Page 21 of Lucky
“You know… like marriage, mortgages, joint Costco memberships.”
I fake a shudder.“God, no.I’m barely holding it together with my existing cable package.”
She snorts and nearly chokes on her drink.“Good.I like to start all first dates with a clear understanding that we’re emotionally stunted.”
“I prefer the termselectively mature,” I offer.“Like, I do my own taxes, but I also cried when I lost my AirPods.”
That gets me a real laugh and her eyes shimmer with amusement.I mean… she finds me legit funny and I love making people feel good.
We fall into an easy rhythm.She asks about the team and I ask about how she handles all those tiny humans at school.We both agree that group texts are a scourge on humanity and that brussels sprouts are a scam, no matter how much you char them and slather with balsamic.
When she’s relaxed enough to lean her chin on her hand and just… look at me, it hits hard.That spark.
Not lightning, not fire—but something hot and small that hums in my chest.
Dinner is everything a first date should be—no awkward lulls, no uneasy small talk.We dine on burgers and I learn she hates mayonnaise, loves trivia, and has an irrational fear of mannequins.
She learns I cried at the end ofFinding Doryand that my mom still sends me home with leftovers when I visit her in Boston, even though I tell her it’s hard to carry on the plane.
“Tell me more about your family,” she says eventually.
“My mom’s a badass.”
“What’s her name?”she asks, and I love that she wants that level of detail.Names are personal and it shows she wants a deeper understanding of me.
“Rosa DeLuca.She’s Italian, which means she loves fiercely and has no tolerance for bullshit.All the guys call her Mama Branson.”
Her eyes soften.“What about your dad?”
“Skipped out after I was born.The only thing I have from him is his last name.My mom raised me and my older sister, Daniela, on her own.Worked two jobs, never missed a practice, still calls me every Sunday and about a dozen times in between.”
“She sounds wonderful,” Winnie says with a heartfelt sigh.
“My mom made me the man I am,” I say with deep pride.I tell Ma that all the time.
“Did she really name you Lucky?”
“No.Sadly she went with a good Italian name… Matteo.Matty to most family and friends.”
“Then where did Lucky come from?”
“I was born on a Friday the thirteenth, during a thunderstorm, and my nonna swore I was cursed.She was dramatic like that—told my mom I’d bring mayhem with me wherever I went.But then, stuff kept going my way.Like, stupid little things.I’d trip on a sidewalk and fall right onto a pile of leaves instead of cracking my head.I’d find money in parking lots.I got picked to ride on the Zamboni at my first hockey game.Just weird things that we deemed to be luck.”
“So you were called Lucky.”
I nod.“Nonna started calling me herpiccolo fortunato—her ‘little lucky one.’Said I must’ve tricked fate into blessing instead of cursing me.And after that, everyone called me Lucky.I never really stopped being lucky.It really stuck in hockey, though.My career has been everything I could want and more.”
“Yeah, but I’m thinking that’s more talent and hard work than luck,” she observes and doesn’t wait for me to confirm.“What do you want me to call you?”
I lift a shoulder.“Doesn’t really matter to me.What do you like?”
She thinks about it, eyes flicking briefly to my four-leaf clover tat.“I like Lucky.It fits your personality.”
“Well, there you go.”I grin at her.“What about your family?”
She laughs as if what she’s about to say will be good material for a stand-up routine.“I’ve got the full sitcom setup.Mom, dad, two brothers, family dinners every Sunday.It’s chaotic but good.”
“Sounds nice.That’s something we obviously have in common—we believe family is important.”
