Page 13 of He Has Game (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
We say good night and I’m surprised when Vivvie leans in and gives Mary a small hug and a quiet heartfelt thank-you. We step outside the building and it’s still a nice night, so I decide to walk home.
“Where are you going?” I say “Can I get you an Uber?” I slip my phone out, ready to order one up on my app. Least I can do for her since, based on our pretend history, she’s a poor college student and I’d bet that part isn’t made up.
“No need for an Uber.” She takes a long deep breath. “It’s a nice night for a walk and I only live over in the North End.”
“You’re shitting me? Pardon my French.”
“Not kidding. And don’t worry about yourFrench. I’m very familiar with the language since I have three hockey playing brothers.”
She’s made me smile. “I live in the North End too. Looks like I’m walking you home if you don’t mind.” Then I realize it’s ten at night and there’s no way I’d let her walk home alone, especially looking like she does. Because it dawns on me that she’s fucking gorgeous. If her hot body, sexy eyes and lush lips aren’t enough, her tendency to blush makes her irresistible.
“Tell me about school. What are you studying?” Real curiosity fuels my question. Maybe it’s the Byron-the-poet interest that she confessed that stands out. Not an interest I find in the women I typically see.
“I’m an English Lit major,” she says with a note of apology as if I’m her disapproving dad complaining about paying the tuition for a dead-end degree. Then she rushes her words when I prompt her with an encouraging look.
“But it’s not a total waste. I do a lot of writing and there’s all sorts of careers and jobs for writers. It’s a real skill badly needed in the workforce. Public Relations is just one of the many options. It’s not all about ending up as a high school English teacher—”
“Whoa there,” I put up my hands in surrender. “You don’t have to sell me. I like a good poem as well as the next guy. Hell, every musician who writes song lyrics is a poet on some level—and some of them make a fuck—I mean darn good living at it.”
“That’s right.” She brightens like a moonbeam just broke through a cloud and struck her on the face. I shiver, but it’s not the cold. It could be excitement however misplaced. It might even be fear—about what I’ve gotten myself into. Because how the hell am I going to convince the guys on the team that I’m into a chick who loves poetry?
“You’re a romantic.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement of resignation, though I can hardly resign from the charade. I’m resigned to putting out a hard-ass effort to make this work, to keep an open mind. To not get myself or her into trouble along the way.
“I am. So much. I love all the classics, like Austen.” She waves her hand rather than go on with a list, thank fuck. “And modern romance too. Romantic themes are everywhere.” She looks like she’s going to rise up and be transported away on a magical carpet ride.
“I’m more of a realistic kind of guy.”
She nods, not surprised and taking the blow well. But her smile is gone, that euphoric energy all but dissipated, and so I find myself adding, “But who knows? If we keep an open mind we might . . .” I have no idea what.
“Find we have a positive influence on each other?” she says, the hopeful romantic. I don’t have it in me to burst her bubble because that look she has is back, the one that’s like crack to my head—because I don’t have a heart. Maybe she’s right and she’s already rubbing off.
A shot of fear runs through me in the form of a chill, but I hide it.
“This is my building,” she says.
Thank fuck. I look around. We’re fucking neighbors. I live only two blocks away, albeit in a better building on a better street.
“Maybe we met at Mike’s Pastry one morning,” I say. Given who she is, it makes sense. She’ll be more comfortable with a story about meeting at a pastry shop than a bar. And for some reason, I want to make her comfortable. My need to get rid of her for fear of her romanticism rubbing off on me like cooties fades to nothing.
“You want to change the background?” Her voice squeaks like I’ve suggested we drown kittens.
“Yeah, I do. It’s still early. We can go there now. Take a selfie and spread it around.”
“You’re right. Except I just moved here a week ago. But that’s not a big deal.” She rushes her words as we walk over and go inside. There’s a crowd as usual.
“I’ve come here before, I mean before I moved to the neighborhood. When I was looking at apartments. I know the exact day we can say we met.” She smiles and it’s one of those light-up-the-room smiles because it’s so real. No nerves, no coyness, not even flirtation. Genuine pleasure. It’s her trademark and I’d be kidding myself if I didn’t admit it has an effect on me. But I’m strong, my cynicism disguised as realism well rooted in my soul, so that instance of fear doesn’t return.
We get to the counter and I order us each hot chocolate because that’s what I’m guessing she’d like. Besides, if she doesn’t want it, I’ll drink both.
“How did you know I love their hot cocoa?”
“Easy guess. It’s a cold night and this is one of their specialties. You want a pastry?”
She shakes her head no, but I can tell she’s trying to be polite.
“Not you, Vivvie. Don’t be one of those women who gets neurotic about watching their weight to the point of not enjoying a treat now and then.”
“If ever there was a night full of treats, this is it,” she says. “You’ve talked me into it.”
