Page 48 of The Ex Puck Bunny
I find his account and am about to tell him to ignore what everyone is saying about “The Look.” I was not looking at him any which way. He dragged me up there.
But I was smiling.
I did have fun.
My little sleeping bunny muffin bundle deserves to have a mom who smiles and has fun. Not the kind of fun that’ll come between mothering her, but all of my responsibilities have dragged me into the mire. Each day is a race to the finish line, sometimes to survive.
I’m grateful for all the help, but it’s a lot. Any single parent would agree because not only do we have to deal with the logistics, but there are hidden emotional costs at times. It’s not to say that dual-parent households do anything better. It’s just that sometimes I want to sigh into someone’s arms and have them hold me up for a second. To ask if I’m overreacting to the littlebump on Bunny’s ankle. To exchange a knowing glance with when we’re in the trenches.
And a smile.
Perhaps even a lovey-dovey look.
Maybe an after-work kiss that melts away the stress and reminds me that everything is okay.
Instead of refuting someone’s verbose comment on the karaoke video and telling Grady that my expression wasn’t “Sparkling with unfettered attraction, devotion, and awakening longing in even the most hard-hearted,” I send a different message. He probably won’t get it, but maybe once I get this off my chest, I’ll be able to sleep.
Me: Thanks for winning the bet. I had fun doing karaoke with you.
I’m about to turn off my phone when the little dots blink indicating he’s typing. That’s a surprise, considering the guy is a veritable ghost online. Sure, there are loads of photos of him from games and a few fan accounts, but his digital footprint is basically non-existent, except for what very well looks like the abandoned account I just messaged.
Grady: Me too.
Well, that was dry. I mean, it’s a fine response, but I’ve studied social media communication and that’s a dead-end reply. Okay then.
I’m about to truly power off for the night when he messages again.
Grady: I could quit hockey and we could take our band on the road.
Me: Our band?
Grady: The Heidi and Grady Duo. Instead of ABBA, they’d call us THGD. We’d be famous.
Me: Do we want to be famous?
I give myself pause for two reasons. I used the wordwe. In no world is there awefor Grady and me. Never mind that he’s my brother’s best friend and a hockey player, I’ve been down that road, and from now on it’s justme.
Also, given the fact that it doesn’t look like he’s updated his account in years—the last photo is of him emerging from the tunnel and onto the ice early on during his time with Pittsburg Generals—maybe he was hacked and I’m talking with some wacko.
Grady: On second thought, no. I just want to play hockey and go to karaoke next week with you.
Like the lyrics in ABBA’s, song does he want to “...take a chance on me?”
Me: Nice try. I don’t usually work nights.
Grady: Maybe we could go to the Fish Bowl, anyway.
I’m about to tell him I prefer not to go to my place of employment during my time off when all the internet safety workshops I’ve taken come to mind.
Me: If this is Grady, prove it.
He sends me a photo of his face, filling the screen. The faint flecks of gold in his green eyes aren’t as bright as they are in person, but disorient me for a second.
The slight smirk on his lips makes me want to kiss him. But he hasn’t shaved, though the stubble is hot in a rugged way. I fan myself.
Me: You could’ve screenshotted that from #GradyFederer
Grady: No, that’s me. Right now. If you don’t believe me, how do you propose I prove it?
