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Don’t tell me you like horror movies.

Mr. Hockey God

I love a good slasher flick.

Me

Good to know.

Mr. Hockey God

Goodnight, trouble girl.

Me

Night, hockey boy.

Thursday night, I can’t resist the urge to watch the hockey game. The announcers keep talking about Mick’s “veteran presence,” his “leadership on and off the ice,” all the things that make him a hockey golden boy.

I find myself leaning forward when he takes a hit, my body tensing, like I could absorb some of the impact through the screen. I only exhale when he’s up and moving, and when the Knights score, I let out a sound that’s half laugh, half groan.

As the game ends, I’m scrolling Instagram when the phone vibrates against my thigh.

Mr. Hockey God

My games are over. I can’t wait until tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up at six pm.

I stare at the screen for a moment. Even though things are going great with Mick, I always leave myself a way out. What can I say? Old habits die hard.

Me

I’ll drive myself. Send over your address.

Mr. Hockey God

I’m not even going to argue. I know it’s a wasted effort.

Me

You catch on quickly. See you at six.

Mr. Hockey God

Can’t wait. Dress casual.

Me

Do jeans and sweatshirt work?

Mr. Hockey God

Jeans and sweatshirt or nothing at all. Either works for me.

I laugh as another message comes through. This time it’s his address and I’m not surprised to see he lives in a fancy apartment building in downtown Seattle.

Friday afternoon, I pace my apartment trying to work off some of the excess energy flowing through me. Darn it. It’s been the longest day in the history of long days.

I finally decide to take a long, scalding hot shower. Even though I told myself I wouldn’t do this, I take extra time buffing and scrubbing and even shave my legs.