Page 6 of Play Along With Me
Jake nods at me once more. "Sorry again."
"Just make sure you direct all future door violence to the correct apartment," I say. "The folks in 4C have a newborn. They might actually thank you for putting them out of their sleep-deprived misery."
Another smile, another glimpse of that dimple. Then he's following Collin into 4B, and I'm left standing in my doorway with chocolate ice cream on my shirt and the strangest sensation that my evening just got marginally less pathetic.
I close my door and return to my couch, where my laptop still displays Daniel and Janine's honeymoon bliss. With a decisive click, I finally close the Instagram tab.
"Progress," I tell Mr. Darcy, who has returned to judge my life choices from the arm of the couch. I finally pick up the ice cream and stare at the mess. "Not the kind that involves pants or dignity, but still. Baby steps."
Chapter 2
I follow Collin into his apartment, my brain still stuck on the woman with chocolate ice cream on her shirt and eyes that could cut glass. Something doesn't add up.
"Dude," I say, closing the door behind me. "You told me you lived in 4A."
Collin grins like he just scored the winning goal in overtime. "Did I? My bad." He tosses me a beer from his fridge, which I catch on reflex. Five years of goalie training has its perks—mostly the ability to catch things while thinking about something else entirely.
"You did that on purpose," I say, twisting the cap off the beer. The apartment smells like protein powder and cologne.
Collin shrugs, not even bothering to deny it. "It's the only way I get to see Audrey's pretty face these days. She never says yes when I invite her over."
"Maybe because you're a dick," I suggest, but there's no heat behind it. I can't blame him for wanting to see her again. Even with her hair piled on top of her head like a bird's nest and chocolate streaked down her shirt, she was... something. Pretty doesn't quite cover it. There was something sharp about her, like she'd cut you if you got too close, but in a way that made you want to risk it anyway.
"You gotta admit though," Collin says, dropping onto his leather couch, "she's hot, right? Even in those ratty pajamas."
I take a long pull from my beer instead of answering, but yeah, I can't disagree. She had a face that didn't need makeup—all big eyes and expressive eyebrows that somehow conveyed 'I will murder you' and 'I'm having the worst day' simultaneously. And she smelled like vanilla ice cream, which was confusing because the evidence on her shirt was definitely chocolate.
"Who are these guys you said would be here?" I ask, changing the subject. I didn't drive forty minutes through Boston traffic to discuss Collin's neighbor, no matter how good she looked in stained pajamas.
"They'll be here soon," Collin says vaguely, turning on his massive TV. "So how's the hockey dream going? Still trying to get called up?"
I clench my jaw slightly. "Working on it." By which I mean I've been busting my ass in the AHL for three years, playing my heart out for the Providence Saints, waiting for my shot at the big leagues. At twenty-seven, my window isn't closed, but I can hear the hinges creaking.
Collin and I aren't friends, not really. We played together in college—him for one year before he blew out his knee, me for four before getting drafted in the fifth round. Now he works for some sports management company, and when he messaged me last week saying he could introduce me to some "key people," I jumped at the chance like a rookie at his first face-off.
"So these NHL contacts," I prompt, not wanting to sound desperate but, well, kinda desperate. "You said they're interested in seeing my tape?"
"Oh yeah, for sure," Collin says, scrolling through his phone. "My boss represents some of the Saints' defense. They're always looking for solid goalies in the system."
I try not to roll my eyes. Every goalie in the AHL is "solid." What I need is someone to notice that I've had a .924 save percentage for the last two seasons and still can't get more than an occasional practice with the big club.
"Cool," I say instead.
"Seriously though," Collin returns to his apparent favorite subject, "what's your read on Audrey? She single?"
"The woman whose door you had me knocking on? No idea. We had a really deep conversation about how I'm an idiot who can't read apartment numbers."
Collin snorts. "She has to be single. Been that way since I moved in last year. Sometimes I hear her talking to her cat like it's a person."
That shouldn't be endearing, but somehow it is.
"She's not really my type," I lie.
"What, hot isn't your type?" Collin laughs.
"She's your neighbor, man, I don't know."
I wander around his living room, looking at the framed jerseys on the wall. One is his college jersey—Boston University, #17, Collins—beside a team photo where we're both younger and dumber.
