Page 83 of Her Goal
“That’s so thoughtful, bro.” He gets out and waves. “We’re going to crush the Knights, bro!” With a whoop, he jumps in the air, stumbles, and then ambles into the hotel.
Defeated, I head back to my apartment. For dinner, I dig into my plastic drum of cheese balls and eat them until my fingers are orange.
With my free hand, I scroll social media andlikesome of the images Margo posted from the season opener party, then go down a hockey rabbit trail and find some puck bunny accounts buzzing about the Knights’ newest goalie @Robo39. Something stirs inside that feels much the same as when my sister got the new Kammy the Dancing Doll one year for Christmas.
Could this be jealousy?
I give my head a little shake. No way. I swipe to my text app and find my conversation with Ella.
Me: Remember when we first met and I explained the whole thing about puck bunnies?
She responds a few minutes later.
Ella: Of course, I take it the date went well. Do you want to borrow my Puck Princess crown?
Me: No and no. I just want to make it clear that even though technically I’m a puck bunny, I don’t only want to date and eventually marry a hockey player because it would give me clout, wealth, and access to fame.
Ella: More like because you love hockey so much.
Thankful she understood, I let out a breath.
Me: Exactly. I’d be doing my future spouse and myself a disservice if I tried to spend the rest of my life with a non-hockey player.
My goal is to organize the Happy Hockey Days festival and eventually open a museum. The argument to date a fellow fanwould only result in a rivalry because we’d both try to out-fan each other and obviously, I’d win.
Ella: I’m sorry/not sorry that the date didn’t go well. I’d hate to lose you to Miami.
She ghosts me, probably because her amazing husband wants her attention at eight o’clock at night or because she’s polishing her Puck Princess crown.
The thing about puck bunnies is that it’s kind of a chosen one situation. Sure, it’s old-fashioned, but it’s truly a feeding frenzy out there—until one of the guys stakes his claim, puts a ring on it, and then they all scramble after the next available guy in line.
My approach is different. Yes, I want to be chosen but because I love and appreciate hockey so much. And maybe because the player thinks I’m pretty and have a good personality.
Hudson brings out the worst in me.
The guy who my traitorous grandmother claims is the “Chosen One.” Can’t I be pursued for once instead of practically groveling after Hunter, being the cool girl around the guys as they gradually paired off, and then ending up on a date with a dude who called mebrorepeatedly?
I’m about to write some hate mail when my phone buzzes.
It’s a text from Hudson.
25
LEAH
I debatewhether I should reply to Hudson’s texts or continue to torture myself with puck bunny posts. Instead, I check out a decluttering account that keeps popping up on my feed. She has a no-fail system that will turn my mess into tidiness. I scroll and scroll, getting sucked into before and after transformations of rooms. They look like they were hit by a cyclone and then with a swipe, they’re neat spaces that are attractively decorated and functional. If only it were that easy.
Oh! And she has a free introductory workshop and a free ten-step printable! This is right up my alley. Unfortunately, Lloyd is also practicing his operatic baritone snore while it sounds like Mirin and Branch are practicing roller derby. Also, a strange clanking noise filters up from the actual alley below.
My phone beeps with an unread text reminder and I peek at what Hudson wrote.
Hudson: Hi! How’s the date going?
Me: Bro, you wouldn’t believe it … well, maybe you would because you matched me with a dud.
Hudson: What? Crew is a great dude.
Me: And it was obvious he thought of me as one of the dudes by calling me bro repeatedly.
