Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(11)

These men are like warriors. Bendy, bearded warriors.

And the goalie is always in motion. And I love the way his awareness of the play around him is dialed up to eleven. It would feel pretty incredible to have that kind of focus directed at me.

“I see the potential,” I admit.

“And it’s just a date—with a professional athlete who says he’s a fan of yours. He follows you.”

“Him and two million other people. You’re going to make this whole thing into a PR moment, aren’t you?”

“It already is a PR moment,” Becky insists. “Besides, I doubt L.A. can clinch in the next four minutes. If you say yes, you still might not ever meet him. But Twitter will swoon if you take the bet.”

“And I live to make Twitter swoon.”

“Maybe you don’t, but I do.” Becky blinks at me with wide blue eyes. We’re such opposites. She’s trusting and open, and I’m…not. But maybe that’s why we get along so well.

“Type up a reply…” I say.

She gives a squeak of joy.

“But don’t send it yet! Jesus. I’m still thinking.”

“What?” Becky pouts. “Come on. Make Twitter swoon.”

“I’m thinking, okay? What if Mr. Muscles wants to frisk the guy or something.”

Becky looks over her shoulder, checking the whereabouts of my bodyguard before we talk about him. “You’re allowed to have a life. And if you do go out with this guy, we can clear him in advance. He’s a public figure, Delilah. Not some rando.” She’s already tapping on her phone, trying to figure out how to phrase our reply.

Tweeting for me is literally Becky’s job. A good day at work for her is a bunch of new Twitter followers and a few new photos for Instagram where I don’t blink at just the wrong time.

Those apps are on my phone, too, but I rarely look at them. People are horrible to me on the internet. To be fair, people are also lovely to me on the internet. It’s just that if I hear a hundred bits of praise and two nasty comments, it’s the nasty ones that sink into my soul.

It doesn’t make any sense, but there you go.

“Okay,” she says. “My finger is on the trigger.”

“What did you write?” I ask. But then I lose focus for a moment as Dallas gains the puck. Two of their players pass it rapidly down the ice, and I find myself leaning forward in my seat and holding my breath.

The whole date thing is moot if Dallas scores right now. And why am I strangely disappointed?

The Dallas player makes his charge. I see him swing his stick, and the bendy goalie is already in motion—

“A glove save!” Becky screams. “Whoa!” Play halts for a moment, and my heart is beating faster than it has in a while.

Honestly, this is the first time I’ve ever understood why people watch sports. Staring at the game on a screen seems like a waste of time. I can never sit still long enough to watch TV. But a live hockey game is much more fun than I expected.

Furthermore, twenty thousand other people dressed in green or black agree. I consider myself a connoisseur of crowds at this point. And this stadium is rocking.

The players line up again, and the ref drops the puck between two them. They pounce like hungry tigers. You can feel the tension in the room as the clock ticks down. There’s fewer than four minutes left.

The puck flies in our direction, and then a Dallas player slams an L.A. player against the plexiglass right in front of me. The first time they did that, I actually jumped like a frightened kitten. But this time I’m ready. The player is so close to me that I can see the beads of sweat on his eyelashes. That really shouldn’t be sexy, but it is.

Professional athletes. Who knew?

Come on, L.A., I find myself thinking. Now that I might meet a hockey player, I am even more invested. Although it’s looking increasingly unlikely. Four minutes become three. “What happens if it’s a tie?” I ask suddenly.

“They go into overtime. They put another twenty minutes up on the clock. The first team to score during that period wins. Rinse and repeat.”

“Oh. But the dating goalie thinks L.A. can win inside of three minutes?”

“That’s what he said. But it seems unlikely.”

I guess it doesn’t matter what I do, then. So I take the phone from Becky and erase her reply.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m rewording it.” Sure, if L.A. wins in the next three minutes, I’ll go out on a date with you. I’ll put the green jersey back on, though, just to keep this interesting.

“Delilah! That’s bitchy.”

“It’s a shirt, Beck.” I hit Send. “No shirt ever changed the outcome of a game. Where’s the green one?”

She blinks at me. “I’m not giving it to you.”

“Why not? I’m being fun.”

“No, you’re sabotaging yourself. It’s like you don’t even want to meet a nice man. I’m worried about you.”

“I would love to meet a nice man,” I tell her. “Except those don’t really exist.”

“See?” she sputters. “That’s not true.”

“Name one. A real one. Not a guy from one of your books.”

She bites her lip. “Okay, just because we meet a lot of assholes in the music business doesn’t mean nice guys don’t exist.”