Page 129 of Goalkeeper
My night was totally normal, but something still feels off. I texted with Paige after the game, and sent her a pic of my sweaty self. She texted back the heart-eyes emoji, but that was it until an hour later when I got a shot of her in a fitted dress, one shoulder bare, with her hair all piled up. Uh, yeah. I blushed ten shades of red. So much so, that my mom wanted to know what had me all flustered. So, as awkward as it felt, I handed over my phone and said, “That’s my girlfriend. She’s at her sister’s engagement party tonight, so she sent me a pic.”
My mom was all aflutter with about a million questions, so I told them about Paige. Ted was fascinated by how popular tutorials are, and now I’m pretty sure I’ve created a monster. My mom texted and said he watched DIY tutorials all the way home and now he wants to make birdhouses. That Ted. What a card.
Of course, my mom can’t wait to meet her, so they made plans to come to another game so I can introduce them to Paige. And if my mom meets her, my dad will want to, as well, because he makes everything a competition. And the way my dad’s been lately? I don’t want him to meet Paige.
But, right now, none of that is even on my radar.
All that’s on my radar is Paige. I’m sitting in the living room with the guys, watching Cooper and Noah battle it out in a game of Call of Duty. We’re all shooting the shit and talking about the game, as well as the stats for Merrimack, our next opponent.
“You see their center, Briggsy? That guy’s on fucking fire.”
“Have I seen their center?” I scoff. “Like my dad hasn’t sent me thirty-two videos of this guy making impossible shots.”
“Ha! Papa Briggs. That guy should be on Dance Moms, but like, they’d call it Hockey Dads,” Meysy jokes.
“Paige said the exact same thing,” I tell him, and look down at my phone, frowning.
“What’s the matter, Briggerton? Is your girl not responding? Have you had to wait more than ten minutes for a text? Because that’s grounds for breaking up,” Chase says sarcastically.
I laugh, but it’s been a while. She texted that she was having fun with Jake, and that his best friend flew up for the occasion. And she sent some screenshots of old, grainy hockey greats. Apparently, the resort bar is sports-themed and she thought of me. But after that, not much. Just a heart or a thumbs-up to my texts. And that’s not like Paige. She’s a talker, even in text.
I’m about to fire off an “Are you there?” meme, but my phone rings. I don’t even look at the number, I just swipe.
“Spence?” Her voice sounds small and unsure, and it hits me right in the pit of my stomach.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” She answers in a flood of words, but they’re muffled and I think she’s crying, or we have a terrible connection, or both. I stand and then pace to the window, like I’ll maybe have better reception there? “Slow down, baby, I can’t understand you. “ As if they sense the tension on the other end, the guys go quiet, even Meysy, which is saying something.
“...the train station...and my walking directions, but ...not fucking there. And it’s so cold...not supposed to rain. And they cut me off and Dr. Dickhead...in his face. Emma would be so proud of me.”
“Wait, rain? It’s raining?” I can’t quite tell because the phone keeps cutting out and every other word is punctuated with a sob.
“Yes, and I’m in one of those little bus stop thingies. But the busses don’t run this late. And my phone was supposed to be giving...but I’ve been walking in a circ...hours. My feet are…”
“Ok, hang on. Is it well-lit? Do you feel safe? Ok, gimme the address. West Ave? Ok. Stay put for five minutes unless I call you back, ok?”
“Yeah, I feel so dumb. What the...find a...station.”
“Stop. This is not on you. Give me five and I’ll call you right back. Watch the latest Brett Marx video— this chick cuts all her dreadlocks off. It takes her three days to unknot all that hair. You’ll love it. And yes, I watched it without you, and no, I feel no shame.”
We hang up and I look at my teammates on the couches in front of me. “Who can get me Jake Underwood’s number?”
Vonne grabs his phone, taps out a text, and within minutes, I’m calling Paige’s brother.
“Jake? Look—”
“This isn’t Jake.”
“Fuck me. Is Jake Underwood there?” I’m pacing so hard I’m about to wear a damn hole in the carpet.
“He’s in the shower. Who’s this?”
“Spencer Briggs. I go to Moo U and I’m—”
“Spence? The guy who’s dating Princess P?”
“Paige, yeah. Paige is my girlfriend. Look—”
“I’m not technically her big brother, but let’s get a few things straight—”
