Page 23 of Play Along With Me
Ah. Mystery solved. Kevin must have invited her. But why?
Is she dating him?
Ryan follows my gaze. "You remember Collin’s neighbor?" he says.
"Yeah," I say vaguely. "ThatisCollin’s neighbor. And she works at the bar where I had dinner with Kevin."
"Small world," Mike comments. "Kevin swears by her judgment of character. She was hanging with us in the box."
Wait, what? Is that why she's here? To judge me for Kevin’s sake?
Audrey looks up then, her eyes meeting mine. She gives a small, awkward wave, like she's not sure if she should acknowledge me or pretend she doesn't see me.
I wave back, equally awkward, as Ryan steers me toward the exit. "Come on, we've got a lot to discuss. Your future's looking bright, Marshall."
As I follow them out, I glance back once more at Audrey, who's now engaged in what appears to be an intense conversation with Kevin. What exactly is her connection to all this? And why am I creeped out?
Okay, the thought bypasses. Audrey isn’t anyone particularly important to me, and maybe she’s into older men. My focus is the NHL, not figuring out why my friend’s neighbor was at my first NHL game experience.
Chapter 5
"Knock, knock." That's what I'd planned to say. A stupid, juvenile joke about heavy knocking and doors that had seemed hilarious in my head but now feels about as sophisticated as a whoopee cushion. I'd rehearsed variations of it during the entire third period while Kevin droned on about "butterfly techniques" and "glove positioning," whatever those are.
But now Jake is walking out with those two suit guys from the bar the other night, and my brilliantly crafted icebreaker is melting faster than, well, ice.
"—don't you think, Audrey?"
I snap back to reality to find Kevin looking at me expectantly. I have absolutely no idea what he's been saying for the past minute.
"Sorry, what?" I ask, with all the eloquence of someone who's been hit in the head with a hockey puck.
Kevin chuckles. "I was asking if you'd like to grab a drink? Discuss more on what you thought of Marshall's performance today."
Wait. Is Kevin Wooledge asking me out? The guy who's practically old enough to be my father and talks about hockey with the same reverence most people reserve for religious experiences? I think I'm blacking out.
"Oh! Um," I stammer, my brain frantically searching for an excuse. "I can't tonight. I have to... feed my cat. He has... diabetes. Cat diabetes. Very serious. Needs his insulin at exactly 10:30 or he goes into a coma. Feline diabetic coma. Tragic, really."
Cat diabetes? FELINE DIABETIC COMA? What is wrong with me?
Kevin raises an eyebrow. "I didn't realize cats could get diabetes."
"Oh yes," I double down because apparently I hate myself. "Very common. Epidemic, really. They're thinking of doing a documentary. 'Sugar and Whiskers: The Silent Killer.'"
Kill me now.
Kevin looks understandably skeptical but nods politely. "Another time, then."
The whole night has been surreal. Kevin had picked me up in an actual honest-to-god town car, which made me feel both fancy and deeply uncomfortable, like I was playing dress-up in someone else's life. The private box at TD Garden had actual leather recliners and a buffet that included shrimp cocktail, which I instinctively stuffed into my purse before realizing thatit was included, not something I needed to hoard like a seafood-loving squirrel.
For three periods, Kevin had provided a running commentary that was part hockey lesson, part nostalgic reminiscing about his own playing days, and part elaborate sales pitch about Jake Marshall's apparently God-given talents. I honestly didn't listen to much of it.
"See his positioning there? Perfect depth in the crease."
"Watch his glove hand—so quick, so controlled."
"Look at that recovery speed. That's not something you can teach."
The fact that Jake never actually played—a detail Kevin glossed over repeatedly—seemed irrelevant to his enthusiasm. He went on and on about how Jake had "impressed everyone" in practice, how he showed "NHL-ready composure," how his "lateral movement was elite-level."
