Page 24 of Play Along With Me
Meanwhile, I spent most of the game trying to follow the small black dot being slapped around at warp speed while simultaneously nodding at appropriate intervals during Kevin's monologues. I'd occasionally catch glimpses of number 35 sitting at the end of the bench, but for all I could tell, he might have been napping.
The overtime goal was genuinely exciting, though—even I could appreciate the sudden eruption of the crowd, the players leaping over the boards, the pure joy of the moment. Hockey has an undeniable energy to it, a raw enthusiasm that's contagious even to the uninitiated.
And now here I am, standing awkwardly in the bowels of TD Garden, having just invented a diabetic cat to avoid drinks with Kevin Wooledge, watching Jake Marshall walk away with his agent buddies.
"Well, thanks for the ticket," I say, preparing my exit. "It was really—"
"Hold on," Kevin interrupts, his attention shifting past me. "There they are. Let's catch them before they leave."
Before I can protest or elaborate on my fictional feline's medical condition, Kevin is guiding me toward the exit where Jake and the suit guys are lingering, engaged in conversation.
"Jake!" Kevin calls out. "Great showing today. Really impressive work with Kelly."
Jake turns, his face lighting up with professional enthusiasm at the sight of Kevin, then shifting to something more complicated when he notices me.
"Thanks, Kevin," he says. "Appreciate you coming out."
"Wouldn't miss it," Kevin replies. "You know Ryan and Mike, obviously, and you've met Audrey."
There's a beat of silence as Jake's eyes meet mine, and something about the intensity of his gaze jumpstarts my brain back to my original plan.
"Knock, knock," I say, immediately wanting to fling myself into the Charles River.
The two suits—Ryan and Mike, apparently—look at me like I've just started speaking in tongues. Jake's eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
"Uh... who's there?" he plays along, because apparently he's a decent human who doesn't leave people hanging in excruciatingly awkward social situations.
I was so focused on the opener that I didn't actually plan the rest of the joke. Panic sets in.
"Nobody," I blurt out. "Just... checking if your door-knocking skills have improved."
God, I am so bad at this. Whatever "this" even is.
Ryan and Mike exchange glances that clearly communicate "who is this weirdo?"
An uncomfortable silence descends, broken only when Kevin clears his throat. "Audrey was just telling me she can't join us for drinks because her cat has diabetes."
"Really?" Jake asks, looking both confused and amused. "That's... unfortunate."
"Very tragic," I nod solemnly. "He's on a strict schedule."
It's in this moment of doubling down on my absurd lie that I realize something unsettling: I might be attracted to Jake Marshall. Because instead of focusing on my imminent social death, my brain is cataloging details about him—the way his damp hair curls slightly at the edges, how his shoulders fill out his suit jacket with the precise amount of broadness (very scientific), the slight stubble darkening his jaw, and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he's trying not to laugh at me.
He's tall but not in that gangly, doesn't-know-what-to-do-with-his-limbs way that plagues many tall men. He's solid, substantial, like he's rooted to the ground in a way that suggests both physical strength and a certain steadiness of character. His hands are large but not meaty, with long fingers that look surprisingly elegant for someone who stops hockey pucks for a living. And his mouth—which is currently curved into a half-smile that suggests he sees right through my diabetic cat charade—has a full bottom lip that's slightly chapped in one corner, like he's been biting it in concentration.
Oh my god. I'm mentally undressing my neighbor's friend in the middle of a professional sports venue while four men stare at me.
Four men who are now exchanging knowing glances that make it painfully obvious they're all fully aware of what I'm doing.
"We were just heading to dinner at Morton's," Ryan says, breaking the excruciating silence. "You should join us, Audrey. I'm sure Kevin would love your input on Marshall's performance."
"Oh, I couldn't," I say reflexively. "My cat—"
"The diabetic one," Kevin interjects with a raised eyebrow. "With the 10:30 insulin shot."
"Right," I nod. "Very time-sensitive medical situation."
"It's only 9:15," Jake points out, checking his watch. "Plenty of time for a quick dinner before your cat's... medical emergency."
