Page 22 of The Slapshot and the Single Mom
I mean, there are limits. I’m not going to buy you an island or a private jet or something. But I can swing tickets to a baseball game. It’s not like they’re some super secret thing that only a select few can buy
Okay. I guess that’s a point. I did notice you didn’t deny being a robot, though
I run my tongue over my teeth, debating how to answer. Under normal circumstances, I’d suggest she check me over herself to see if I’m a robot or not, but I don’t want to come on too strong. Not when I’ve assured her my intentions are only friendly toward her. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, either, because then she’ll probably say this isn’t going to work and then I’ll be both without her, without company who wants to do something other than go to the club, and without an opportunity to rehab my reputation in time to salvage my charity sponsorship and put me in the best position to negotiate my new contract.
I promise I’m not a robot. I’m not sure what baseball tickets have to do with robots anyway.
Okay, well, back to tonight, Data. What would you think of mini golf?
Is that too dorky? It probably is, but I don’t care. I like mini golf. It’s fun, it’s laid back, and it’s an activity where I get to do something instead of sit on my ass. I pick mini golf.
Mini golf it is. I’ll find a spot and make reservations if we need them. And was that a Star Trek reference?
Haha. I wasn’t sure if you’d catch that. It’s old. Not everyone knows it, but I watched it with my dad a lot as a kid
It was with my mom, for me. Not religiously or anything, but I caught a few reruns here and there growing up. I’ll let you know when our reservations are for. And we can grab some food either before or after. What time are you taking your son to your parents’?
About 5. Don’t schedule anything earlier than 6
Awesome. 6 it is. See you then
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Maggie
I shouldn’t benervous about meeting Jack. We’ve spent time together on three separate occasions now and it’s never been bad, even the first time when he was super pissed about that interview.
And I wasn’t that nervous until I dropped Liam off and Mom gave me a hug and said, “I’m so glad you’re doing something for yourself for once. It’s been long enough since your divorce. I know you want to do what’s best for Liam, but sometimes taking care of youiswhat’s best for him.” And then when I was about to leave, she followed me outside and loud whispered, “Have fun on your date!”
I know I told her I was going out with a friend, but I let slip the masculine pronouns, and she just ran with it. I guess Jack is on to something with his whole, “We’ll just hang out and let people think what they want to think,” thing.
But now I’m in my room trying to figure out what to wear for my date that isn’t really a date. We’re not going mini golfing untilseven, but he’s picking me up at six thirty, which is … I glance at the clock. Shit! That’s in only fifteen minutes! And I’m still standing here in a bra and underwear with half my closet spread across my bed.
Hands on my hips, I survey my discarded options, then glance back at my closet. The problem is, I don’t have anything that makes me feel like I look good. At least not good enough for a date with a professional hockey player, even if it is only mini golf.
And I know it’s not adatedate. We’re hanging out as friends. We enjoy each other’s company. He needs an excuse to get out that isn’t a party or a club, and going out with me is the perfect cover. I don’t need to impress him.
But I want to.
And that’s the real problem. Iwantto look good. Iwanthim to compliment me. I want him to stare at my lips just a fraction of a second too long like he did when we painted those god-awful landscapes. I want him to hold my hand, even if it’s only under the excuse of keeping us together in a crowd.
Sighing, I let my eyes stray to the dress I put on and took off again a few minutes ago. I ordered it online last summer, thinking I wanted something similar, but when I got it, I wasn’t sure how much I really liked it. I let it sit in my closet while I thought it over, and eventually the return deadline passed, and so it’s mine whether I actually like it or not. It’s burgundy with a floral print and a faux-wrap neckline that defines my waist nicely without showing off my belly—a leftover from pregnancy that I’ve never managed to get rid of.
I put it back on, looking at myself in the mirror, turning this way and that. It’ll have to do. It’s not bad. I kinda wish it were sleeveless, but at least it’s not the same thing I wore last time. If I’m going to be going out with Jack regularly, I might need to go shopping so I have a few more options that I feel good in.
Decision made, I put on a pair of earrings and a necklace that I like, touch up my makeup, and put my hair into a half-up style that looks cute and will keep it out of the way while we play. Staring at my shoe collection, I opt for a pair of comfy sandals. It’s a cute, relaxed vibe, but it fits the date.
My phone vibrates with a text from Jack letting me know he’s here—I told him to text rather than come up to the door. Just as I’m about to walk out the door, purse, keys, and phone in hand, I decide to grab a denim jacket just in case. Sure, it’s July, but it’s also Seattle. It could randomly decide to rain at any point.
Jack’s leaning against his car when I get outside. He’s wearing charcoal pants and a steel blue shirt tucked in but with the sleeves cuffed and the top button undone and his hair pulled back in a tiny ponytail. His car is sleek and gunmetal gray. It looks sporty and fast. I’m not much of a car person—as long as my car runs, I’m happy—so I can’t tell what it is without something telling me the name of the car, but it’s pretty.
He smiles when he sees me, steps away from the car, and looks me up and down, making me feel self-conscious all over again. “You look beautiful,” he says, and my cheeks heat at the compliment, which is beyond ridiculous. You’d think I was thirteen again and my secret crush is telling me he likes my outfit.
“Thank you,” I manage to get out. “You look nice, too.”
His grin grows wider, and he turns, pulling open the door to his car. I climb in, sinking down farther than I originally expected. The seats in his car are a lot lower than in my older Subaru, but I guess that makes sense in a sports car.
I buckle my seatbelt while he goes around and climbs in. “Ready?” he asks. At my nod, he pushes a button on the dashboard, and the car thrums to life.
