Page 22 of Chasing The Goal
“Of how much she likes you.”
I barked a laugh. “Yeah, okay.”
“No, seriously,” he said. “I’ve seen you two. You’re a love story waiting to happen. All those flustered little looks. The banter. The fact that she doesn’t immediately taser you every time you complain about glutes.”
“She’s a professional.”
“She’s also not blind.”
I didn’t answer right away. Because the truth was, it wasn’t just about Mallory not liking me back. It was that no one ever did.
Not the real me.
People liked the athlete. The stats. The smile in interviews. They liked the idea of Jaymie Prescott, professionalhockey player with a hotshot slapshot and a solid line with Logan.
But me? The dork with glasses. The guy who still got nervous every time a beautiful woman said his name. The one who overthought everything and had a mom who packed enough lasagna to feed a small country?
That guy never stood a chance.
“I think I’m gonna back off,” I said quietly. “Give her space. Stay friendly.”
Logan was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded. “That’s fair.”
“But it sucks,” I added, a bit of bitterness slipping in. “Because I really like her, man. Not just the ‘she’s hot and smart’ stuff. She makes everything else... quieter. Like I don’t have to be anything but myself around her.”
Logan looked over at me, his expression softening. “Then be yourself. Be the guy who shows up and stays kind. She’ll see it.”
I nodded. “Thanks, Yoda.”
“Anytime, grasshopper.”
"Wrong reference loser!" I chuckled, using the hem of my sweater to wipe the sweat from getting in my eyes.
"You're the bigger loser,"
We stood in silence for another moment, then Logan smirked.
“You know what always helps a broken heart?”
“Let me guess. Beer and questionable decisions?”
He grinned. “Nope. A race to the blue line.”
I raised a brow. “You’re gonna pull a groin.”
“Not before you do, grandpa.”
“You’re on,” I said, pushing off with a burst of adrenaline.
We took off, our blades cutting hard into the ice, laughter trailing behind us as we chased nothing but the past and a bit of hope.
And for a few moments, everything felt simple again.
Jaymie
By the fourth weekof physical therapy, I’d stopped trying to flirt with Mallory Quince. Not because I didn’t want to. I still did—desperately. But because somewhere between hamstring stretches and resistance band squats, I realized I liked her too much to make it about me.
She was different this week. Not cold, just… a little further away. Her voice quieter, her movements more clipped. She still did her job with total professionalism, nocorners cut, no coddling… but the spark, the banter, the little smirks she used to throw my way when I whined about massage gun settings? Gone.
