Page 26 of The Slapshot and the Single Mom
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Maggie
Jack istrue to his word, taking me out at least once a week and keeping things friendly. Once I get over the initial difficulty of trusting that yes, he does actually want to do whatever I want to do and then also figuring out what that is, we fall into a pretty easy routine of going out on either Friday or Saturday evenings while Liam has a sleepover at my parents’ house. I know that’s not really what Jack meant when he offered to pay for childcare—he expected me to hire a babysitter. But Liam’s ten. He doesn’t need a huge amount of looking after. I just don’t feel great about leaving him home alone for hours yet. Especially while I’m out with a man, just having fun. Knowing he’s with his grandparents and doing fun things of his own makes me feel less guilty.
I have to admit, though, that I’m a little disappointed that he hasn’t even tried to flirt with me like he did that first night when we bumped into each other at the bar and had an impromptu paint and sip night. We banter, of course, because I don’t think it’s in either of our DNA not to. But it’s not the same. He doesn’t stare at my mouth, he doesn’t check me out, and it’s not becauseI haven’t put effort into my appearance either. I even left work early one day after our mini golf date and got some clothes that make me feel good—a variety of options ranging from cute casual to wear to a game to fancier dresses for if we go out to dinner at a nice restaurant, which is what we’re doing this week.
I didn’t realize how much I missed going to a nice restaurant, having a cocktail, and not worrying about the cost. Even when Kyle and I could easily afford that—not all the time, of course, but as a special occasion splurge, for sure—he always bitched about how much it would cost to go out to eat at a nice place. By the end, I didn’t even bother asking, not even as my birthday present—going out to dinner being the actual gift, not something in addition to a gift of any amount—because he never failed to ruin the experience with his complaining.
Going out with Jack is a revelation. It takes me a while into dinner to relax. I can tell he notices, but instead of pushing for an explanation, he does his best to distract me with stories of locker room pranks and the various antics he and his teammates get up to on the road—the lucky socks, the one guy who still carries a little plushy keychain that a high school girlfriend gave to him as a good luck charm and kisses it and hangs it in his locker before every game.
“What about you?” I ask, smiling over the rim of my drink. “Do you have any rituals or good luck charms?”
He shrugs, spinning his glass of beer around on the table. “Not anything ridiculous like Locke’s pink jellyfish keychain or Chalmers’s stinky socks. God, I’m almost happy when we finally lose because it means he’ll wash those damn socks. If we have a long winning streak, they get rank.”
Laughing, I sip my drink and set it on the table. We’ve both finished our dinner, and I’m debating whether or not to get dessert. Some part of me is still a tiny bit apprehensive that he’ll raise some objection—Do you reallyneedthose extra calories? Don’t we have something we could eat for dessert at home?echo through my head in Kyle’s voice, but I do my best to ignore that—and the other part of me is pretty full anyway. The second cocktail’s enough I think, leaving me pleasantly loose and smily and more able to ignore the bits of anxiety that still pop up. It seems a little bit silly. It’s not like Jack and I are really dating, after all. And if he decides to be mean, I can just … not go out with him anymore.
“I’m starting to think your thing is actually weirder than the jellyfish or the stinky socks since you’re dodging the question.”
He holds up his hands, palms out. “Okay. Well, for hockey players, it’s pretty tame. But it might seem goofy to the uninitiated.” He shakes his head. “It’s just about how I wrap my stick. And putting on my skates in the right order—it’s left then right. If I do it the opposite, it feels wrong, and my game’s off all night.”
I nod. “You’re right. That does seem pretty tame especially compared to the sock thing.” Wrinkling my nose, I shake my head. “Don’t they get crusty? I mean, say you win every game for a month. He really wears the same socks every single time? And you play multiple times a week. That’s like”—I run through what I remember of the hockey schedule in my mind and do some quick math—“What? Twelve to fifteen games? Wouldn’t the socks basically stand up on their own at that point?” I shudder just thinking about it.
Laughing, Jack nods. “Pretty much. I do my best to avoid him when we’re winning. Hell, maybe that’s the key—everyone leavesChalmers alone when he stinks and that makes it easier for him to focus. Or it keeps him from distracting the rest of us.” He nods decisively. “My money’s on the second one. Chalmers likes to clown around before a game, and sometimes that’s good, but often it just makes everyone disorganized. When his socks get ripe, people leave him alone.” His face grows thoughtful. “I’m going to have to go back through our stats. If all our winning streaks end at the same number of games, maybe it’s because we’ve gone too long without Chalmers distracting us. We get too serious then, too in our own heads, and forget how to work together. Maybe the problem is that we need to keep that balance.”
My eyebrows creep higher the more he talks. “Maybe,” I say slowly. “Or maybe it’s just impossible for a winning streak to go on forever.”
He scratches below his lip, and I can’t help staring at his mouth. Right now his lips are pressed into a firm line as he stares into the middle distance, mulling over his revelation. “Probably. But if I’m right, we might be able to keep our streaks going a little longer. And you chain enough winning streaks together and then you’ve got a Stanley Cup.”
“Oh, my mom got me one of those for Christmas. It’s a dark teal, and I put a Mariners sticker right in the middle. I love it.”
He gives me a flat look, and I give him a cheeky grin in return, which makes him laugh. I laugh along with him, feeling relieved. Usually he finds my humor like that amusing, but for a brief second there I was worried maybe he’d get pissed at my deliberate misunderstanding of what he’s talking about. Kyle for sure would’ve been.
God, I really need to stop comparing him to Kyle. The last few weeks have proved that they’re nothing alike. But too many years of conditioning make it difficult to accept that not everyone is like Kyle, that there are people in the world—other than my parents—who find me funny and enjoyable to spend time with.
Even if he doesn’t flirt with me like he did at first, it’s obvious that Jack likes spending time with me and talking to me. We’ve been texting pretty regularly. Not every day, but nearly so, even if it’s just a quick check-in. And the last couple of weeks, we’ve been talking on the phone a few times a week, too. It’s been nice to have someone to vent to when I’ve had a hard day or share stories about something fun Liam and I did together.
And it’s fun to hear about the way he fills his days and his faux-complaints that he doesn’t get to hang out with me enough. “We had a deal,” he said the other day when we were ostensibly on the phone to plan our date this weekend. Of course, we ended up talking for a long time about anything and everything else, finally nailing down the logistics when I was yawning so much I could barely keep talking. “Remember? You’re supposed to give me an excuse to go out. But we’ve only been out one night a week.”
“Well, it’s not my fault that you have tons of free time and I have basically none. Maybe you should’ve thought about that before making that deal with me. You probably should’ve found someone whose schedule matches yours a little more closely.”
He sighed heavily. “But I don’t want to find someone else. I likeyou.”
Those words still make me feel light and warm, like I’m floating on a cloud on a warm spring day.
“I’m glad your Stanley Cup makes you happy,” Jack says, bringing me back to the present. “Now just imagine it was enormous and actually a trophy that means you’re the best at what you do. Think how happythatwould make someone.”
I screw up my face like I have to think really hard about what he’s saying. “I dunno … My Stanley cup is pretty awesome. Plus, it helps me stay hydrated, and that’s important, you know.”
He nods, his face solemn. “Oh, yes. I’m well aware of the importance of hydration.” He points at himself. “Professional athlete.”
Wrinkling my nose and pursing my lips, I tilt my head to the side. “Iguessthat would give you some kind of experience with that subject.”
He can’t hold the serious face and cracks a grin, holding up his thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart. “Just a little.”
I nod. “A skosh.”
Barely containing his laughter, he nods. “Yes, exactly. A skosh.”
