Page 93 of Play Along With Me
Hockey has been my sole focus for so long that I've forgotten what it feels like to want something—someone—with equal intensity off the ice. The feeling is both exhilarating and terrifying, like stepping onto unfamiliar ice without knowing what lies beneath the surface.
But as Audrey smiles at me, her hand finding mine across the table, I think maybe this particular risk is worth taking. We're both still disasters, both carrying baggage from past disappointments, both uncertain about what comes next.
But right now, in this moment, none of that seems to matter as much as the simple fact that when Audrey Mazzone looks at me, I feel like more than just a hockey player. I feel like myself—a version of myself I've been too busy chasing professional dreams to fully recognize or appreciate.
And that, perhaps, is the most surprising development of all.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of conversation that ranges from childhood memories to career aspirations to favorite books and movies. Without my parents as an audience, some of the performance pressure dissolves, but the connection doesn't. If anything, it deepens as we discover shared tastes in music (both closet Taylor Swift fans), similar views on the proper ratio of cookie to cream in an Oreo (more cookie, less cream), and a mutual appreciation for terrible sci-fi movies from the 1950s.
When we finally leave the restaurant, the night air has cooled considerably. Audrey shivers slightly, and I drape my jacket over her shoulders again, the gesture no longer part of a performance but simply something I want to do.
"Such a gentleman," she teases. "Very chivalrous for someone who stops pucks for a living."
"Hockey has a surprising number of etiquette rules," I inform her. "No talking to a goalie before a game. No stepping on the logo in the locker room. Always offer your jacket when your date is cold."
"Is that last one in the official NHL rulebook?" she asks, pulling the jacket tighter around herself.
"Chapter twelve, right after the section on proper toothless smile techniques for post-championship photos."
She laughs, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet street. "I'm learning so much about your profession."
"And I still know almost nothing about bartending beyond the fact that you make an excellent Manhattan according to Kevin Wooledge."
"That's all there is to know, really," she shrugs. "Pour alcohol, listen to strangers' life stories, occasionally cut someone off before they make terrible decisions. It's like being a therapist with significantly less education and significantly more maraschino cherries."
As we walk toward the spot where Audrey's Uber will pick her up, I find myself reluctant for the evening to end. Despite the late hour and an early practice tomorrow, I want to keep talking, keep learning the small details that make up Audrey's world.
"So," I say as we reach the pickup point, "does this count as our first real date, or do we need to schedule another one without the charade context?"
"Technically, the first half was fake dating with your parents, and the second half was real dating just us," Audrey considers. "So maybe it's half a real date? We should probably schedule a full one to be thorough."
"I like thoroughness," I agree. "When are you free?"
"Hmm," she pretends to consult a mental calendar. "I have an opening between 'existential crisis about unfinished novel' and 'cat fur removal from all black clothing' on Thursday evening. Would that work?"
"Thursday is perfect," I tell her. "I have a home game Wednesday, but Thursday I'm all yours."
Something flickers in her expression at the phrase 'all yours,' a momentary vulnerability quickly masked by her usual humor. "No parents, no exes, no fake backstories?"
"Just us," I promise. "Getting to know each other for real."
Her Uber pulls up, the headlights momentarily illuminating her face in the darkness. She looks beautiful and slightly uncertain, as if still not quite believing the evening's turn of events.
"I should go," she says, gesturing toward the car. "Early coffee with your mom tomorrow, apparently. I'm sure she'll have many more questions about my reproductive timeline and China pattern preferences."
"I'm sorry in advance," I tell her.
"Don't be," she says sincerely. "I like your parents. They're overwhelming in the best possible way—they just love you a lot. It's nice to see."
I hesitate, watching her as she stands illuminated in the soft glow of the streetlights. Her lips are still slightly reddened from our kisses, her hair mussed where my fingers ran through it. The thought of saying goodnight, of watching her drive away, suddenly seems unbearable.
"Audrey," I say, the words coming out before I can overthink them, "would you want to come back to my place?"
Her eyes widen slightly, and I immediately backpedal.
"Not for—I didn't mean—" I stammer, then take a breath. "Just to talk more. Maybe have a drink. I'm not ready for tonight to end yet."
A slow smile spreads across her face, equal parts amusement and warmth. "Smooth recovery, Hockey Jesus. Very convincing."
