Page 18 of The Slapshot and the Single Mom
“Awesome. See you then.”
I show up at the restaurant she picked—a little sandwich shop not far from her office—feeling unaccountably nervous.
It’s silly. I know it. It’s not like this is a blind date or something, and even if it were, I’m Jack fucking Bouchard. Women fall all over themselves to get my attention.
And I guess that’s the kicker here, isn’t it?
Maggie isn’t falling all over herself. She seems like she’d be just fine if I paid her no more attention at all.
Except … would she really? This is the woman who didn’t know what to do with herself when she had a night off because she so rarely prioritizes herself and hasn’t in at least a decade, probably quite a bit longer than that based on her description of her ex. A lunch date is the closest she can get to making time for herself, and honestly? That just makes me sad.
She’s a gorgeous woman who’s funny and interesting with a love of new experiences if our paint night is anything to go by. She should be able to have some fun once in a while.
That more than anything has firmed my resolve to convince her to see me regularly. Even if she has no romantic feelings for me, we can be friends, she can help rehab my reputation, and I can help her have some fun. We both win, as far as I can tell.
And if money for a babysitter is an issue, I’m happy to help out with that too.
Walking in, I look around and realize I’m here first. It’s counter service, so I claim a table and settle down to wait for her. Pulling out my phone, I discover a text.
Maggie
Sorry! I’m coming, but Brock’s being his usual charming self. I’ll be about 15 mins late
No worries. I’m here. Want me to order for you so your food’s ready when you get here?
It takes a few minutes for her to respond.
OMG, that would be amazing. You sure you don’t mind?
I wouldn’t have offered if I minded. Send me your order. I’ll get our food. Get here as soon as you can
It doesn’t take long for her to respond with her order, and I stand and get in line. While I’m waiting, a guy around my age who’s standing in front of me glances behind him, then does a dramatic double take. “Wait. Aren’t you …?” He covers his lower face with his hand and stares at me before dropping it and saying. “You’re Jack Bouchard, right? The Seattle Emeralds?”
Smiling, I nod. “I am.”
“Can I get a picture, bro?”
“Sure. Always happy to meet a fan.”
He pulls out his phone and steps back next to me, holding it up at an angle and giving the camera what I think is supposed to be his smoldering look while I smile like a normal person. “Thanks, man. This is awesome. How’d your coaches react to you tanking the playoffs?”
My smile transforms into a scowl. “Well, since I didn’t tank the playoffs, the coaches didn’t have any specific reaction to me, personally. We were all disappointed to have lost, but it was no one person’s fault.” Though I could make the argument that it was Locke’s fault. He’s the goalie who let in three goals, after all. But then, you could easily argue that our defense should’ve kept them from getting that close to the net that many times. Or we could’ve—should’ve—taken more shots on goal and maybe would’ve lit the lamp enough times to win.
“Oh, right, right, of course, of course.” He winks at me like we’re sharing some kind of joke. “I get it. Gotta stick to the script in public and all.”
My scowl deepens. “That interview was pitched as a retrospective of the difficulties and victories on the road to the Stanley Cup. I was there to represent one team that made theplayoffs with the understanding that multiple teams would be interviewed and represented in the final video. Brock Savage changed his tactic at the last second, splicing together old footage, taking sentences out of context, and using creative editing to make me look bad. This isn’t me sticking to a script. It’s me telling the truth.”
He holds up his hands as though he’s surrendering, but his face says he doesn’t believe a word of what I’m saying.
Forcing myself to take a deep breath, I stop engaging, ignoring whatever else he says and grateful when it’s his turn to get to the counter. And I’m even more grateful that he takes his order to go because I’m not sure I’d be able to stay in the same building with this asshole. I wouldn’t bail on Maggie, of course, but I might have to get our food to go and find a park or somewhere to meet her instead.
But none of that is needed, and if anyone else recognizes me, they leave me alone. I’m sitting at the table, sipping my soda when Maggie gets here, all smiles and looking frazzled like she was blown here by a gust of wind.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” she starts, the words coming out like a flood. “I’ve been scheduling interviews for Brock to find a new assistant so he stops trying to make me do that job as well as my actual job, and it’s been …” She finally pauses, screwing up her face as she searches for a word.
“Hell?” I supply, grinning, all my irritation at the selfie bro melting away now that Maggie’s here.
Chuckling, she shakes her head. “You said it, not me.”
