Page 67 of Bleacher Report
It’s fine. I like our corner in the back anyway.
“Did I tell you about Sproutacus?” I ask.
“Who the hell is Sproutacus?” she asks, her nose scrunched up.
She’s not a fan of the name, and I wasn’t either. But it’s growing on me. No pun intended.
I pull up my phone and show her a picture of Sprouty on the windowsill. His cute little Chia Pet face. I’m sure he’ll look cuter once he’s filled in.
“He got you a Chia Pet? Are you joking?”
“He said we’re plant parents now.”
Abby narrows her eyes at me and then turns back to the picture.
“What does that sticky note say on the faucet? Heating pad and pad thai? What the hell are you two doing over there?”
Oh, yeah, I forgot about that. “He hid my mug that you got me for hitting twenty-five thousand subscribers and set up sticky notes for a scavenger hunt.” I smile and then glance back up at her.
“You are as blind as a bat when it comes to what this boy is doing to you,” she says as our instructor walks in.
“He’s not doing anything,” I lie, mirroring Abby as we both kneel on the mats and wait for instructions.
“He’s love bombing you. But not with malicious intent to pull the rug out from under you. I don’t think he realizes what he’s doing either. This kid is crazy about you. He just doesn’t know it”--she lets out a dramatic sigh– “typical man.”
“You’re wrong. He’s not looking for anything. And definitely not with me.”
“I wish I would’ve recorded you saying that. Then I could have replayed it five years from now when you’re pregnant withtriplets, living in your giant custom house with your ridiculously gorgeous hockey husband, surrounded by king-size beds, Chia Pets, and shiny little hockey trophies.”
I glare over at her. “You’re delusional."
She just grins, utterly unfazed. “You’ll thank me later.”
I open my mouth to argue—but the yoga instructor calls for us to get settled, saving me from whatever nonsense Abby had locked and loaded next.
When we finish class, I’m drenched in sweat, my body deliciously sore in that satisfying post-yoga way that tricks you into thinking you’ve just solved all your life’s problems by holding warrior pose for two minutes.
I always tell myself I’ll start coming more.
Spoiler alert: I never do.
I wipe my forehead with a towel and glance over at her, still breathless.
Those forty-five minutes were the first time in weeks I wasn’t sweating over the network deal—I was too busy trying not to die.
“Okay, you were right. I needed that.”
She nods, still catching her own breath. “Told you.”
As we’re rolling up our mats, my phone buzzes in the pocket of my jacket. I pull it out to see a text from Cammy.
Cammy: Are you coming to Penelope’s tonight? Girls-only game watch party. Drinks and snacks included.
A second text comes through almost immediately after.
Cammy: Pen says you have to come. You’re one of us. Which means you’re not allowed to miss it.
I can’t deny that I’d like to go, and since all of the girls already know that Hunter and I aren’t really together, it's not like I haveto lie to everyone. I’m also really curious about where Cammy and JP have been the last few days since both of them were absent for the Open Skate event.
