Two: The actual NHL captain of our hometown team had sought outmyInstagram, searched through hundreds of Jackson Armstrongs to find the right one, and decided to message me.
At midnight.
On a Friday night.
Option one made more sense.
Option two made my palms sweat.
I stared at the message for another thirty seconds, running through more scenarios, each one more manic and ridiculous than the last. Then my mind turned to next steps, what I should do with this DM regardless of the authenticity of its sender.
If I responded and it was fake, I’d feel like an idiot.
If I didn’t respond and it was real, I’d . . . also feel like an idiot.
And miss out on whatever the hell this was.
The cursor blinked in the reply field.
“Fuck it.”
jacks_mills_52: Okay, either this is really you or someone went through a LOT of effort to catfish a guy with 800 followers.
The reply came almost immediately.
My heart did something embarrassing. Well, it would’ve been embarrassing if anyone had been there to see it.
Still, I blushed. I don’t know why. I just did.
PuckingSkylerShaw: It’s me. Promise. I can prove it if you want.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Ask mesomething only I would know.
jacks_mills_52: That’s not how verification works. A catfish would make something up. Besides, I don’t know you well enough to know what you wouldn’t know. You know?
PuckingSkylerShaw: I’m not sure that made any sense, but I think you’re right. Confusing, but right.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Okay, what if I told you something embarrassing that I’d never admit publicly?
jacks_mills_52: I’m listening.
PuckingSkylerShaw: The first time I came to Barbacks I was so nervous I almost threw up in your parking lot.
I stared at the screen.
A catfish wouldn’t know that.
A catfish wouldn’t even think to make that up.
Who invents “I almostvomited from anxiety” as a cover story? I never even considered that Skyler would be anxious, not about visiting our little bar. He was a god, a Tampa staple, the captain of our freakin’ NHL franchise. Why would he be nervous walking into . . .
Oh.
Agaybar.
Right.
God, I was being paranoid. This was ridiculous. I was acting like receiving a DM was some kind of spy movie where everyone had secret identities and hidden agendas.
