on my fist. “You seem like you’re not sure what to do with this unexpected burst of freedom.” I hold out my free hand. “I’ve decided to be your tour guide on this night where you’ve found yourself adrift and uncertain what to do with yourself. A bar’s fine and all, but you clearly need to find some way to entertain yourself that doesn’t center on your kid or your job. Both of those are important, and no one knows better than a professional athlete how all-consuming work can be. But I also know that it’s important to develop other interests along the way because someday it’ll all be over, and who will you be then?”
