She shuddered, mentally elbowing away the terrible idea. Hopefully this time around, cooler heads would prevail.
And as for the Hellions, there was another place where cooler heads needed to prevail. Maybe if their goalie would practice a little Zen meditation and quit getting players sent to the penalty box every damn ga—
Meep! Meeeeeeeeep!Madam Prius hit the horn as if she’d face-planted on the steering wheel and died.
Tension migrated from Neve’s neck, making the slow climb to her temples. The first throbs of a headache emerged. Between lockout worries and this racket, she might spontaneously combust. To release steam, she rolled down the window and flipped the Prius the bird before grabbing her phone off the passenger seat.
Ignoring the new—and so far unlistened-to—mindfulness podcast her friend Margot had recommended, she clicked on Byways, the popular navigation app that relied on community-sourced traffic updates to create the fastest routes. It needed to get her moving before she found herself arrested for disorderly conduct.
She plugged in the Hellions stadium address and an avatar of a pitchfork blinked from a quarter mile ahead. Her tummy performed a flawless triple-axel jump.
Rovhal30.
She took a deep breath and issued herself a stern reminder. There had never been any official confirmation that Rovhal30was even male, but in her mind, he was six feet of strapping sexiness, lounging behind the wheel of a black Subaru Outback—a ginger-haired Ewan McGregor doppelgänger. NotTrainspottingEwan either. Not evenMoulin Rouge!Ewan. No... straight-up Obi-Wan KenobiAttack of the ClonesEwan, with the shaggy hair and delicious beard.
One thing was for certain, the pitchfork avatar meant that Rovhal30 was a Hellions hockey fan.
Or a devil worshiper who lives in his mom’s basement hand-feeding his pet bull pythons.
The pitchfork didn’t budge. Rovhal30 was stuck in this traffic too. She sucked in her lower lip, debating: To message or not to message? That was the question.
No point glancing to Burlesque Blondie for advice. The model would just shimmy her tassels in a “you go, guuuurl” affirmation.
Eenie, meanie, miny...ugh. Fine. She was doing this.
NeverL8:Fancy seeing you here
She hit Send before she could second-guess her actions. Here was hoping that her tone came across more cheerful than creepy.
Rovhal30:(typing)
It always took Rovhal30 time to type back, credible evidence that he was a sixty-plus grandmother learning to operate her first smartphone, but why ruin the fantasy?
Neve drummed her thumbs on the steering wheel. She didn’t bother with online dating. The idea of some random dude swiping left on her profile while taking his morning dump left a lot to be desired. But this meant that her one meaningful online relationship was with a fellow commuter on a traffic app—someone whofeltmale andmightbe attractive.
The ugly truth was that she hadn’t gotten laid since the first Obama administration, even though her “office” was a locker room populated by sweaty men who rivaled Olympic gods. Every time someone heard about her job as a sports reporter, they’d gush, “Oh my God! Do you ever get to interview the players in their towels? Is it amazing?”
For the record, she had at one time or another glimpsed most of the Hellions team sans towels. As for the endless question “Is it amazing?” try asking the Louvre gallery attendant who guarded theMona Lisaif they ever got used to the portrait’s iconic smile.
Sure, the players were sexy with their cut bods and muscular buns, but a glimpse of wang didn’t exactly send her heart racing. She was there in a professional capacity, not to be a pervert.
Rovhal30:Hello there
The Byways app made it impossible to text another driver unless the car was at a complete stop. Sadly, she too often found herself in this situation at the same time of day. A month ago, Rovhal30 had posted a community traffic update about a brush fire in the median. She’d asked a clarifying question and they’d struck up an odd friendship ever since.
Rovhal30:I’ve been saving a joke for you
Neve ordered the flutter in her stomach to stand down. “He probably looks like a cross between Homer Simpson and Steve Buscemi,” she muttered.
But still, he’d saved a joke for her... which meant he thought of her. At least a little.
NeverL8:Lay it on me
Perfectly casual response—Excellent. For all Rovhal30 knew, she was a Bywaysfloozy, texting with dozens of users on a regular basis.
Rovhal30:What kind of computer sings?
NevrL8:I give up
