Page 19 of Gave Proof Through the Night

I’m still staring at the door, several seconds past the point where staring at a door is a normal thing to do, when Zoe reappears from the bathroom. She glances at the door, then at me, then back at the door, and lets out a low whistle.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Who was that?”

“Who was what?”

“Tall, dark, and covered in muscles who definitely turned back to smile at you. Erica, who was that?"

“Nobody.” I gather up the ruined napkins and stack them into a tidy, guilty little pile. “Just some poor guy I bumped into.”

Zoe doesn’t say anything for a second. Her eyes have gone narrow, fixed on the door, head tilting slowly.

“Why do I feel like I know that guy?”

“You don’t know that guy.”

“No, but…” She’s still staring at the door.

“Wait a minute.”

Her phone is already in her hand, thumb moving, and I watch her scroll slow, then fast, then very fast, with focused, slightly feral energy.

“HOLY MACKEREL.” She shouts it so loud that people turn around. “Erica. Erica. Do you have any idea who that was?”

“A man who is going to need a new shirt? Probably Herman or Germany or maybe Hermione.”

“That,” Zoe says. She’s whispering now like it’s a state secret. “Is Jeremiah Precio.”

I look at the phone. I look at her. “I’m going to need context, Zoe.”

“He’s a hockey player. I didn’t recognize him at first because he wasn’t all worked up and sweaty, but… okay, in fairness, every photo I have of him he’s either sweating or doing groin stretches, so the whole dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up threw me. But that’s him.”

There’s a photo on the screen, a guy mid-stride on some kind of ice rink, helmet on, jersey soaked through, completely unrecognizable as the guy who just walked out the door and my life.

“I didn’t know you were into sports.”

“I’m not.” Zoe doesn’t even look up from her phone. “I’m into hot fictional hockey players. And, apparently, thirst traps. There’s a whole… okay, hang on, I know I saved this.”

“Zoe.”

“I have a whole folder, Erica, it’s very organized, don’t look at me like that.”

“Zoe.”

“There’s a video of him lifting his shirt to wipe sweat off his face after a game, and I want you to understand that I have watched it more times than I am willing to admit out loud, in this coffee shop, to your face. The abs, Erica. The abs. Let me find it, I swear it’s in here somewhere.”

She scrolls through her saved posts, and almost all of them are either shirtless men, men with wings, or shirtless men with wings. And also hockey players.

“You need help.”

“Oh honey, don’t even get me started. There’s a whole genre. Women who read hockey romance books are suddenly reorganizing their entire personality around men who can skate. And the thing about him specifically… okay, here, look.“ She holds up the phone, and there’s a grainy photo, and a comment section I am absolutely not going to read out loud in public.

“Not one single red flag. No scandals, no messy breakups, no leaked anything. Some guy’s grandma met him at an airport and he carried her bags and it got, like, eleven million views. He is, and I cannot stress this enough, the single most eligible athlete currently on my for-you page.”

There’s a glint in her eye that I recognize, because I’ve seen it before. Right before Zoe says something that ruins my entire week. “And you,” she says, pointing the phone at me like a tiny, accusatory remote control. “Are going to get that hot hockey player to take you as his plus-one to the gala.”

“Excuse me?”

“Erica.”