Page 47 of The Dating Coach
"Dude, you're vibrating," Henry said, not looking up from taping his stick. "Like, literally. Your nervous energy is making the bench shake."
"I'm not nervous," I lied, checking my phone for the dozenth time.
"Right. That's why you've checked your phone more times than Frank's made inappropriate jokes today."
"Hey!" Frank protested from across the room. "I've been very appropriate. I haven't made a single comment about how our captain is so whipped he's arranging video calls during games."
"That's literally a comment about it," Jesse pointed out.
"Semantics," Frank dismissed.
I ignored them and opened the text thread with Marcus—our substitute and unofficial tech wizard—whom I’d asked to skip the game and send me real-time updates on Gemma’s results. He’d promised to have his phone ready to video-call the moment Gemma checked her results. It was ridiculous, over the top, and probably a violation of several team rules. I didn't care.
"You know she's going to pass, right?" Henry said quietly, sitting beside me. "She destroyed that exam."
"I know," I said, but my chest remained tight. This wasn't just about passing – it was about vindication. About Gemma finally seeing what I'd known all along: she was brilliant, capable, unstoppable when she believed in herself.
Coach Jack entered, beginning his pre-game speech about heart and determination and playing full sixty minutes. I tried to focus, but my mind kept drifting to Gemma. She'd be at the library now, obsessively refreshing the portal where grades would appear. Mia would be with her, probably trying to distract her with silly online videos. Karen would be pacing, making everyone more nervous with her anxious energy.
"Delacroix!" Coach's sharp voice cut through my thoughts. "You with us?"
"Yes, Coach. Sorry."
"Good. Because Boston College is coming for blood tonight. They want payback for last time." His eyes swept the room. "But we're not giving them anything. We're playing our game, our way. Fast, physical, relentless. Questions?"
There weren't any. We'd beaten BC 6-2 earlier in the season, and they'd be looking to even the score. But that game felt like a lifetime ago – before Gemma, before everything shifted.
As we filed out for warm-ups, my phone buzzed. Not a call, just a text from Marcus:She's logging in now. Video call ready when you are.
My heart rate, already elevated from pre-game adrenaline, kicked into overdrive. I typed back:Ready
On my small phone screen, I could make out Gemma at a library computer, Mia and Karen flanking her. Even fromthis distance, through a crappy video connection, I could see her hands shaking as she typed.
"Come on," I muttered, stick forgotten as I watched her navigate to her grades.
She froze. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then Mia screamed, jumping up and down. Karen grabbed Gemma in a hug that nearly knocked her off her chair. And Gemma... Gemma was crying and laughing simultaneously, her face transformed by joy.
Marcus turned the phone so I could see him. "94%!" he mouthed, grinning.
Ninety-four percent. She hadn't just passed – she'd demolished it.
"YEAH!" The shout escaped before I could stop it, echoing across the ice. My teammates turned to stare as I pumped my fist, probably looking deranged.
"Good news?" Henry asked, skating over with a knowing grin.
"The best," I confirmed, feeling like I could take on the entire BC team single-handedly.
The energy carried into the game. Every shift felt electric, my passes crisper, my vision clearer. Knowing Gemma would hurry back into the stands to cheer me on – wearing jerseys Karen had bedazzled with my number – added extra fuel. This wasn't just another game; it was a celebration.
BC came out aggressive, trying to establish physical dominance early. Their checking line targeted me specifically, looking to throw me off my game. But I'd taken worse hits in practice, and nothing could dim the high of Gemma's success.
Midway through the second period, with the score tied 1-1, I found myself in a scrum along the boards. Their defenseman – a guy named Morrison with more penalty minutes than points – drove an elbow into my ribs.
"Heard you're getting soft, Delacroix," he sneered. "Too busy playing house with that swimmer to focus on hockey?"
The old me might have ignored it, taken the high road. But the new me – the one who'd learned to pursue what mattered – smiled coldly.
"Jealous?" I asked, then stripped the puck from him with embarrassing ease, leaving him flat-footed as I started a rush up the ice.
