“Better not.” He blows his whistle. “Everyone in position.” But he leans in and, in a low voice, says, “And Culpepper?”
“Yes, Coach?”
“Always go with pasta. Women love pasta. Just take it easy on the garlic.”
My eyes go cartoon wide and it’s not only because the puck is sailing in my direction. How does he know everything?
By the time practice ends, my phone pulses with rednotification bubbles. They’re mostly texts from Whitaker. I wait to read them until after I shower and get ready to go. He knows I’m at practice.
While walking to my Jeep, I find exactly what I expect from one of my oldest friends and a guy who has expensive taste that I help fund through endorsements, sponsorships, merch, and other deals.
Whitaker: I sent the contracts.
Whitaker: Did she back out?
Whitaker: Why haven’t you signed?
Whitaker: I need confirmation by EOD.
Whitaker: The charity wants to move forward ASAP.
Whitaker: Clark. RESPOND.
Whitaker: I’m re-sending the contracts. Review them tonight.
Whitaker: Also, if this falls through, I have someone else you can work with. Remember Lyric? You took her to dinner at the steakhouse in Omaha. She’s allergic to dogs, but we’ll figure it out.
I stop walking. Because that’s a non-starter.
He knows I don’t go on second dates and the first one with her was a masterclass in how to send your life off the rails with the wrong woman. Insufferable, demanding, entitled, and whiny doesn’t even begin to cover it. As far as I’m concerned, Lyric never happened. It’s been wiped frommemory. Though the internet is forever, as they say. I answer simply.
Me: No.
Whitaker: Come on. One more dinner. Her followers doubled after you guys went out.
Me: Who do you represent? Her or me?
Whitaker: I’m your brother from another mother.
Me: Also, I’m fake-dating April for the campaign. Remember?
Whitaker: That doesn’t start until the contracts are signed.
Me: STOP.
While Lyric was social-media-girl-groomed and knew exactly how to angle herself for the camera, that was the extent of it. I could never go through life just “mogging” and “looksmaxxing” for the fans, as she said.
When I tried to talk about hockey, she asked if I could introduce her to “the really famous players.”
I am a really famous player.
When I mentioned my dogs, she wrinkled her nose and said, “I like kitty cats. They’re quieter.”
The date ended with an awkward hug and aboopto my nose. I may love dogs, but I’m not one. Hard pass.
Whitaker is a bro, but he can’t just go and squeeze every last penny from my soul. I’m happy to be a field mouse playing hockey; meanwhile, he’s trying to turn me into a rat—butin his eyes, he’s creating a lion. I shove my phone in my pocket before he can argue further.
But I’ll have to talk to him soon because I’m done dating random women. Give me April, or give me a dateless life!
