Page 106 of Play Along With Me
"Careful, Hockey Jesus. I'm dangerously close to having actual feelings for you. Proceed with caution."
The casual admission, delivered with her characteristic blend of humor and vulnerability, sends warmth spreading through my chest.
"Too late," I tell her honestly. "I'm already there."
Something flickers in her eyes—surprise, pleasure, a hint of the fear that always seems to accompany her moments of genuine emotion—before she covers it with a smile.
"Smooth operator," she teases, but her hand squeezes mine briefly, an acknowledgment of the weight behind my words. "I'll see you tonight."
As I watch her Uber pull away, her face framed in the rear window as she waves goodbye, I'm struck by the strange, wonderful trajectory that has brought us to this point—from a fake relationship born of convenience to what this is becoming, this real, unexpected connection that feels simultaneously terrifying and exactly right.
Hockey has been my north star for as long as I can remember, the fixed point around which all other aspects of my life revolve. But for the first time, I'm considering the possibility that there might be room for another guiding light—one with quick wit and expressive eyes and a way of looking at me that makes me feel like more than just a goalie with NHL aspirations.
One named Audrey, who glows in the morning light and wears my clothes like she belongs in them.
And maybe, just maybe, she does.
Chapter 15
The Uber driver, a middle-aged man with graying temples and a "My Kid is Honor Student" bumper sticker, mercifully doesn't attempt small talk as I sink into the back seat. This is excellent, because my brain is currently performing Olympic-level mental gymnastics trying to process everything that's happened in the last twenty-four hours.
I'm wearing Jake Marshall's hoodie. I spent the night in Jake Marshall's bed. I had breakfast with Jake Marshall's parents after they caught me wearing nothing but their son's t-shirt. And somehow, impossibly, none of this feels as catastrophic as it should.
The city slides by outside the window as I absently run my fingers over the Saints logo on the borrowed hoodie. It smellslike Jake—a clean, slightly spicy scent that makes something flutter in my chest when I breathe it in.
This is fine.I write in my Notes app.Totally normal development. Girl meets hockey player, girl pretends to date hockey player to help him avoid ex-girlfriend awkwardness, girl actually starts dating hockey player, girl meets hockey player's parents while wearing only hockey player's shirt. Tale as old as time.
On my phone, I am half-expecting to find seventeen missed calls from Leila demanding details of last night's dinner. Instead, I find a missed call from an unexpected name: Evelyn Westfield. Daniel's mother.
My thumb hovers over the notification. The old Audrey—the one who spent too long checking Daniel's Instagram daily and clinging to any connection to his family—would have called back immediately, eager for news or gossip or simply the comfort of familiarity.
But something has shifted, a tectonic movement so subtle I almost didn't notice it happening. I haven't checked Daniel's Instagram since... when? Yesterday? The day before? For the first time in over a year, I've gone multiple days without digitally stalking my ex, and I didn't even realize it until this moment.
Before I can overthink it, I tap Evelyn's name and hit call. She answers on the second ring.
"Audrey, darling! I was beginning to think you were avoiding me." Her voice is warm and familiar, with the slight theatrical quality that always made her stories about Daniel's childhood so entertaining.
"Sorry, Evelyn. It's been a busy few days." Understatement of my entire life.
"Well, I forgive you, but only because I have juicy news." Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "Janine served Daniel store-bought lasagna and tried to pass it off as homemade."
A week ago, this would have been the highlight of my day—evidence that Daniel's new wife was failing to live up to the impossibly high standards set by his mother. Now it just feels... small.
"How did Daniel take it?" I ask, more out of habit than genuine interest.
"Oh, he's clueless, of course. Men never notice these things. But I knew immediately. No self-respecting Italian would use that much oregano." She launches into a detailed critique of Janine's culinary deception, covering everything from the suspicious uniformity of the pasta layers to the "obviously jarred" quality of the sauce.
As Evelyn continues her rant, I watch a young couple walking hand-in-hand along the sidewalk, leaning into each other with the unconscious gravity of people who simply belong in each other's orbit. I think about Jake's arm around me as I fell asleep, the way he looked at me in the morning light, his admission—"Too late. I'm already there"—before I left.
"—and then she had the audacity to suggest that perhaps I could share my recipe with her, as if I would ever—"
"I've met someone," I interrupt, surprising myself with the declaration.
The silence on the other end stretches for several seconds.
"You've... what?" Evelyn finally asks, sounding like I've just announced I'm moving to Mars to open a butterfly farm.
"I've met someone," I repeat, more confidently this time. "Someone I like. A lot."
