Page 80 of Hockey Player Seeking Fan

“To answer your question, I used to love the ocean. Really love it. I used to swim as far as I could and lie on my back and let the waves carry me. I used to close my eyes, then just open them and stare up at the sky, and I would feel like I was connected with God. When I was younger, sometimes I would speak to Him. I would tell Him all my dreams and hopes.” She smiles. “You must think I’m crazy.”

“Not at all,” I say. “You don’t feel that way now?”

“I still look up at the sky,” she says, “and I still talk to Him—when there’s a full moon or I see a certain galaxy or constellations. I just think how wondrous the world is. How great. But... I’m scared of the ocean now, if I’m honest.”

“Oh?”

She nods slowly. “I mean, I shouldn’t. I personally never had any bad situations. But a friend of a friend—he died.”

Her eyes are overcast for a few seconds, and she offers me a wry smile.

“Riptide. He was a strong swimmer, too. And whenever I think of him, I just think how nature is a cruel beast. And who am I to know how to survive if I’m in the midst of it? I guess I’ma scaredy cat by nature. I try not to put myself into situations that I think could lead to something negative. And... that’s how I feel about the ocean now. I still love it. I’ll still walk along the sand and maybe wade my feet in. But I don’t go swimming far anymore.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” I say, feeling like I’ve gotten another piece of the Erica Carrington puzzle.

“Oh, yeah? Why do you say that? You think you’ve got me all figured out?”

“I think I understand why you left that morning.” I nod slowly. “Because you were overwhelmed. And a part of you was retreating because you didn’t want to get hurt.”

Her eyes go wide, emblazoned with something, and she offers me a wide smile. “You are much more intelligent than you look.”

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not, but I’m going to take it as one. I feel like those words have been said far too frequently in my presence.”

She says, “Am I someone that makes them feel like…” She pauses. “Oh my gosh.”

“What?” I ask.

She grabs my arm and whispers, “Is that—don’t look now—but is that Michael B. Jordan?”

Of course, I look to the right. I see a tall Black guy standing there, grinning. He’s handsome, with big dimples and an expensive looking watch.

“I don’t know,” I say. “He’s a little far away. But if it’s him, are you going to dump me for him?” I ask, laughing and trying to pretend I’m not in the slightest bit jealous.

“I wouldn’t dump you for him, but I would definitely get his signature. I’d love his autograph. And if he asked me to go for a drink at the bar, I wouldn’t be able to say no. But I mean, I wouldn’t go home with him—out of respect for you, of course.”

“Oh, well. That is very kind of you. I feel special.”

“You should. I wouldn’t just turn down Michael B. Jordan for anyone.”

The man comes a little bit closer to us, and she giggles.

“Oh. He’s totally not Michael B. Jordan.”

“No. He is not. So I guess I’m the lucky one tonight.”

“I guess so.”

Her phone beeps, and she pulls it out. “Sorry, I’m not sure who’s texting me.”

She opens it, and her jaw drops.

“Oh my gosh.”

“What?” I say.

“Nothing.” She presses her finger against the phone frantically.

“Is everything okay?”