“Then you better figure it out,” Brody says. “Because that’s the only kind of guy she’s going to let near her kids.”
We finish breakfast in relative silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Mine keep circling back to Saturday night, to the moment when everything felt possible and then immediately felt impossible.
On the bus to the arena for morning skate, I pull out my phone again.
Thinking about you.
Delete.
Hope you’re having a good week.
Delete.
I had a great time Saturday night. Would love to talk when I get back.
Too much. Delete.
Finally, I just type:
Miss talking to you.
Simple. Honest. Not too pushy.
This time, she responds.
Miss it too.
Three words, but they’re enough to make me feel like maybe I didn’t completely screw this up. Maybe there’s still a chance.
I put the phone away and try to focus on the morning skate, on preparing for tonight’s game against Edmonton. But part of my brain is already planning what I’m going to say when I get back to Seattle, how I’m going to show her that this isn’t just some temporary fascination.
Because somewhere between the disastrous restaurant and the waterfront conversation and the kiss that wasn’t a kiss, I realized something that probably should have scared me but doesn’t.
I don’t want anyone else. I want her. Her complicated life, her guarded heart, her fierce protectiveness of her kids, all of it.
Now I just have to convince her to want me back.
We beat Edmonton 3-1, mostly because I manage to remember how to play hockey for more than thirty seconds ata time. It helps that I spend the entire game thinking about Golda’s text response, about the fact that she misses talking to me too.
After the game, I’m feeling confident enough to try texting again.
Good game tonight. Thought about you during the first goal.
During the goal?
She responds. Immediately. This feels like progress.
Couldn’t help it. You’re distracting even when you’re in a different city.
Smooth.
I have my moments.
How’s the road trip going?
Better now that I’m texting you.
Flatterer.
