“I know who she is.”
“You know she’s a single mom who does voice work and looks good in yoga pants,” Brody points out. “That’s not the same thing.”
“What else do you want me to know?”
“Everything,” Elliot says simply. “What makes her laugh. What makes her worry. What she dreams about. What she’s afraid of.”
“How am I supposed to learn that if she won’t go to dinner with me?”
“By being her friend first,” Elliot says like it’s obvious. “Novel concept, I know.”
The idea is so foreign that I actually consider it for a moment. Being friends with a woman I’m attracted to, without any agenda beyond actually knowing her.
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“Lucky for you,” Elliot grins, “I do. And I’m going to help you.”
“Help me how?”
“Leave that to me. Just... try not to have any more audiobook emergencies before I figure out how to get you two in the same room.”
“They’re not emergencies,” I mutter.
“Cold showers are definitely emergencies,” Brody disagrees, finally getting off the floor. “Emergency interventions by your plumbing.”
“I hate both of you.”
“We love you too,” Elliot says cheerfully. “Now eat some food and tell me everything you know about this woman’s life. It’s time for Operation: Get Dex a Real Relationship.”
As they start plotting my romantic future over Chinese takeout, I can’t help but think that letting Elliot Carter take control of my love life might be the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done.
But considering my current strategy involves cold showers and romance novels, maybe dangerous is exactly what I need.
Tuesday night practice feels different.Maybe because I spent Sunday evening getting roasted by my best friend and his wife about my pathetic audiobook habit. Maybe because Elliot’s reconnaissance report is playing on repeat in my head:Her pulse jumped every time I mentioned your name.
Or maybe because I listened to “The Duke’s Desire” again last night and had to take another cold shower when Golda’s voice described the hero’s “skilled hands mapping the heroine’s trembling form.”
Christ. I need help.
The youth team is running passing drills, and I’m trying to focus on actual coaching instead of the fact that Golda is sitting in her usual spot in the stands, laptop balanced on her knees, completely unaware that her voice has been the soundtrack to my insomnia for two weeks.
“Coach Dex!” Tyson skates over during a water break. “Can you show me that wrist shot technique again?”
“Absolutely, buddy.” I demonstrate the motion, acutely aware that his mom is probably watching. “Remember, it’s all in the snap. Quick release.”
“Like this?” He tries it, sending the puck wide of the net.
“Close. Try keeping your bottom hand looser.” I adjust his grip, and in my peripheral vision, I see Golda look up from her laptop. “There you go. Much better.”
Tyson beams and skates back to the drill. I should follow him, keep coaching, act normal. Instead, I find myself skating toward the boards where Golda sits.
“Hey,” I say, stopping at the glass.
She looks up, surprised. “Oh. Hi.”
“How’s he doing? Tyson, I mean. At home. With the hockey stuff.”
“Good. He practices in the driveway constantly. I think our neighbors are getting tired of hearing pucks hit the garage door.”
