Page 100 of Her Goal
to:
date: October 11, 9:53?AM
subject: Re: Re: Re: Situationships
To My Secret Admirer,
All those years ago, after your fifth or sixth email, I contacted law enforcement. They assured me that you’re harmless and were probably either trying to rile me up or were using the correspondence as a coping mechanism of some sort.
Frankly, it’s amusing. I hope that doesn’t set you off. But in ayesworld where everyone around me feeds me compliments and potentially anything I want, it’s refreshing that someone has the audacity to tell me how they really feel. So kudos to you.
As for your friend, are you really asking for my advice, a guy you purportedly despise? You know this person better than me and withoutany details, I can’t rightly suggest what they should do. However, since you seem insistent on having my opinion, here goes. First, always listen to what they have to say. Sometimes they already have the answer they seek, but they don’t realize it.
Second, if everything has gotten muddled, I like to break a sweat and then break things down systematically with a pros and cons list or something along those lines.
Lastly, sometimes there’s no wrong decision to make. They can make the one that is most logical and reasonable, but it may not work out. They can take the road less traveled and it could result in good things happening. It’s also possible that whatever decision they make might initially seem like a failure, then they learn a lesson like resilience or mental fortitude (I got a class in that recently and it was life-changing).
I guess what I’m saying is sometimes there’s no wrong way to go, but it’s better to move forward in some direction rather than remain stuck.
And that concludes my TED Talk.
Sincerely,
Me
P.S. Who is Ted, anyway?
When I get backto Cobbiton, I have to admit that I’m a bit disappointed that my figure skating lessons are officially over.Other than the supposed arranged marriage, I have no excuse to see Leah.
I agreed to help Redd with the high school team that he’s doing a clinic for. We run drills, focus on breakout patterns, and defensive zone coverage with me in the cage. After a scrimmage, the players launch an attack on us with shaving cream, whipped cream, and silly string.
It’s a mess and we’re covered with what amounts to slime as it mixes with sweat from the active workshop. The Zamboni rolls onto the ice and we edge to the side. The driver—one of Leah’s cousins or maybe uncle, I can’t remember—shakes his head with dismay.
Redd cups his hands around his mouth and hollers over the sound of the machine, “It’s not as bad as corn cobs and kernels.”
The guy chuckles and proceeds to resurface the rink.
I’d have expected Redd to explode with rage at the assault, but he takes it in stride. At least, I think so. He winks at me as he claps my hand, thanking me for the help.
“Do I smell revenge?” I whisper.
“You smell a brutal warm-up session at the next workshop,” he says as he stalks off.
I don’t yet have my blade guards on when Leah glides onto the freshly cleaned ice. Our gazes lock and then drift before reconnecting again.
I meet her by the boards and ask, “Did I miss the memo for a lesson?”
“No, I have special permission to be here. I come once a week if I can. It feels good to be out there and knock the rust off.”
“You’re anything but rusty, Leah.”
She scrunches her nose as she takes in my appearance. “What happened to you?”
“I helped Redd coach the Red Hawks.”
“The Clarkson High School team?”
I nod. “They were armed with shaving cream, whipped cream, and some other gooey stuff.”
