Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Just as I’m sure they’ve been trying to figure out why I asked if I could bring Lucky to dinner tonight.
That’s definitely something I don’t do when I’m casually dating because that has an even bigger message than holding hands.
Regardless, I know my mom has put together a narrative based on two simple observations—I want my family to meet Lucky, and we’re holding hands.
I’m not nervous though. At least, I keep telling myself that. But the truth is, this feels big. Bigger than a third date. Bigger than TikTok. Much, much bigger than dating a famous professional athlete who could probably have any woman he wants.
“Relax,” Lucky murmurs as we reach the door. “You’re squeezing my fingers like I owe you money.”
I glare at him. “You owe me emotional stability. That’s far more valuable.”
He smirks, leans in and kisses my cheek just as the door swings open.
“Hello!” my mom gushes, hands fluttering. “Come in, come in. I made extra rolls.”
“You told her I like bread?” Lucky whispers as we step inside.
“I told her you’re a carb-based life-form.” I chuckle and bump my shoulder against his.
The house smells like roast beef and lemon pie. My dad appears next, wiping his hands on a dish towel, looking equal parts thrilled and like he’s trying not to be. “Lucky. Dennis Shaw. Welcome.”
“Mr. Shaw,” Lucky says, shaking his hand firmly. “Thanks for having me.”
“Call me Dennis,” my dad replies, but he’s looking at Lucky like he’s seeing him in high-def for the first time. “Hell of a win last night.”
“You watched the game?” Lucky asks with a pleased smile.
“We all did,” says a voice from the living room, and Eli joins us. He’s already got a beer in hand and a smirk on his face. “You notched a point and finished plus-two. Not bad. Want a beer?”
Lucky chuckles. “Appreciate that, and sure… a beer would be great.”
Caleb appears behind Lucky, towering and quiet as ever. “You break Winnie’s heart, I’ll break your legs.” But Caleb has two beers in hand and offers one to Lucky as he turns toward my brother. “Cheers.”
“Caleb,” my mom scolds, swatting him on the arm. “Give the man a minute before you threaten violence.”
Lucky’s eyes twinkle with humor. I’m sure he knows that Caleb is dead serious about the broken heart/broken legs dichotomy, but he’s a man who appreciates a close, protective family dynamic.
And then there’s Sadie—front teeth missing, wearing a sparkly tutu and a T-shirt that says I like big books and I cannot lie.
She marches up to Lucky, hands on her hips. “Are you the hockey guy?”
Lucky kneels to her eye level. “I am. Are you the niece with strong opinions?”
She grins. “My dad says if you hurt Aunt Winnie, he’ll turn your jockstrap into a slingshot.”
The entire room bursts into laughter, Lucky laughing louder than us all, and just like that, he’s accepted into the Shaw family.
Dinner is warm and chaotic. The table is loud with overlapping conversation. My dad asks about the pressures of playing professionally. Caleb quizzes Lucky on his training regimen. Eli quietly watches, as is his way, but I can tell he likes him. I mean… everyone likes Lucky. I doubt he has a single enemy, except maybe when he’s on the ice.
And through it all, Lucky is… wonderful. He doesn’t show off, doesn’t brag. He’s humble. Charming. Funny in that low-key way of his. It’s not lost on me that maybe these were the qualities I was looking for and not just a one-size-fits-all moniker of average.
I watch as he answers a question about balancing fame with privacy and realize—he never talks about this stuff with me. Never boasts. Never leads with his status. But listening to him now, I get it. He’s earned everything he has.
While he talks to my dad about team dynamics and road travel, I drift into a memory from this morning.
Another perfect one.
We woke up tangled, but I managed to slip out of bed without waking him. I fed Buttermilk, started coffee, and then Lucky wandered in half-asleep, hair sticking up and looking more handsome than ever. I spent a few seconds, once again marveling that I am who I am, that I had Lucky Branson standing in my kitchen. It felt natural as he toasted bagels while I sat on the counter, sipping coffee. I watched him move around my kitchen like he belonged there and knew without a doubt this wasn’t an experiment at all.
It was a revelation.
After breakfast, he kissed me long and slow by the front door, murmured that he couldn’t wait to meet my parents at dinner and then he was gone.
I had another cup of coffee and scrolled my phone. I still had plenty of time before I had to leave for school.
I went to the TikTok I posted last night from the privacy of the bathroom at Jerry’s Bar, proud of my vulnerability and hoping that it inspired others to be the same way with their feelings. I steeled myself to read more comments, knowing damn well the algorithm had changed. That I’d likely be faced with as much negativity as positivity, a new fact of life I’ll apparently have to get used to.