Page 50 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise."

"I hate surprises."

"Of course you do." I smirk. "Wouldn’t expect anything less. Wear comfortable shoes. That's all you get."

She narrows her eyes. "If this involves any sort of athletic activity, I'm out."

"No athletics," I promise. "Though I would pay good money to see you try to ice skate."

"Who says I can't ice skate?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Can you?"

"No," she admits. "But you don't have to assume that."

I laugh. "It’s not easy."

I head for the door, then stop, turning back. "I should probably get your number. In case I need to reach you between now and Friday."

"Why would you need to reach me?"

"To cancel if something comes up?" I suggest. "To confirm details?"

She sighs, but there's a hint of a smile. "Fine." She rattles off her number, which I immediately save in my phone.

"Now I can harass you properly," I say, typing out a quick message so she'll have my number too.

Her phone buzzes, and she glances at it. "A hockey stick emoji? Really?"

"It's my brand." I open the door. "See you Friday, Hannah Banana."

"Don't call me that!" she calls after me, but I'm already halfway down the hall, grinning like an idiot.

By the time I reach my car, I've already cycled through about fifteen different date ideas, rejecting each one for various reasons. Too cliché. Too boring. Too likely to make her walls go back up.

This isn't like my usual approach to dating, if you can even call what I normally do "dating." Usually, it's just meeting a girl at a party, hooking up, maybe seeing her a few more times if the sex is good. No planning, no overthinking, no worrying about getting it right.

But Hannah's different. She deserves more than my usual half-assed effort. And despite what my reputation might suggest, I'm actually capable of putting in effort when it matters.

By the time Friday rolls around, I've got the perfect plan. Non-traditional enough to be memorable, casual enough to keep her comfortable, and private enough that she won't have to worry about being seen with me. It took calling in three favors and bribing my teammate Peterson with expensive protein for his shakes, but it'll be worth it.

I spend an embarrassing amount of time getting ready—showering, shaving carefully (but leaving just enough stubble), even ironing my shirt, which might be a first. When I finally pull up to her dorm at 6:58 PM, I'm as nervous as I've ever been before a championship game.

I text her:Your chariot awaits, m'lady

Her reply comes seconds later:Never call me m'lady again if you want to live.

I laugh out loud, typing back:Noted. Also, I'm outside.

I know. I can see you from my window.

I glance up at the building, trying to figure out which window might be hers. Then I spot her, fourth floor, peering down at me. I wave, and she quickly ducks away from the window, like she's been caught doing something illegal.

Two minutes later, she walks out of the building, and my breath actually catches. She's wearing simple jeans and a green sweater that makes her eyes look like light brown sea glass, her hair loose around her shoulders. Nothing flashy or revealing, but beautiful in a way that feels authentic, unforced.

"Hi," she says, stopping in front of me.

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