Page 51 of Hooking Up with the Hockey Player

I’m grinning like a goofball as I read his messages, excitement coursing through me.

Can we do Bluey tomorrow? Because I’d really like to spend time with just you if that’s okay.

Troy

That’s more than okay. Shelby’ll be thrilled there’s a plan for Bluey watching, even if she has to wait an extra day. What time do you want me to come over?

How about 5?

Troy

Perfect. See you then

Giddy warmth fills me, and I can’t stop smiling.

Troy’s coming over. Again. For the second day in a row. The fourth day in a row we’ll be spending together.

Which seems crazy, in a way. But I’m refusing to look too closely at that—or anything else that makes me feel less than thrilled about the situation. Do I think a hot, professional athlete has any business being with me? No, I do not. Do I think eventually he’ll realize I’m actually kinda boring and not that much fun? Absolutely I do.

But I think that eventually will likely come after he goes back to his normal life. Maybe I seem interesting and fun because I’m new and different. I’m not his friend with kids or his friend who brought an obnoxious date on what was supposed to be a friend vacation. Maybe I’m just a convenient escape from a situation that isn’t what he was hoping for.

Or maybe he genuinely likes you, whispers a voice in the back of my mind.

Well, sure. He likes me well enough, anyway. But painful experience has shown me that even people who start out liking you can end up treating you horribly.

The beautiful thing about this situation is that there are no real expectations. There are no promises beyond this, right here, right now. Spending this evening together, watching Bluey tomorrow at their cabin, and probably doing something the following evenings between now and whenever he’s supposed to head home.

And even though I’m usually a planner, someone who likes having a checklist of what needs to be done and feels an immense amount of satisfaction after ticking everything off, I’m surprisingly okay with this go-with-the-flow attitude we seem to have between us. Even tonight, we have a plan for a meeting time, but no agenda for what we’re doing—though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have some very specific ideas.

This all goes along quite well with my plan to be a different version of myself, though. Smiling and satisfied with how things are turning out, I finish my lunch and return to work.

The afternoon flies by now that I have a plan with Troy. None of the agonizing that seemed to slow time to a crawl like this morning. It’s the wondering and waiting and hoping that makes time slow down. Anticipation makes it fly.

“Someone’s in a cheerful mood,” Heather, our hygienist comments after walking a patient out.

I smile. “What can I say? I’m having a good day.”

“Good. Me too. Who do we have next?”

Once the last patient of the day arrives, time slows down again, and as much as I busy myself getting my end-of-day tasks wrapped up so I can leave as soon as the last appointment ends, I can’t help glancing at the time every few seconds. Because it’s after four, which means I’ll see Troy in less than an hour. I’m desperate to get out of here so I can get home and get ready, but I can’t leave until the patient does.

Finally Heather walks Sylvia out—an older lady who loves showing us all the latest pictures of her grandkids who live down in Arizona, but fortunately she showed me all her latest photos when she arrived. With my best smile fixed in place, I cajole her into booking her next cleaning, and I’m immediately gathering my things as she makes her way out the door.

Heather watches me, eyebrows raised. “Is there a fire somewhere and no one told me?”

“Oh. Ha ha,” I return awkwardly, resisting the urge to tap my foot while I wait for my computer to finish shutting down. “No. I just have plans.”

Her lips turn up in a knowing smirk as she retrieves her purse from the locked cabinet at the back of my space. “Good for you. I’ll lock up for you. Have fun!”

“Thanks, Heather! Have a good night!” I all but sprint to my car, wanting to get home and change before Troy arrives—though I have no idea what I want to wear. I just know I don’t want to look like the forty-something office drone Brit accused me of being last week. And I should maybe touch up my makeup. And definitely put on more deodorant. I can’t smell myself, but it’s summer, and it’s hot, and it’s better to be safe than sorry.

When I get home, I stare at my closet for a long time, trying and failing to figure out what to do with my wardrobe. “Waist definition, waist definition,” I mutter to myself like some kind of magical fashion mantra that’ll transform me from drab to fab.

Oh my god, I just thought that in my head for real.

Shaking that off, I consider calling Brit for advice again, but decide against it. I want to be able to dress myself without help. Why is this so hard? Did everyone else get some kind of handbook for how to look put together and I didn’t? They’re just clothes! How hard can it be?

Stupid hard, apparently, because ten minutes later I’m in my underwear, clothes are covering my bed and floor, and I’m still no closer to assembling an outfit. I want to look cute but casual, sexy but not like I’m trying too hard. Like … like … effortless and pretty instead of frumpy and boring.

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