Page 45 of Play Along With Me
"And you're going to his hockey game on Saturday," she adds smugly. "Sounds like a trajectory to me."
"It's not a date if you're there too," I point out.
"Who says I'm going? I just said that so you'd accept. I'm busy Saturday."
I stop walking and stare at her. "You are the actual worst person I know."
"And yet you keep me around," she grins, linking her arm through mine as we continue toward my room. "Admit it, you're glad I made you go tonight."
I am, though I'm reluctant to give her the satisfaction. The evening took an unexpected turn, and I find myself looking forward to texting Jake tomorrow, to seeing him again on Saturday—even if it's just in a professional capacity as he sits on a bench during a hockey game.
"It wasn't terrible," I concede.
"High praise," Leila laughs. "Now, are you going to text him tonight or play it cool and wait until tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow, obviously. I have some dignity left."
"Debatable," she teases. "But for what it's worth, I think he's into you. The way he looked at you when you were talking—like you were the only person in the room."
"Now you're just being dramatic," I dismiss her, though a small thrill runs through me at her words.
"Call it what you want," Leila shrugs as we reach my apartment door. "But I saw what I saw. And what I saw was a beginning."
As I let myself into my apartment, where Mr. Darcy awaits with his usual blend of neediness and judgment, I find myself wondering if she might be right. Not about Jake specifically—it's far too soon for that kind of thinking—but about beginnings in general.
Maybe it is time to write chapter four, to move forward instead of constantly revising the past. Maybe it's time to stop checking Daniel's Instagram and start creating my own stories.
After Leila leaves, I feed Mr. Darcy, change into pajamas, and climb into bed with my laptop. Instead of opening my usual manuscript file, I create a new document and title it simply: "Chapter Four."
The cursor blinks expectantly on the blank page. I take a deep breath and begin to type.
Chapter 8
The sound of pucks hitting the boards echoes through the nearly empty practice rink. It's 6:30 AM, three hours before the team's official practice, and I'm already drenched in sweat. This has been my routine for the past week—early solo sessions to refine my game, followed by team practice, followed by extra work with Kelly, the goalie coach.
Ambroz, the starting goalie, slides to a stop beside me as I take a water break, spraying ice across my skates.
"You know," he says in his light Finnish accent, "you don't have to be first one here every day. Contract is already signed."
I shrug, gulping water. "Old habits."
"I understand," he nods. "When I first come to NHL from Finland, I do same. Afraid they send me back if I not work hardest." He taps my pads with his stick. "But remember—better to be fresh when it matters than exhausted from proving point."
It's good advice. Ambroz has been in the league for twelve years, a Vezina Trophy finalist twice. If anyone knows how to sustain a career at this level, it's him.
"I'll keep that in mind," I tell him.
He nods again. "Good. Now show me your lateral pushes. I notice yesterday you sometimes turn blade too much on right side push."
This is why I'm here early—not just to prove my work ethic, but because Adam Ambroz, one of the best goalies in the world, is willing to share his knowledge. In hockey, especially among goalies, this kind of mentorship is sacred. Not everyone is lucky enough to learn from a veteran who isn't threatened by your presence.
After another forty-five minutes of drills, we head to the locker room as the rest of the team begins to arrive for regular practice. My stall is still surreal to see—"MARSHALL #35" on a nameplate above a row of neatly arranged Saints gear that I don't have to pack up and take home each day.
"How's the apartment hunt going?" asks Culkin, the team's star defenseman, as he starts gearing up beside me.
"Found a place already," I tell him. "Nothing fancy, but it's close to the rink and they did a short-term lease."
"Smart," he nods. "Never know where you'll end up in this business. My rookie year, I lived in extended stay hotels for three months."
