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“Something like that,” I deflect, rolling my shoulders to maintain an air of nonchalance.
“Bro,” Jonas, otherwise known as Country, chimes in, “remember that last girl? She was clingier than wet hockey tape. Are you sure you want to risk another stage-five clinger situation?”
“Maybe he’s into that,” Ryan nudges me, a laugh hidden in his eyes.
“It can’t be worse than the chick who thought she was a psychic and kept predicting the outcome of our games.”
“Or the one who brought her pet tarantulas.”
Everyone shivers at that memory.
Tarantula Girl wasn’t too long ago. My mom met her at the Express store, of all places. She seemed nice, so Mom somehow convinced her to go on a blind date with me. I’ll never know why I agreed to my mom’s schemes.
The chick showed up with her pet tarantula. I fucking screamed like a frightened child when she pulled the hairy, beady-eyed thing out. Side note: if you ever want to bring me down, set a spider in front of me. I’m deathly afraid of the little creatures.
Anyway, I politely told the girl I wasn’t interested in dating and apologized for Mom’s persistence. But she twisted my words and believed I wanted her to chase after me even more. She started showing up with her pets to our practices, even though they were closed.
What they say about animals looking like their owners is true—it applies even to spiders. Tarantula Girl had jet-black curly hair that mimicked those of her pet. And just like those beady-eyed creatures, she had piercing dark eyes that seemed to observe everything with keen attention. She used that sharpness when she spotted me at Barton’s with another girl sitting on my lap one night.
She completely lost it, even though I repeatedly told her I wasn’t interested. The next day at practice, my locker was spray-painted with the word “cheater,” and when I opened it, hairy tarantulas fell out. Though they were fake, my heart nearly stopped at that moment, not knowing the difference.
Needless to say, the incident didn’t go over well with the coaching staff and administrators.
“Okay, okay. I get it.” I push back and stand my ground. My mom may have good intentions, but her execution is terrible. “Let’s just say I’m playing defense this time.”
“Defense, huh?” Jonas snorts, slapping my back with a damp towel. “More like you’re scared of getting checked into the boards by some chick who’s got her eye on the prize.”
“Can’t blame a guy for wanting to avoid another penalty box situation,” I shoot back, the words light but feeling heavier than I let on.
“All right, Romeo,” Andrew winks, “just make sure you don’t score your own goal with Mommy’s lineup.”
“Ha-ha,” I retort dryly, tying my shoes. “You guys kill me with the hockey puns.”
“You wouldn’t have it any other way, Spidey Boy.”
Their laughter follows me out of the locker room. I stride down the corridor, my sneakers squeaking against polished floors, each step echoing louder than the last. The thoughts tumbling through my head all land on one person: Amanda. The name alone tightens something in my chest—could be anticipation, could be dread.
Mom and her matchmaking.She’s got this thing for setting me up like it’s some kind of twisted hobby. Maybe she dreams of me finding “the one,” settling down, and giving her a couple of grandkids to dote on—all while continuing the Morton legacy. But all this does is trap me in an endless cycle of awkward dinners and forced smiles.
My chest tightens. Mom was so happy when I mentioned bringing someone home. How will she feel when my “girlfriend” and I break up? I shake off the guilt. Mom knows where my true commitment lies. She shouldn’t push for anything else for at least another five years.
“Blake, wait up, man.” Ryan’s voice ricochets off the walls. I pivot on my heel and wait for him to catch up.
“Yo.” My nod is casual, but inside, it’s all knotted wires and strategy. “What’s up?”
“You’re not really bailing on us Saturday, are you?”
“Looks like it.” I shrug, the movement calculated. Though I don’t know why I try, Ryan knows about my situation. The parts he has witnessed throughout the years, anyway. He doesn’t know all of it. No one does. “Unfortunately, duty calls.”
“They actually planned a dinner after our game?” He frowns, not trying to hide his incredulous tone.
“Yep.”
“As if these family dinners are so successful.” He speaks so low I barely hear him. I’m not sure who is more upset, him or me.
He breaks the tension with a smirk. “Who’s the unlucky lady this time?”
An urge to defend Amanda surfaces. He wouldn’t be so cocky if he knew he was talking about his friend. “Well, she’s a pre-med student, super smart. And she’s not the type to get all clingy, which is perfect for me right now.”
