Page 58 of Play Along With Me
Game just ended. If you're still around, I'd love to say hi. Players exit through Gate 17 (northeast side of the building). I can meet you there in about 30 minutes? Feel free to say no if you've already left or have other plans.
My heart does an embarrassing little flip that I immediately try to suppress.
"It's him, isn't it?" Leila asks, watching my face. "Your expression just went from 'casual indifference' to 'teenage girl who just got texted by her crush.'"
"That's a very specific observation," I mutter, but show her the text.
"We're absolutely staying," she declares before I can even respond. "I need to see Hockey Jesus and his team up close in person."
"You're boy crazy and you are not calling him that to his face," I warn her.
"No promises."
I text Jake back:
We're still here. Just debating whether the nachos were worth remortgaging my apartment for (they were) even though I don't own it. Gate 17 in 30 works perfectly. I'll be the one looking bewildered about hockey terminology and food prices.
His response comes quickly:
Perfect. And wait until you see the beer prices on the road. Highway robbery.
I pocket my phone, suddenly nervous. "What do I say to him? 'Great bench-sitting technique'? 'Impressive water bottle handling'?"
"Just be normal," Leila advises. "Or, you know, your version of normal. It seems to be working for you so far."
We make our way through the thinning crowd to Gate 17, following signs and occasionally asking ushers for directions. The area near the players' exit already has a small crowd forming—mostly kids with jerseys and items to be autographed, along with a few women who look like they've spent considerable time on their appearance.
"I should have worn the hoodie," I mutter, suddenly self-conscious.
"You look fine," Leila assures me. "Besides, you're the one he specifically asked to meet."
We find a spot slightly away from the main crowd, and I busy myself with my phone to avoid looking as nervous as I feel. Why am I nervous? It's just Jake. The guy who texts me about cheese nutrients and pretends to be Hockey Jesus. No big deal.
Except it kind of feels like a big deal.
Players begin to emerge, stopping to sign autographs and take photos with fans. They're all dressed in suits, looking more like young executives than athletes who were just smashing each other into walls an hour ago.
"They clean up nice," Leila comments, eyeing the procession appreciatively.
"We're not here for you to scout husband material."
"Speak for yourself," she grins. "I'm keeping my options open."
Finally, I spot Jake coming through the doors. He looks different in his suit—more polished, somehow more substantial. He scans the crowd, and when his eyes land on me, his face breaks into a genuine smile that does unfortunate things to my internal organs.
He makes his way over, stopping briefly to sign something for a young fan, then reaches us.
"You made it," he says, sounding pleased.
"Wouldn't miss it," I reply. "Great bench-sitting technique out there. Very poised. Excellent posture."
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "I've been practicing my bench posture for years. Glad someone finally noticed."
"I'm very observant," I assure him. "I also noted your water bottle passing skills. Top-tier hydration support."
"It's a calling," he says solemnly.
Leila clears her throat beside me, reminding me of her existence.
