“I’m great with parents.”
“Are you though?”
“I’m charming, respectful, and I can talk sports with dads for hours. I’ll be fine.”
She looks skeptical but doesn’t argue. “What about you? What do I need to know about you?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Basic information. Literally anything that would come up in conversation if we were actually dating.”
Right. She knows almost nothing about me beyond the past month.
“I’m from Chicago originally. Moved around a lot for hockey,juniors in Canada, then drafted to Seattle three years ago.” I take a sip of coffee. “I have two younger sisters, both still in Chicago. My parents are divorced but friendly. My mom remarried, my dad didn’t. I’m close with all of them.”
“What else?”
“I don’t know. What else do you want to know?”
“Your first name.”
Shit. I was wondering when she’d bring that up again.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because if we’re pretending to date, I should probably know your actual name. What am I supposed to tell people when they ask what my boyfriend’s name is?”
“Just call me Rod.”
She stares at me. “Rod.”
“Yep.”
“I’m not telling people my boyfriend’s name is Rod Rodriguez. That sounds like a porn star.”
I almost choke on my coffee, the liquid goes down wrong and makes me cough. “Wow. Okay.”
Her face turns bright red. “I didn’t mean, that came out wrong?—”
“No, no, that was perfect actually.”
“I just meant it sounds fake. Like a made-up name.”
“Uh huh.” I’m trying so hard not to laugh at how flustered she is.
“Oh my god.” She pulls out her phone. “Fine. You know what? I’ll just look it up. The NHL has their rosters online.”
“Go for it.”
She’s typing on her phone, and I’m trying very hard not to laugh as I watch her pull up the Puckaneers roster page and scroll down to my name because I know exactly what it’s going to say.
“Rod Rodriguez,” she reads aloud, completely monotone.
“See? Told you.”
“Who did you pay to get it listed like this?” She looks up at me, genuinely annoyed now. “What is youractualfirst name?”
“That is my actual?—”
