Page 16 of From Fling to Ring

Lucy scoffs. “You’ve seen Petal’s family home, right?”

I nod. I was at that party she and Rake threw once they decided they were real-married instead of fake-married. The house was banging nice.

“Yeah, well, I did not grow up in that neighborhood,” she says. “We just… stayed friends after kindergarten through activities. Stuff like that.”

She flips a page on her notepad, our small talk apparently over. This leaves me feeling not-so-great about my bet with the guys. Is there going to be a pink tutu in my future after all? This woman is hard-core, and she does not give a flying fuck about me.

“Okay, Tyler. Can you tell me about your volunteer work with the kids? You know, how you got into it and all that?”

She looks at me expectantly, pen poised, all business. It’s familiar to me, this sort of conversation. I’ve been interviewed enough times to recognize a journalist’s cover—the fake empathy, the sincerity. They have their poker faces, but they’re transparent as hell.

They waver between showing interest and impartiality, trying to straddle a line where they appear professional yet chummy enough that someone might slip and reveal something juicy.

They want the scoop, the story no one else has. They poke for cracks in the armor, hoping something big drops—some gritty detail of locker room drama or a snippet about life off the rink. If they can unearth a good one, it’s a win for them, a chance to savor the glow of exclusivity, to pat themselves on the back for their skillful digging.

Lucy dives into her questions, and in my head, I’m two steps ahead, anticipating where she’s going, ready to steer the conversation away from any landmines, not that there are many when it comes to talking about volunteer work. If she’s going to be all professional and shit, then so am I.

I may have an ulterior motive for being here today, but she’s after something, too.

Anyway, there’s nothing easier than talking about yourself. Which is what makes blowhards so tedious. But I am here to talk about my volunteering—it doesn’t get more innocuous than that— so I start flapping my gums.

“Well, when I got to be like seven or eight, I was totally hyper. No amount of ADHD medication helped. My father put me in a series of sports, and when he realized how strenuous hockey was, and how likely it would be to tire me out faster than anything else, he had me on teams as soon as I mastered the Learn to Skate program at our local rink.”

She nods, looking bored out of her skull.

Jesus Christ, I do not need this shit. I have half a mind to just get up and leave and, if it were anyone else, I might do just that. But because Lucy is Petal’s friend, there’s more at stake here than just a boring-ass interview. If I piss off Lucy, she’ll tell Petal, who will in turn tell Rake, who will undoubtedly give me massive shit for not being nicer to his wife’s best friend.

And to think I am supposed to date this woman. Well, for ninety days, anyway.

I picture myself in a skating dress and decide to keep trying.

“Mmmm hmmm,” she says, waiting.

“Right, so uh, when I got out of the junior leagues and went pro, I was approached by a local volunteer group that teaches hockey. I thought it sounded like fun, so I joined up. I don’t have much time for it during the season, but over the summer, when I am in town, I go and run drills with the kids. You should come watch sometime.”

Like that would ever happen.

She scribbles something in her notebook. “Do you enjoy it?”

“I love it. In fact, I miss it during the season. I see a lot of kids like myself who, if their parents hadn’t gotten them into sports, would be wasting their energy in much less constructive ways.”

Something in her face changes, and I hope like hell she’s seeing me as a human, finally.

“Are you saying you might have ended up on the wrong path if not for hockey?”

Hmmm. This is something I don’t talk about much, having had it drilled into my head to keep my life challenges to myself to ensure the team keeps its image squeaky clean at all times.

But what the hell.

“Yeah. Some of the kids I grew up with, well, let’s just say they’ve not become productive citizens. It’s so easy for people to give up on a hyper kid. It happens all the time. Parents, teachers, whoever, don’t know what to do with a kid, so they throw in the towel and leave him—or her—to their own devices. That’s never the best way to go. In my opinion.”

She slowly nods her head, no longer looking down at her pad and instead looking at me. “Totally. I remember a kid I grew up with, I think his name was David, bouncing off the walls at school. He didn’t do anything horrible, he was just mischievous, getting into low-level trouble. I liked him, thought he was a lot of fun, but one day he just didn’t come to school. We asked what happened and the teacher said he’s not allowed here anymore. It was so scary and final, and I think we all sat there thinking, well, they could get rid of me, too, if they wanted.”

I look down at my coffee. Good grief. We’re supposed to be talking about hockey or something like it, and we’re talking about this stuff instead.

“Anyway, that’s a long way of explaining how I ended up where I am today. Pretty boring, huh?” I chuckle.

She frowns. “No. Not at all. It makes you more… human.”

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