And I could make this easy for him. I could offer it, write it on his cup, pass it across the counter with a wink. That’s what a nice person would do.
But I don’t want to make it easy.
I want to watch this six-foot-something hockey player who throws himself in front of pucks for a living stumble over his words trying to ask me out. I want to see his ears turn red and his hands fidget and his eyes dart everywhere except my face. I want him to want it badly enough to be terrified and do it anyway.
That’s probably mean. I don’t care.
Now it’s Saturday and there’s an actual line that he’s standing in, looking like he’s about to face a firing squad. His lips are moving and it takes me a second to realize he’s rehearsing, oh my god he’s actually rehearsing, and he keeps running his hand through his hair and then stopping himself and then doing it again. He’s wearing a Puckaneers hoodie that’s a little too big and gray sweatpants and he looks like he just rolled out of bed. I want to put him in my pocket and keep him forever.
Which is such a problem, because I’ve been a little bit obsessed with Zach Almardon since before he ever walked into my coffee shop behind Rodriguez. Watching him stutter over the menu is giving me whiplash because there’s a significant difference between the guy who aggressively kissed me on a dark patio two weeks ago and this guy who can’t even form a sentence.
And then he opened his mouth and fumbled the coffee order so badly that I realized—he’s shy. Genuinely, deeply shy. And something about that, about this giant stoic goalie turning pinkover an espresso menu because he likes me that much, made me want to tease him until he smiled.
So I did.
Which makes it even worse that my dad would absolutely murder this man if he knew I’ve spent the last week thinking about his hands. Big hands. Goalie hands. Yeah, I’ve definitely noticed that. I also know according to my dad that Zach has “solid fundamentals and a good head on his shoulders.” I know my dad likes him. I know my dad has been mentoring him. I know he probably walked into Pucks & Pucks and recognized me when Rodriguez said my name and connected the dots the way anyone in the organization would, because everyone in the Puckaneers universe knows who I am. I’m not exactly hiding.
The line moves. He’s two people away and he looks panicked.
One person away.
And then he’s in front of me, looking at me with that little half smile like he’s not quite sure how he ended up here.
“Hey,” I say. “The usual?”
“Actually—” His voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. “Actually, I was wondering if?—”
He pauses and stares at the menu like it might feed him his lines.
“If?” I prompt.
“If you wanted to—” Another pause. His hand comes out of his hoodie pocket and runs through his hair before he shoves it back in. “I mean, if you’re not busy, and you don’t have to say yes, but I was thinking maybe?—”
“Zach.”
He stops and looks at me with wide eyes.
“Are you trying to ask for my number?”
His face goes from pink to full red. “I—yes. Yeah. I’m trying to—” He exhales. “I’m really bad at this.”
“I noticed.”
“I’ve been practicing in the car.”
“I believe you.”
“I looked up what to say and everything but now I’m here and none of it—I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do after you give me your number, is there a waiting period before I text or?—”
“Zach.”
He stops again. I’m grinning. I can’t help it. He’s such a disaster and I’m so into it.
“Give me your phone,” I say.
He hands it over immediately, like I’m a cop asking for his license and registration. I type in my number, text myself so I have his, and hand it back.
“There,” I say. “Now you have my number and I have yours and you can stop stressing about it.”
