“It means you’re acting like a rookie who just got called up to the big leagues. Over coffee. With a hockey mom.”
The way he says it makes it sound ridiculous, which it probably is.
“Look, just... don’t overthink it,” Brody continues. “Be yourself. Well, maybe not completely yourself. The edited-for-public-consumption version.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I’m just saying, your usual approach probably won’t work here. She’s not some model looking to upgrade her Instagram feed.”
After we hang up, I spend the rest of the evening trying to figure out what my usual approach even is. Dinner at expensive restaurants? Drinks at clubs where everyone knows my name? Back to my place to show off the view and the expensive sound system?
None of that feels right for Golda. None of it feels like something she’d be interested in, and more importantly, none of it feels like something I want to do with her.
Which is fucking weird.
The next afternoon finds me at Grind twenty minutes early, which is either keen preparation or complete desperation. I order coffee I don’t really want and claim a table where I can see the door, then immediately wonder if I should have picked somewhere else. Somewhere with better lighting. Or worse lighting. Or no lighting at all.
At exactly 2 PM, Golda walks through the door, and every other thought evaporates.
She’s wearing dark jeans and a cream sweater that makes her hair look like fire, and when her eyes find mine across the coffee shop, the smile she gives me does something to my chest that I don’t understand.
“Perfect timing,” I say as she approaches.
“I’m always on time. Occupational hazard.” She hangs her jacket on the chair across from me. “Recording studios wait for no one.”
“Coffee first?”
“Coffee. Definitely coffee. I’ve been surviving on studio vending machine coffee all morning, which should be illegal.”
While she orders, I watch her talk to the barista. She’s polite but efficient, asks about the daily special, changes her mind twice. Everything about her body language says she’s comfortable here, in control of the situation.
It’s different from how she is at the rink, where she’s always slightly on edge, always managing something. Here, she’s just... herself.
“Sorry,” she says, leaning back in her chair with something that smells like cinnamon and espresso. “I’m very particular about coffee. It’s my only vice.”
“Only one?”
“Well, the only one that doesn’t require a babysitter.”
The comment catches me off guard, delivered completely straight-faced but with mischief in her eyes. I laugh before I can stop myself.
“Good to know you have hidden depths.”
“Oh, I’m full of surprises. Just ask anyone who’s tried to figure out my Netflix algorithm.”
“That bad?”
“True crime documentaries, kids’ movies, and whatever cooking shows I can watch while folding laundry. Netflix thinks I’m either a serial killer or someone with very specific dietary restrictions.”
“Sounds about right for Seattle.”
“True. We’re a city of contradictions.” She takes a sip of her coffee, studying me over the rim. “So what’s your excusefor being here at two on a Tuesday? Don’t you have important hockey things to do?”
“Practice was this morning. Not much else until team meeting at five.”
“Must be nice. Having that kind of schedule flexibility.”
There’s something in her tone that suggests flexibility isn’t something she’s familiar with.
