Page 68 of Play Along With Me
Me: Just finished the most surreal dinner of my life. I am now officially fake-dating a professional hockey player. This is somehow NOT the strangest thing that's happened to me this month.
Her response is immediate:
Leila: I need EVERY DETAIL. Also, this is absolutely the plot of every Hallmark movie ever made and I am HERE FOR IT.
I laugh, settling back against the seat. Whatever happens next—real date, continued charade, comedic disaster—at least I'll have an interesting story to tell. And possibly material for several new chapters of my perpetually unfinished novel.
Life may be unpredictable, but at least it's never boring.
Chapter 10
The morning after a game—even one spent entirely on the bench—has its own routine. Stretching sore muscles, hydrating, reviewing game footage, and generally letting my body recover from the physical and mental toll of professional hockey. It's a sacred ritual of sorts, one I've perfected over years of playing at various levels.
Today, however, my sacred recovery ritual is being thoroughly disrupted by texts from my mother:
Mom: Good morning, hockey star! Dad and I are SO excited to see your new apartment! We'll bring bagels! What does Audrey like on hers? Does she have any allergies? Should we get her a coffee too?
I stare at my phone in horror. Several problems present themselves simultaneously:
1.My parents are coming over.
2.They apparently expect Audrey to be here.
3.They think Audrey stayed over.
4.My apartment is barely furnished and looks like a storage unit with a bed.
5.Audrey is not, in fact, here, and has no idea my parents think she might be.
Before I can formulate a response, another text arrives:
Mom: We're thinking 10:30? That should give you two lovebirds plenty of time to get ready!??????
The winky faces fill me with a dread no opposing shooter ever has.
Me: Audrey isn't here. She went home after dinner. And 10:30 works, but the place is still pretty empty.
Mom: Oh of course! She must have an early work day! Smart girl, so industrious. We'll just bring you bagels then. Can't wait to see your place!!
I sigh, looking around my sparsely furnished apartment. "Empty" is an understatement. I have a bed, a couch I found on Marketplace, a TV mounted on the wall, and exactly three plates that came with the furnished rental. The place screams "temporary bachelor housing" in a way that will definitely prompt a maternal intervention.
There's nothing to be done about it now. I put on coffee, tidy up the few belongings I have strewn about, and mentally prepare for Hurricane Patricia.
At precisely 10:27—my mother has always been pathologically punctual—the doorbell rings.
"There's my boy!" she exclaims the moment I open the door, engulfing me in a hug despite the large shopping bagsoccupying both her hands. My father follows behind, carrying what appears to be enough bagels to feed the entire Saints roster.
"Hi Mom, Dad," I say, extracting myself from her embrace to take the bags. "You didn't have to bring all this."
"Nonsense," my mother dismisses, already surveying the apartment with the keen eye of someone planning a complete renovation. "Oh, Jake, it's... cozy."
In my mother's vocabulary, "cozy" ranks just above "interesting" in the hierarchy of polite insults.
"It's temporary," I remind her. "Just until the end of the season, then I'll figure out something more permanent. Depending on where I end up."
"You'll end up right here in Boston," she says with the conviction of someone who might personally ensure it by harassing Saints management if necessary. "They'd be fools to let you go."
My dad puts the bagels on the kitchen counter, nodding approvingly at the space. "Good sight lines. Open concept. You could put a nice entertainment center over there."
