Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
First period’s underway and already the arena seems to be vibrating with energy. The Foxes had a wobbly start to the season but they’ve been on a tear recently, firing on all cylinders.
Rowdy fans in purple jerseys sail past me carting nachos and gourmet pizza, sodas and cocktails. Determined to expand my hockey knowledge, I narrow my gaze to number seven. With the ends of his hair spilling out just past his helmet, Lake’s racing down the ice, flanking Corbin, flipping the puck back and forth with him. Jostling for an opening, Lake finds none, so he passes the little black disc to Riggs, who flies around the back of the net.
That makes sense. It gives Riggs a chance to scan the ice for a teammate to pass to. In a nanosecond, Riggs sends the puck zipping right to Lake. My breath catches as Lake lifts his stick, swings, and aims for the goalie’s legs. That’s a wrist shot.
“C’mon,” I mutter, crossing my fingers, hoping so hard.
But the goalie blocks it, and a D-man gets the rebound, then ferries the puck toward Miller.
The game goes like that for the rest of the period, tight and scoreless, as I file away the details of each play and each penalty. But soon, my shoulders are tight. Must be because I’ve been focusing so hard, trying to record all the info.
No, you wanted Lake to score. You wanted it so bad.
I blow out a breath, tear myself away from the stands, and tell myself to go home and focus on Romance By Design.
I have a new client at long last. A referral, and that’s such a relief. I should plan his upcoming special date, but as I ride home on the bus, I’m staring out the window, watching the waterfront roll by and daydreaming about the haircut I’m going to give the hockey player with the finest flow on the ice.
* * *
When I arrive home, I bound up the steps to my porch on the side of the townhome, ready to punch the code into the keypad, but I stop in my tracks.
In front of my door is a huge gift bag from the Foxes gift shop. Tissue paper spills out of the top, and anticipation bubbles inside me.
This could just be a work gift, maybe. Something from Daniel? I pull back the paper, and once my fingers brush across soft, plush material, I don’t think this is a gift from my boss after all.
I grab the bag, punch in the code with lightning speed, and carry it inside. Once the door snicks shut, I drop my phone on a table, sink to the floor in a squat, and paw through the bag like a ravenous dog.
I pluck out a stuffed fox.
A tiny ferocious one, and he’s holding a note. My breath catches as I reach for the small white card in the fox’s paws.
I unfold it and read.
For fox’s sake, will you have coffee with me?
Tingles rush down my arms. I fish around for another fox. This one, in a cute little purple jersey, holds a card tucked under its arm.
I don’t give a fox about anything but taking you on a date.
I’m grinning so stupidly, so broadly it should be illegal. I grab another fox and open another note.
Zero foxes given about anything but taking you out…for cake.
I feel deliciously carbonated now, a soda bottle all shook up.
I dip my hand in again and again, pulling out more foxes from a nearly never-ending supply. Finally, when I’m surrounded by tawny stuffies, I reach inside the gift bag and find a bigger card. This one has today’s date on it.
I flip it open.
There. It did happen.
He recreated the story of how he asked me out to make it real. After I send him a thank you text, laden with exclamation points, I spend the rest of the night redecorating with a dozen stuffed foxes, enjoying it more than it feels I should.
* * *
I rattle off the details of the wedding for my therapist, Elena, the next day at our early evening session. “And Caroline has her own wedding planner, but I’ve been managing some things for her too. Don’t worry though—I want the things I’m planning to be perfect, but not too perfect,” I say, a nod to one of the things I’ve been working on with her.
“That’s good to hear because we can’t control everything. Or most things, but it’s good to remind yourself that you can handle the outcome regardless of what happens. Just like you handled the Jumbotron situation,” she says. With warm bronze skin and a grandmotherly attitude, Elena Alvarez has seen a lot as a therapist. A Jumbotron breakup was a first though. “I’m wondering if all this wedding planning stirs up anything about how a younger you had to deal with planning?”