Milton: Knew it. Called it. Been WAITING for you to stop being a chicken.
Milton: So when’s the date?
Right. The date.
Heat crawls up my neck. I’ve been so wrapped up in the yes I forgot step one.
Me: Soon. Shit, I didn’t give her a date. Fuck, where do I even take her? No Kraken or Scorpion hangouts. I want this to be about us, not hockey or our brothers… no offense, Korbin.
Milton: Soooo not Riptides then
Korbin: Definitely not Riptides. She deserves somewhere better.
Better. Not safer. Not neutral. Better.
Somewhere not loud as hell. Somewhere we can sit and actually see each other. Good lighting so she can read my lips. Nothing that smells like stale beer and sweat.
A bistro downtown pops into my head. Big windows, open tables, good food, soft music instead of screaming fans. I wired half their pendant lights last year, spent hours staring at those damn exposed brick walls and reclaimed wood tables.
Yeah. That could work.
I pick my phone back up and message Bayleigh.
Me: I have an idea for our date spot. Somewhere with good food and terrible pastries.
The dots blink.
Bayleigh: Terrible pastries?
Bayleigh: Sounds dangerous.
Me: I like to live on the edge.
Bayleigh: Good. Me too.
I sit there for a second, smiling like a fool at my screen, then force myself to focus. One thing at a time. First, the video; she basically handed me a do-over, and I’m not screwing that up.
My fingers drum the steering wheel. I reread her last text one more time, fighting the urge to grin like a fool.
Headlights sweep across the yard.
Milton’s car.
He pulls in beside me, door slamming, gym bag slung over his shoulder. He gives my truck a look, like he already knows I’ve been sitting here overthinking. He doesn’t approach, just smirks and heads toward the front door.
Time to get inside and make that damn video. I toe my boots off in the entryway and find him in the living room, leaning back on the couch with a game on mute.
In my room, I shut the door and sit on the edge of the bed, phone in my hand, nerves suddenly louder than the excitement. It’s one thing to text. Another to put my face on video, hands and all, knowing she’s going to watch every move.
I open the camera, prop the phone up on my dresser between two folded shirts, then step back far enough that she’ll be able to see my chest, face, and hands. The mirror behind the screen shows a guy in a work-worn T-shirt, hair a little messy, stubble creeping along his jaw.
I take a breath. Then another.
“Okay,” I mutter. “Don’t fuck this up.”
I hit record and lift my hands.
Hello, Bayleigh.
