Page 16 of Her Goal
My understanding is that it’s when a person postpones going to sleep, but not just because they’re chapters deep in a good book or binge-watching another episode of their favorite show. It’s more like because of the various responsibilities and tasks they’re obliged to do during the day, they cut into their sleeping hours and reclaim them as personal time.
Which is exactly what I’m doing right now.
I should be asleep. I have another long day at work tomorrow, followed by a spur-of-the-moment trip with my brother to an away game in Toronto. Go Knights! And Titans. Maybe my future honey will be Canadian and he’ll also speak French, whispering sweet nothings in my ear.
For all I know, he could be telling me that I smell like a dishrag, but I won’t care because it’ll sound so swoony.
I twist onto my side because, in addition to revenge bedtime procrastination, I’m also getting frozen thumb syndrome from gripping my phone.
I should read the latest enemies to love office romcom for book club. Actually, I should go to sleep, but I can’t stop thinkingabout how Stupid Jerk Face Hudson is back in my life. Er, in Cobbiton. Technically, I don’t have to interact with him even though he’s now playing for the Knights.
As a scratching sound comes from one wall, followed by a snore from behind the other, I think about how unfair it is that Hudson has such a nice house. Granted, he earned it by working hard in his career, but he’d definitely tease me if he found out I live on Graves Street in Omaha.
I flick to the real estate listing on Bantam Lane. The contemporary colonial is set back from the road and a path of pavers leads to the kind of house that’s part classic charm and part modern with stone and glass. I imagine a lot of natural light inside, a fieldstone fireplace, and a chef’s kitchen—if the new Roboveitchek residence is anything like the Badaszeks across the street.
When I was sneaking around, as I crept toward the side door, I couldn’t help but notice the lush landscaping that just barely starts to fade to muted colors as we shift into fall. In the front, there was also a wide entryway complete with a swing, hinting at warm summer evenings to follow the long Nebraska winter. But it’s not like I was going to knock on the door.
It stands in stark contrast to the bars covering the graffitied windows on the lower level of my building and the little sprigs of grass trying to break through the cracks in the sidewalk, only to be littered by flattened tin cans, cigarette butts, and broken glass.
As much as I want to criticize Hudson, he’s done well for himself and that doesn’t happen by accident.
His house isn’t the kind of place I’d expect an ogre to live, least of all the garage with its new shelves lining the walls and a cleanly swept floor.
Unlike how Katie and Conrad despise each other inKisses in the Rain, which I’m reading for book club, I don’t truly hateHudson. More like he was always a low-level annoyance in my life, so he rightfully receives my ire. I could’ve let everything Hunter told me his twin did and said go until I overheard it for myself—he made me feel like a long-legged freak and teenage me can’t let that hurt go. I’m five eleven, which isn’t grotesquely tall. Unless you’re Hudson Roboveitchek.
I don’t go out of my way to look for images of him on social media, but as “Hockey’s most handsome face,” he pops up often. From what I can tell, he’s primarily photographed with petite women. Given that he’s over six and a half feet tall, you’d think he’d want someone more his size. Closer to being his equal. Obviously, not me. But it’s hard not to wonder what he has against above-average-height women.
Specifically me.
The thing is, he started the war. I just keep it alive.
I swipe through videos on my app, briefly watching a how-to gift wrap without tape, several cooking tutorials, and life hacks until it all jumbles together into one big wad ofI’m not good enough. I need to do more. Meal prep and grow my own kale. Use the latest gadget for glowing skin, along with some kind of goo and stop washing my hair to restore its natural oils. My nose scrunches up. Going to be real. I work at a place with a fryolator. No way could I get away with not washing my hair.
This social media browsing and comparison activity isn’t anything new per se. I pretty much do it every night before bed, wind up loathing myself, and then wake up in the morning feeling like I need a better work/leisure balance, should write thank you cards, declutter, and tell three people something I like about them.
I spiral into overwhelm. My brain feels like radio static, pinging from one must-have, see, do to another, and I suddenly have a cinnamon roll craving. Oh, because I just watched afifteen-second video with a new recipe making them out of only three ingredients.
Blinking slowly, I try to surface, but the next video is from #KnightsNation and I watch as Jack Bouchelle slices across the ice. I remember the game. Somewhere in the arena, I’m there, cheering him on. At the very end, he glances over his shoulder, but not at one of his teammates. His gaze connects with Ella’s for the briefest of moments.
I can practically hear his voice.That one was for you, Baby. Though I doubt he’d call her that. But she’d reply,I love you so much, Big Stud. She probably wouldn’t refer to him by that pet name either.
However, that’s exactly what I want. To be someone’s baby and to have a big stud. At least someone taller than me and preferably someone who plays hockey. The last resort would be a fan. I don’t want to change my lifestyle if my future spouse prefers fly fishing or is a rancher—I met a guy during Ella’s bachelorette horse riding trip, but he didn’t like hockey. Shared interests are important and I’ve been accused of having an obsession.
I could get more specific, but that’s another list for another time.
My traitorous phone automatically moved onto the next video reel and it’s from last season’s faceoff between the Knights and the Rangers. Without meaning to, almost like a reflex, my eyes find the goalie box.
Grinding my teeth is the only way to hold back what I’d like to say about the Knights’ newly acquired player. I’ll save my commentary for later in a rudely penned note because I’m the opposite of Hudson Roboveitchek’s biggest fan.
Cobbiton is a small town and I’m afraid it’s not big enough for the two of us. Not that we have beef—though Spaglietti’smeatballs are amazing. I’m talking about beef between Hudson and me.
It’s just that one thing that happened in high school. To this day, it makes me feel like I don’t fit into my skin.
All this scrolling isn’t distracting me from my racing mind, so I turn to the way I’ve coped over the years, open my email app, and start to write a letter.
from:
to: Hudson Roboveitchek
