Page 16 of Waiting Game

Cole: Wait, no. That’s mixing my metaphors and my aunt teaches English so she’d be ashamed of me.

Cole: I didn’t want you to think I was being a creep or something earlier.

Cole: I’m not.

Cole: A creep, I mean.

Cole: Though, it’s starting to look like that with the number of unanswered messages…

Cole: Hint

Cole: Hint

Cole: Hint

Me: I didn’t think you were being a creep.

That’s what I settle on as a response, and before I can kick myself and decide to delete the message, he’s seen it already.

Cole: That’s always positive for our future working relationship.

Cole: I totally expect you to transform me into Christopher Dean.

Me: How much of an impact did those skaters have on your mom if you remember Dean’s first name?

Cole: Google helped me. I watched the routine again and came up with a bunch of trivia to impress you.

Me: To impress me?

Me: Why would you want to do that?

Cole: Why wouldn’t I? You need to be impressed, Mia. You’ve yet to see how shitty my edge work is.

Me: How bad can it be? You’re a pro hockey player, Cole.

Cole: It’s bad. Horror-movie bad.

Me: Your skates are weapons of mass destruction?

Cole: I carve up the ice for sure. The Zamboni hates me. I cause it more work than two teams playing like brutes combined.

Cole: I think the technician is coming up with some form of vengeance against me, but that could be paranoia talking.

Me: That’s some claim to fame.

The tension in my shoulders loosens up and I don’t even realize it.

Cole: You really haven’t seen me play?

Me: Hockey isn’t my sport. TBH, nothing is. I hate sports.

Me: It might be for the best—I won’t dread our first lesson.

Cole: Now I’m the one who’s wounded. *sniffles* You’re bad for my ego. Crying the first time you saw me, dreading the next lesson, not even knowing who I am…

Cole: Come on, you can be honest. How deep was the Google search?

Me: Rudimentary.

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