Page 7 of Lucky
“Tonight’s date?Buckle up.He spent thirty minutes explaining the microbiology of public restrooms.Thirty.Minutes.I now know more about hand dryers than a Dyson engineer.”
I give the camera a long, impassive stare.
“He also called me ‘refreshingly average’—which I’m pretty sure was meant as a compliment?—and referenced his ex seven times.I counted.It was like she was on the date with us.But invisible.And judging me.”
I pause for dramatic effect, smoothing Buttermilk’s ears like I’m trying to stay emotionally grounded.
“And the kicker?This all happened before dessert.I didn’t even get to eat my crème brûlée.Which feels criminal.”
Another beat.Then I lean in.
“Here’s what I’m thinking… maybe I’ve been aiming too high.Looking for a unicorn when I should be out here searching for, like… one decent man who knows how to shut up about bacteria and doesn’t use the phrase ‘my ex and I’ like it’s punctuation.”
I sigh dramatically.“I’ve dated lawyers, doctors and bankers.I’m talking men who are successful and seem to be what a woman wants.But… it’s not panning out for me.Maybe it’s time for an experiment.”
I square my shoulders, voice stronger and chin lifted in abject defiance of the dating game.“Thirty days of dating to find a normal guy.Someone…refreshingly averagelike me, apparently.He doesn’t have to be perfect.He just has to not make me want to crawl out a restaurant’s bathroom window.And I’m guessing that this platform is big enough to open my dating pool.So, I’m appealing to all you besties… help a girl out.Let’s see if he exists.”
I stop the recording and hit post.No edits.No filters.No plan.And certainly no changing my mind.Now that it’s out there, I’m committed to following through.
I slouch into the cushions with Buttermilk stretching against my stomach, warm and heavy, like an annoyed hot water bottle.
“You think that’ll do it?”I ask him, stroking his soft fur.
He yawns, unimpressed, and closes his eyes again.Typical.
I close mine too and pretend none of it matters.
Even though it does.
So much more than I’d like to admit.
I want to find my happily ever after but it’s proving to be almost impossible, and I’m not sure why.
CHAPTER 3
Lucky
Some guys getquiet before a game.
I get louder.
“Ten bucks says Rafferty falls flat on his ass in warm-ups again,” I chirp, flicking tape off my shin guard.
“Ten bucks says you flub another wide-open one-timer,” Rafferty fires back without looking up from his skates.
“Can’t flub what I bury top shelf,” I reply smoothly, snapping on my helmet.
Atlas laughs from across the room.“Please don’t start this shit again.”
“I’m just saying…” I shrug and grab my stick.“Confidence is a game-day strategy.I bring swagger.You bring… existential dread.”
“Swagger and zero common sense,” Atlas mutters, following me toward the tunnel.
The music pulses louder as we line up, the crowd’s roar bleeding through the concrete.Lights flicker purple and white.The energy is fuel, pure adrenaline.
We hit the ice as the announcer rallies the crowd in a big booming voice.I circle the net, tap gloves with Drake who’s starting in goal, and skate to the bench, every muscle primed, tuned, humming.
This is my space.My rhythm.My clarity.
