Page 43 of Play Along With Me
"So what about you?" Jake asks. "Your novel—is that the dream?"
The question catches me off guard. Most people ask about my writing as a perfunctory gesture, not out of genuine interest.
"Yes," I admit. "Though at this point it feels more like a persistent delusion than a dream. A real writer would have finished the book by now."
"Not necessarily," Jake counters. "Some things take time. And rewriting chapter three fourteen times still counts as writing."
"You remembered that detail?"
"I pay attention," he says simply, then adds, "Especially to people who intrigue me."
There's a directness to his gaze that makes me both uncomfortable and exhilarated. I'm not used to this kind of focused attention from men—or from anyone, really.
"Well, my chapter three rewrites are hardly as intriguing as saving hockey pucks from certain doom, but I appreciate that," I deflect.
"What's stopping you from moving forward?" he asks, seemingly genuinely curious. "With chapter four, I mean."
I consider the question, which is more insightful than I expected. "Fear, probably. Once I move past chapter three, I'm committed to a direction. What if it's the wrong one? What if the whole premise falls apart?"
"So you'd rather stay in the safe zone of what you've already written than risk where the story might go?"
"When you put it that way, it sounds cowardly," I say, feeling oddly exposed.
"Not cowardly," Jake shakes his head. "Human. Everyone's afraid of the unknown. But sometimes you have to just... jump."
"Says the man who literally jumps in front of speeding pucks for a living."
He laughs. "But I had to take risks to get here. Move to new cities, trust new coaches, change my style when necessary.If I'd stuck with what felt safe, I'd never have made it here. Made it to the NHL."
There's wisdom in his words that resonates with me, though I'm reluctant to admit it. My writing has stalled because I'm comfortable in my stasis—rewriting the same chapters, working the same jobs, even pining for the same ex who's clearly moved on.
"Maybe you're right," I concede. "Maybe it's time to write chapter four, metaphorically and literally."
"I'd read it," Jake says. "The novel, I mean. When you finish it."
"That's assuming a lot—that I'll finish it, and that we'll still be in contact when that miraculous event occurs."
"I'm an optimist," he shrugs. "Comes with the territory of being a career backup goalie. You have to believe your chance will come."
"And now it has," I observe.
"And now it has," he agrees, a quiet pride in his voice.
We lapse into a comfortable silence, a rarity in my experience of party conversations. I should feel awkward—I usually do in social situations—but something about Jake's presence is calming rather than anxiety-inducing.
The moment is broken by Leila appearing at my side, slightly flushed from what I assume is a combination of wine and flirting with Derek.
"Audrey! There you are. I've been looking everywhere." She notices Jake and grins. "Oh, hello again. You're the hockey player, right? The one with the heavy knock?"
Jake raises an eyebrow at me. "Is that what I'm known for?"
"Among other things," I say vaguely. "Leila, this is Jake. Jake, my best friend and current bane of my existence, Leila."
"Nice to officially meet you," Jake says. "Audrey's told me almost nothing about you."
"Likewise," Leila laughs. "Though I've heard all about the diabetic cat situation. And the hockey situation. And the knocking. And here we are."
"It's becoming the stuff of legend," I sigh. "Future generations will tell tales of the woman who invented a feline medical emergency to avoid social interaction."
