Page 26 of Skating and Fake Dating
Smiling enthusiastically, she peers up at me. “It was fun.”
I glance at our wrists. “How is being chained to me fun?”
“It’ll be an entertaining story to tell. But about the box thing. It’s for easy identification purposes.” Her eyes dim as if she’s about to outline guidelines that she didn’t agree to. “My sister Odette is in the ‘Perfect Box.’ She doesn’t just exceed expectations, she demolishes them.”
“I take it she took a gold at the family achievement Olympics.”
“Exactly. I didn’t even sign up, but here I am, coming in last place.”
“I doubt that’s true.”
“My cousin Renee is in the ‘Success Box.’ When she sets her mind on something, she bulldozes every obstacle in her path.”
I say, “Birthday presents belong in boxes, not people.”
Her cheeks tease a smile. “True, but I don’t make the rules.”
“According to this ridiculous life sentence in solitary confinement, what box are you in?”
She outlines a square with her finger. “The ‘Chaotic Disaster Box,’ it’s a subset of the ‘Failure Box’ after my uncle Larry showed up at a family gathering with an emotional support python. There’s one other member of the Porter family in here with me, but we don’t talk about him.”
“Bailey, you work for the National Hockey League.”
Her shoulders lift and lower on an exhale. “The label on the box is written in permanent marker.”
“You do realize that boxes are made of cardboard, right?”
“These are the reinforced kind with steel staples and stuff. They’re really tough to break down for recycling.”
I chuckle. “What box would they put me in?”
“You’re a professional athlete. You’d be in the ‘Perfect Box’ with Odette.”
I haven’t met Bailey’s sister, but in many ways, she sounds like the opposite of the woman that’s slowly been revealed one hour at a time since the baked goods incident. If I got to choose, I think I’d rather be in a box with Bailey—she’s funny and refreshingly real.
But is also an NHL employee and has a mind for marriage.
Then again, I know a thing or two about hiding who I really am from the world. Lately, I’ve been called a perfectionist, especially on the ice. But no one saw me the month early last summer when I went dark after I blew the season.
Giving my head a little shake, I say, “I don’t know, Bailey. You don’t seem like the kind of person who can be contained.”
Despite her wearing a coordinating business suit and keeping a planner, she seems like she has a creative, quirky streak that uses boxes to make something unique like a little office library for her coworkers to trade their favorite books for everyone to enjoy.
We pull off the highway at the Maple Falls exit. “Your hobbies include making maple syrup—that fits,” I say as we pass a wooden sign welcoming visitors to Maple Falls, with the wordsYou’ll Never Want to Leave.
Bailey speaks the words, but instead ofleave, she says, “Leaf.”
There are some maple leaves painted on it and I chuckle at the play on words.
She asks, “So what are your hobbies? You can’t say hockey since it’s your job.”
Hockey was on the tip of my tongue. “I play guitar.”
“I bet you have an amazing singing voice,” she says with a little dreamy wistfulness in hers. Like her marriage scrapbook includes a page with stickers or whatever that involves her future husband singing her a love song.
She points to a roadside sign for Shirley May’s Diner. “Let’s stop and get some pie.”
“Don’t you have a wedding to go to?”
