Page 2 of The Labor Date
Holly: Sorry. No.
Me: So you’re a hockey virgin. Allow me to teach you the game.
Holly: (laugh emoji) That’s okay, hotshot. I just need an escort to this event.
Hotshot? Well, hell, she’s already given me a nickname. Promising.
I picture her laughing with me in bed all night long as I give her a night to remember in Vancouver.
Me: Still interested in being your man for the event. Do I have competition?
Holly: Two other men have messaged me. One is an accountant.
Me: Lame. I’ll bet he’s balding and wears glasses and bores you all night long.
Holly: The other is a CEO for an import-export business.
Me: Yawn. You’ll be asleep in five minutes on a date with him.
Holly: (laugh emoji) So tell me why I should pick you then?
Me: I’ve already made you laugh three times. I’ll be your handsome arm candy for the night while also making sure you have fun. And because in general, in life, I’ll do anything to win, even if it’s winning a night out with you.
Holly: Anything?
Me: Would you like a list of specifics of what I’d do for you to win this date?
Holly: Sounds like more than I was bargaining for. It’s just a holidate, hotshot, nothing more.
Me: Admit it. I have no competition, and you can already tell from our texts that I’d be tons of fun for your event. So what do you say? Do we have a holidate?
Holly: Sure. Why not? Oh, do you love cats?
I’m about to text that I love pussy. But think better of it. Besides, what would it matter if I lie? Not likely she’d bring a cat on the date with us.
Me: Adore the fluffy ones. Fluffier the better.
Her wit snaps right back at mine, fast and easy. We chat into the night. She teases. I flirt. She tells me she’s fresh off a relationship that stole all her fun. I tell her I’m her guy for fun, that the preseason’s dragging, and I need a night of distraction like this.
By the time she asks for my sizes so she can have the tux delivered, my pulse is racing like I’ve already played a game and won.
I don’t know why this feels different. It just does. I’ll go along for the ride and see where this takes me. Which, so far, has pretty much been my motto in life. Gotten me this far, maybe even further with Holly.
2
SCOTT
Labor Day arrivesand I wait on the curb, looking sharp in the custom tux Holly sent me—bow tie nailed on the first try, thank you YouTube tutorial by a sixth-grader. The event venue happens to be at a country club famous for its golf course. I’d been here once when the owner of the Vancouver Ice invited some of the players to golf. I kicked everyone’s ass—even the owner’s.
Did I mention how I love to win?
Holly’s chauffeur pulls up outside the building at seven sharp. He runs around and opens the back door. I step up, and my breathing stalls like I forgot how, nervous and excited to see if Holly’s picture online mirrors reality or if a woman aged and wrinkled by at least ten years will step out of the car. The more I use apps to find dates, the more I realize the odds of getting catfished are high.
I don’t think I have to worry when one elegant foot hits the sidewalk, a glamorous leg with a black stiletto on her foot. Absolutely nothing wrong so far, especially if I could get her in my bed by the end of the night wearing nothing but those heels.
Then her hand reaches out, smooth skin and elegant manicure, followed by the beauty herself. Goddamn. She’s evenmore stunning than her profile. Hair like sunlight, eyes alive and daring, lips curved in a smile that tells me she knows exactly the effect she has on men. She owns it. I’d let her own me.
“Scott?” she asks, standing before me. Her fingers slide into mine, warm and soft, and sparks light up my arm.
