Page 27 of The Slapshot and the Single Mom
I give him a big grin. “Good! I’m glad we agree.”
The waiter stops at our table, and I have to force my attention away from Jack’s big smile and the softness in his eyes as he looks at me. What’s that look about? That looks much more like affection than I would expect from a friend I’m fake dating.
“Did we decide about desert?” the waiter asks.
Jack looks at me, brows raised in question.
I shake my head. “Not tonight. I think I’m too full.”
“Just the check, please,” Jack murmurs.
“Of course.” The waiter pulls a little padded folder out of his apron and sets it on the table. “Whenever you’re ready. No rush.”
After putting his card in the folder, Jack looks at me, drains the rest of his beer, and lets out a heavy sigh. “Well, what should we do now? I have to admit that I’m not really ready for tonight to be over.”
Propping my elbow on the table, I rest my chin on my hand and smile at him. “You never are.”
He gives me a cheeky smile in return. “Well, can you blame me?”
I shake my head, my grin growing wider. “I guess not.” The truth is, I’m not really ready for tonight to be over either. “I didn’t plan on anything more than dinner, so I’m not sure what’s going on tonight. Any suggestions?”
“We could see if there are any shows or bands starting soon. Or …” He presses his lips together, a sure tell that he has an idea but isn’t sure if he should say it. That, and rubbing his hand over his mouth. When he does that, I know he has something to say but isn’t sure if he should.
“Or what?” I press.
He lifts a shoulder. “You could come over to my place? I’ll take you home whenever you’re ready to go, of course. We could watch a movie or just hang out and talk.” Leaning forward, he holds my gaze, his expression earnest. “I promised I wouldn’t try anything, and I still mean that. I’m not inviting you over for anything other than hanging out. I just …” He shakes his head. “The thought of going home to my empty apartment sounds terrible right now, but I don’t necessarily want to go to a bar or something either.” Chuckling, he shakes his head again. “Listen to me. Who’d’ve thought I’d say something like that?”
Grinning at his self deprecation, I glance away, considering his suggestions. I don’t particularly want to go to a show, either. “Sure, yeah, we can go to your place. Or,” it’s my turn to lift a shoulder to make my suggestion appear casual, “you could come to mine.”
His eyebrows jump. “I’m good with either option. Which would you prefer?”
I nod decisively. “My place. Then you can leave whenever without having to take me home and then go back. It seems easiest.”
“Alright. Your place it is.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jack
“Sorry it’s a little messy,”Maggie says as she steps inside. Her front door opens right into her eat-in kitchen where there’s a small light wood dining table half covered in papers and stray toys. The other half has a blue plastic cup sitting on one of the placemats, and that’s clearly the side they eat on. A baseball bat and mitt lean against the wall in the corner, and a small bookshelf overflows with paper and markers and other craft supplies.
“Do you want water or anything?” she asks, hanging her purse on a hook just inside the door and setting her keys in a little bowl on a shelf next to the hooks.
“Yeah, sure, water would be nice.” I stand in front of the closed front door, hands in my pockets, looking around and taking everything in. There’s another hook in the hall that I assume leads to the living room where a cluster of child-sized coats hang, a backpack sitting on the floor, and a couple pairs of shoes neatly lined up against the wall next to it.
There’s framed artwork on the walls, both professional and kid drawings. There’s also a signed baseball program in the mix, and a closer look reveals that some of what I initially clocked as watercolor landscapes are actually iconic baseball fields—Wrigley and Fenway from the looks of it.
I knew she was a baseball fan, but I think it goes deeper than she first let on. I can’t help wondering if that’s because of her ex and his overt dismissal of her as a person and therefore of her interests, or if she’s worried she might offend my hockey player sensibilities by admitting she has such a deep and abiding love of another sport. Or maybe it’s wrapped up in her professional life? She can’t let on that she cares more about one sport over another if she’s working in sports media?
Regardless of why she hasn’t made her love of baseball more obvious, I make a mental note to get tickets to the next home game. She mentioned a baseball game before, but I didn’t realize how big of a deal it’d be for her.
“Those are cool prints,” I say, nodding at the watercolors as she brings me a glass of water.
A huge grin spreads across her face as she looks at them, the kind of expression someone only gets when they really love something. “Thank you! I really like them.”
“Have you been to either of those place?”
Swallowing her water, she nods. “I’ve been to Wrigley when I was about twelve or so. My parents and I took a trip to visit family in southern Illinois, but they made sure we went at a time where we could go to a Cubs game and a White Sox game.”
