Page 3 of The Dating Coach
"The Delacroix curse," Frank said, appearing at our table with a fresh round. My other roommate was already well on his way to drunk, his grin loose and easy. "Too nice to take what you want, too proud to admit you want it."
"There's no curse," I protested, even as his words hit uncomfortably close to home. "I just respect the bro code. You don't go after your friend's girl."
"She wasn't his girl when you met her," Henry pointed out. "You just assumed she would be and gave up before the game even started."
"Can we not psychoanalyze me tonight?" I pushed back from the table. "I'm going to get some air."
Outside, the cold night air slapped me in the face, a welcome relief from the stuffy bar. I leaned against the brick wall, watching drunk students stumble past on their way to the next party. This was supposed to be my kingdom—star athlete, good grades, NHL prospects, women who approached me at every party. Yet I felt like a fraud, playing a role I'd never auditioned for.
My phone buzzed. A text from my father:Saw the highlights on TV. Good defensive play in the third period. Remember, playoffs determine everything. Don't get distracted.
Victor Delacroix never let a moment pass without squeezing out a coaching lesson. I typed back a quick acknowledgment, knowing he'd already moved on to analyzing game tape or terrorizing some poor junior analyst at his firm.
"You missed Tyler doing body shots off some sophomore," Frank said, stumbling out to join me. "Pretty sure he's going to regret that tomorrow."
"Someone should cut him off," I said, though we both knew no one would. Hockey players at Pinewood were gods, untouchable as long as we kept winning.
"You know what your problem is?" Frank asked, with the philosophical certainty of the very drunk. "You're too passive. You wait for things to come to you instead of going after them."
"I do fine," I said, defensive despite knowing he was right.
"With women who chase you, sure. But when's the last time you actually pursued someone? When's the last time you wanted something so bad you were willing to fight for it?"
I thought about Hailey, about all the moments I'd almost said something, almost reached for her hand, almost admitted that her laugh made me forget my own name. But almost didn't count for anything except regret.
"You're going to wake up at forty," Frank continued, swaying slightly, "in some big house your dad picked out, married to someone who looks good on paper, wondering where your actual life went."
"Jesus, Frank. Thanks for that uplifting forecast.”
He shrugged, unbothered by my sarcasm. "Somebody has to say it. You're so busy being what everyone expects – Victor Delacroix's perfect son, hockey's golden boy, Mr. Nice Guy who never rocks the boat – that you're forgetting to be yourself."
"I should get him home," Henry said, appearing in the doorway. "Before he starts quoting philosophy or crying about his ex."
"I'm not crying," Frank protested. "I'm truth-telling. There's a difference."
We maneuvered Frank into Henry's car, his drunken rambling shifting to the safer topic of whether hot dogs weresandwiches. I drove separately, grateful for the quiet and the dark.
Our house sat on a tree-lined street a few blocks from campus, a rental that hockey players had been passing down for years. It was too big for three people, with rooms we never used and a formal dining room that had become a graveyard for hockey equipment. But it was ours, a refuge from the fishbowl of campus life.
I helped Henry get Frank to his room, then retreated to my own. The walls were covered with architectural drawings and urban planning designs, my real passion laid out like a secret identity. While my teammates had posters of NHL stars, I had blueprints for sustainable communities and affordable housing solutions.
My drafting table sat in the corner, covered with my latest project – a mixed-income development that used green technology to keep costs down while maintaining aesthetic appeal. I'd been working on it for months, refining every detail, even though I knew I'd probably never build it. Next year I'd be in Providence, following the path my father had laid out before I could walk.
I sat at the table anyway, picking up my pencil and losing myself in the clean lines and practical dreams. This was where I felt most myself – not on the ice where I performed expected miracles, not at parties where women approached me with calculated smiles, but here in the quiet with my impossible plans.
My phone buzzed again. A group text from the team, plans for another party tomorrow night. I ignored it, focusing instead on calculating load-bearing requirements for recycled steel beams. Let them think I was boring, antisocial, too focusedon the game. It was easier than explaining that I was tired of being exactly what everyone expected.
Frank's drunken words echoed in my head. When was the last time I'd pursued something I wanted? When was the last time I'd been willing to fight?
I thought again of Hailey, of opportunities missed and words unspoken. That ship had sailed, but maybe Frank was right. Maybe it was time to stop waiting for life to happen to me and start making choices that were actually mine.
The pencil moved across paper, sketching dreams I might never build, but at least they were mine. Tomorrow I'd go back to being Liam Delacroix, hockey star and perfect son. Tonight, I let myself imagine a different future, one where I built things that mattered and chose my own path. Even if I had no idea how to start.
Chapter 3: Gemma
The tutoring center smelled like desperation and dry erase markers, a combination that made my stomach turn as I forced myself through the glass doors. Friday afternoon meant the place was packed with students seeking last-minute help before weekend parties consumed their remaining brain cells. I pulled my swim team jacket tighter, as if the Pinewood Swimming logo could shield me from the humiliation of needing help.
I'd been standing at the sign-up desk for five minutes, pretending to study the list of available chemistry tutors while actually working up the courage to write my name down. The options were depressing – Tommy, who I knew sold his notes for triple their worth; Miranda, who explained concepts like she was talking to particularly slow kindergarteners; Brad, who had cornered me at a party last year to explain why female athletes were "biologically inferior."
