Page 41 of Play Along With Me
Ryan studies me for a moment. "You really don't follow hockey at all, do you?"
"I could not be more ignorant about the sport if I tried," I confirm, laughing. "Though I did attend my first game recently, as you may know because you were there, where I learned that hockey involves a lot of men crashing into each other while trying to hit a small black disc with sticks. Also, everyone gets very excited when the disc goes into a net."
"That's... actually a pretty accurate summary," Ryan concedes. "Jake's a goalie, though. His job is to stop the disc from going into the net."
"Ah, so he's the dream-crusher of the hockey world. The one who ruins everyone's excitement."
"That's one way to look at it," Ryan laughs. "Another is that he's the last line of defense, the guy the whole team relies on when everything else breaks down."
Put that way, it sounds more significant than I'd assumed. "And he's good at it? The dream-crushing defense thing?"
"One of the best in the AHL—that's the league just below the NHL. He should have been called up years ago, but hockey's a tough business. Lots of politics, timing issues. He's had to be patient."
There's something in Ryan's tone—respect, maybe—that makes me see Jake differently. Not just as a guy in a suit whoputs up with Collin and witnesses my social awkwardness, but as someone who's dedicated his life to a goal and finally achieved it after years of work and waiting.
"Well, good for him," I say sincerely. "It's nice when persistence actually pays off. In my experience, it usually just leads to restraining orders and uncomfortable conversations with HR."
Ryan laughs again, shaking his head.
Mike—Ryan's business partner—appears and pulls him away for "an important call with Ruggert," whatever that means.
I'm left alone again, but now with the unexpected knowledge that Jake Marshall might be a big deal. He's a professional hockey dream-crusher and witness to my most embarrassing social moments but also the center of attention everywhere I go. I glance around the room, looking for the cameras because this has to be a joke.
It's probably nothing, I tell myself.
I pull out my phone, my thumb automatically hovering over Instagram. I catch myself before typing Daniel's name, suddenly aware of the pattern. Why am I still obsessing over someone who clearly moved on long ago when there are new people to meet, new stories to unfold?
I put my phone away without checking Daniel's profile—a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
I pull Leila aside, interrupting her conversation. "Is everyone talking about Jake or are they only talking about him to me?"
This makes her laugh.
Across the room, I spot Jake again, now talking with a different group of men in suits. He catches my eye briefly andgives me another small smile before returning his attention to the conversation.
Leila's eyes widen as she mouths, "What was that? There's something there. Is that sparks?"
Okay, so maybe I'm a little bit interested. But interested doesn't have to mean anything. Interested is just... noticing. Acknowledging. Filing away for potential character development in my perpetually unfinished novel.
"It's only a thing if you make it a thing," I mutter.
I drain my wine glass and decide it's time for a strategic retreat. I've made an appearance, fulfilled my social obligation, and can now escape without Leila invoking the Michael Bublé immunity clause. I walk away from her, ready to give into this sweet escape. Leila returns to her socializing, and I’m bolting.
"Heading out already?" Jake's voice stops me as I edge toward the door.
I turn to find him standing there, holding two fresh glasses of wine.
"I was contemplating it," I admit. "I've hit my quota of sports conversations for the year, and Leila seems perfectly content flirting with whoever-that-is."
"Derek," Jake supplies. "And I was hoping we could continue our conversation from earlier. I brought reinforcements." He offers me one of the wine glasses.
I hesitate. The sensible thing would be to make my escape, go home to my cat and my Netflix queue, avoid any further entanglement with this man who represents everything I'm not looking for—someone with an actual career trajectory, ambition, and a pleasant personality.
"One more drink," I agree, taking the glass. "But only because you brought it all the way over here and it would be rude to reject wine."
"I appreciate your commitment to etiquette," he says solemnly.
We find a relatively quiet corner near a window overlooking the street below.
