Page 7 of The Game She Hates

Today, though, I don’t have a choice. It’s almost 2 p.m., and I can only hope for a semi-uninterrupted trip to the counter. I pull my hat down a bit lower to cover my face and brace myself for all the staring to start.

To my surprise, after the bell rings and I’m inside, there’s no typical lunch rush. The café is quiet and only a handful of people are seated and aren’t looking in my direction. It seems like I might actually be able to enjoy my coffee in the shop like a normal person without anyone bothering me. Randy, the owner—who’s also a fan of mine but promised to keep my presence low-key as long as I frequent his coffee shop—gives me a wide grin as I approach the counter. I give him a nod and order my usual. Danish pastries and an Italian roast.

Today might not be so bad after all.

My heart sinks when the bell rings, and I quickly turn my gaze to the door, expecting a flood of people. Thankfully, it’s just one other customer, a woman—though, she’s not just any woman. She’s stunning, like something out of a dream. I find myself catching my breath, completely unable to tear my eyes away. I want to etch every detail of her beauty into my memory. Her eyes are a mesmerizing shade of forest green, her golden-blonde hair cascades in loose curls, and her petite nose fits perfectly on her round face. And those pink lips...I don’t know her but I’m convinced they’re naturally full.

She walks toward me and I realize I’ve been staring like a creep. I blink and turn back to the counter, where my order is ready and waiting for me. Before taking a seat, I notice her uneasy expression and tense posture, probably from my intense gaze. I should apologize, maybe even pretend she reminds me of someone I know. But truthfully, I’ve never seen anyone quite like her. She’s the kind of person you’d want to draw and hang on your wall, and I do draw, though that’s beside the point.

She orders without looking at the menu, indicating she’s a regular here, and given Randy’s smile, he likes her. More points to her for that. We’re both regulars. She receives her order, neatly packed in a to-go box, and my heart deflates as she quickly makes her way to the door, clearly attempting to escape my gaze. I commit her last details to memory before she reaches the door. She is wearing beige slacks and a light-pink sweater that perfectly complements her complexion. She effortlessly swings the door open with her forearm, balancing a cup of coffee in one hand and a to-go box in the other. Despite her self-sufficiency, I can’t shake the feeling brewing inside me that someone should be there to hold the door for her. Someone like me—yet here I am, frozen in place, captivated by her presence.

What’s going on with me? It’s weird to feel so strongly about someone I don’t even know.

She disappears from view and another sudden urge to follow her tugs at me, tempting me to rise and catch a glimpse of her car and its destination. But that would be crossing into the realm of madness, wouldn’t it? I’ve never felt such an intense curiosity about someone before, let alone a complete stranger. It’s absurd, really. Yet I’m still entertaining the idea of playing detective just to satisfy my insatiable desire to know more about her.

It’s official—I’m losing my mind.

I manage to keep myself rooted to my seat, resisting chasing after the mysterious woman. Instead, I’m replaying the encounter in the coffee shop over and over again, each moment scorched into my mind. By the time I finally snap out of my reverie, I realize I’m already running late for therapy.

I quickly rise from my seat and tidy up my table, wiping away any remaining crumbs and spills. I also make a mental note to pester Randy later for any information he might have about the enigmatic woman who just graced us with her presence.

I knock on the door labeled “Christian Counseling with Davis,” the letters neatly printed in elegant script. My mind is still swirling with thoughts of the mystery woman I saw at the coffee shop. A soft voice from within invites me in, and it strikes me as surprisingly youthful.

When I step through the doorway, my heart actually stops.

There she is—the mysterious woman from the coffee shop—sitting in a cozy chair in a room that’s more colorful than her outfit. Large windows allow sunlight to pour in, casting a warm glow over her glorious face. I can see how people would feel comfortable opening up in such an inviting environment.

“Please take a seat,” she says, her voice almost serenading.

I’m frozen in disbelief. What are the odds that the most out-of-this-world beautiful woman I’ve ever seen happens to be the therapist who Coach sent me to? It’s as if the universe is playing some sort of cosmic joke. Now, Coach’s insistence on being showered before the appointment makes sense—though, goodness, this is so surreal.

After a moment, I manage to find a seat, though I’m sure I must look as puzzled as she does right now. There’s a starstruck expression on her face that’s starting to make my heart drop a little. I had a long list of reasons why therapy wasn’t going to work for me, but none of them included the therapist being young, beautiful—and seemingly a fan of mine.

It’s not like I dislike my fans or anything. Actually, I appreciate them a lot. They’re always there to cheer me on, even when I end up in fights. But when it comes to private interactions, well, I tend to keep my distance. Let’s just say I’ve had my fair share of awkward encounters with many of my female fans.

“So this is when we introduce ourselves. I’m Pearl Davis,” she says, her voice a bit shaky but maintaining a professional tone. “And I work with children who have been or are currently in the foster care system. I’d like to get to know you too.”

That’s it? Just her name and her profession—she seems too young to be a therapist. I wonder how she ended up here. I mean, it’s not like this is a date, but I can’t help but want to know more about her. Why is she so beautiful? Is she half-angel, half-human? I’ve heard that’s a thing. Not that I believe it, but she’d make me a believer. And those lips... Are they real or just another product of modern cosmetic wonders?

But most importantly, does she enjoy watching me play? If her avoiding my eyes and nervously fidgeting with her crossed legs is any indication, I’d wager that she’s feeling the nerves of meeting her favorite player. After all, she works with people all day, so if she wasn’t a fan, she wouldn’t be this nervous around me. But honestly, she doesn’t even need to worry because, for her, I’d sign every picture she’s got of me.

“I’m Zane Ortiz. I play with the Glaciers, center position,” I reply casually, trying to downplay the fact that I’ve already gathered so much information in just five minutes of being here.

“Okay, what do you want me to call you?” she asks, her eyes flickering down to her notepad as if contemplating the best way to address me. Maybe she’s debating between using my first name or last name. After all, most fans tend to refer to me by my full name.

I shrug. “Zane is fine.”

“Great, Zane it is,” she chirps, her tone a touch too enthusiastic for the situation. It’s almost humorously fake, like she’s trying too hard to put herself at ease with this. But hey, at least she’s no crazy fan.

7

Pearl Davis

Someone, please, get me some water and open the windows or something. My throat is parched, and the air conditioner seems to be on the fritz, which explains how unbelievably warm this room is. The moment Zane stepped into my office, I knew this session would be anything but ordinary. With his rugged good looks and piercing blue eyes, he resembles more of a movie star than a hockey player. Not that I even know how hockey players look. But I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze, afraid that if I do, I’ll forget all about being a professional therapist and succumb to the fluttering feeling in my stomach.

It also doesn’t help that every inhale is now filled with his intoxicating scent of citrus and spice. It’s like being wrapped in a cozy blanket of freshness and warmth, making it impossible not to feel a little lightheaded—in the best possible way.

I can’t believe the only heads up Robyn gave me was that he was easy on the eye. In fact, he isn’t. Not one bit. He’s the kind of guy who can derail your train of thought by just being in the same room. His muscular frame in a tracksuit and wavy brown hair, along with his chiseled jaw, make me want to lock my eyes on my notepad and never spare him a glance for the rest of my life. And it’s not like I just started thinking this now that he’s in front of me. When I caught him staring at me at Randy’s twenty minutes ago, I wondered why a man as handsome as him was so preoccupied by me. Now, I’m sure he probably did a quick Google search on my practice and recognized me. Props to him; that’s more homework than I did.

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