Me
Yup. Good guy.
H.E.
There’s a coach for the Sacramento hockey team. He’s cute. What’s his deal?
Irritation prickles at the top of my spine. I don’t like that she’s calling that dickbagcute, and my fingers fly across the keyboard to give her an answer.
Me
He’s been divorced twice. Cheated on both wives.
H.E.
Darn. I knew he was too pretty to be true.
Me
They always are.
Three dots appear and disappear on her end of the text thread. I wait, wondering if she’s going to say anything else. Just when I’m about to turn my phone face down, a new message pops up.
H.E.
What are you up to tonight?
Me
Out with my assistant coaches at a bar.
H.E.
Such a social butterfly. I’m so proud of you!
Me
What are you doing?
H.E.
I’m also at a bar. I got stood up? I think?
She told me she’d meet me at seven. It’s now almost eight, and she’s nowhere in sight. I’m still sitting at this high top alone, but the server was nice enough to bring over mozzarella sticks.
Nothing fried food can’t fix!
I blink, something like anger bubbling in my stomach.
I don’t like to picture her sitting alone, checking the door every time it opens and being disappointed when it’s not who she thought it was. I shouldn’t be asking this next question—there’s nothing I can do to fix the problem—but I do it anyway,because for as hard as I try, this woman has me wrapped around her finger.
Me
Where are you?
H.E.
A sports bar called Intermission. It’s near the arena, actually.
