Oh right. But seriously, a hockey series… Ugh. Kill me. Freaking. Now.
I reach the café, pull the glass door open and slick my rain-soaked hair from my face. I quickly catalogue the place to find Jess hitting on the barista. Ahh, now I get why she picked a place so far from home. I take in the guy behind the counter. Damn, he’s hotter than the steaming latté in Jess’s hand, and from the way she’s flirting, it’s clear he’ll be in her bed later today.
I sigh inwardly. It’s always so easy for her. Me? Not so much. Men rarely pay me attention. Unlike Jess, I’m plain, have the body of a twelve-year-old boy, and most times I blend into the woodwork.
I pick up a napkin from the side counter and mop the rain off my face. Doesn’t matter. I’m not interested anyway. From my puck-bunny-chasing brother to all his cocky friends, I know what guys are really like, and when it comes to women, they’re only after one thing, and it isn’t scoring the slot. I roll my eyes. Then again, maybe it is.
And of course, I can’t forget the last guy I was set up with. What he did to me was totally abusive, but I don’t want to dredge up those painful memories right now.
I shake, and water beads fall right off my brand-new rain-resistance coat. At least something is going right for me today. Semi-dry, I cross the room and stand beside Jess.
“Hey, sorry I’m late.”
Jess turns to me, smiles, and holds a finger up. “I’ll forgive you only if you’re late because you were knees deep into some nasty sex, ’cause girlfriend, it’s been far too long since you’ve been laid.”
Jesus, what ever happened to this girl’s filters?
Thoroughly embarrassed, my gaze darts to the barista, who is grinning, his eyes still locked on my friend, looking at her like she’s today’s hot lunch special and ignoring me like I’m yesterday’s cold, lumpy oatmeal.
Ugh, really?
“Non-fat latté,” I say, and scowl at him until he puts his eyes back in his head. I might be an English major but I have a PhD in the death glare. Truthfully, I’m so sick of guys like him, one thing on their minds. Then again, Jess only wants one thing from him, so I really shouldn’t have a problem with it. Why do I? Oh, maybe because Mr. Right, my battery-operated companion, isn’t quite cutting it anymore, and it’s left me a little jittery and a whole lot cranky.
Jess is right. I do need to get laid.
Jess’s lips flatline when she takes me in, her gaze carefully accessing me. “What?” she asks, her mocha eyes narrowing.
God, sometimes I really hate how well she can read me. “Nothing.”
She straightens to her full height, and I try to do the same, but she dwarfs me, even without her beloved two-inch heels. I square my shoulders, but it’s always hard to pull off a high-power pose when you’re only five foot two, and teased relentlessly about it.
“Come on,” she says, and guides me to a corner table. I peel off my coat and plunk down. Jess sits across from me. “Spill.”
I point to my forehead. “Do I have ‘idiot’ written here?”
She looks me over, and cautiously asks, “No, why?”
My phone chirps in my purse, and I reach for it. Great, it’s my editor wanting to set turn-in dates. “How about never?” I say under my breath.
“Uh, Nina. You’re talking to your phone. You better tell me what’s going on.”
“You’re not going to believe what I just agreed to.”
“Do tell,” she says and leans forward, like I’m about to spill some dirty little sex secret. If only that were the case.
I grab my phone and hold it up, showing her Tara’s message. “I just agreed to write a hockey series,” I say, and toss my phone back into my purse, mic-drop style—without the bold confidence.
Jess pushes back in her chair, clearly disappointed. She lifts her cup, and over the rim, asks, “I don’t see how that makes you an idiot.”
My mouth drops open. Jess and I have been friends since childhood. She of all people knows how much I hate hockey. “Are you serious?”
She shrugs. “You’re a writer.”
Mr. Sexy Barista brings me my coffee and he shares a secret, let’s-hook-up-later smile with Jess. “And…?” I ask when he leaves.
“Writer’s write and make things up. I know you hate hockey, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“I can’t come up with a plot, or write about the game, if I don’t know anything about it.”
She shakes her head. “And I can’t believe your brother is a professional player and you never once paid attention to the game.”
“I was busy pursuing a professional skating career, remember?”
She reaches across the table and gives my hand a little squeeze. “I know. I’m sorry.”
My tailbone and neck take that moment to throb, a constant reminder of a career lost.
I didn’t just lose my dream of skating professionally the day my feet went out from underneath me, I lost my confidence, too. A concussion will do that to you.
Good thing I majored in English in college. Once I hung up my skates, I began to blog about the sport and sold a few articles. I joined a local writers group, and after talking to a group of romance writers, I tried my hand at one. Much to my surprise, it actually sold. I went from non-fiction to fiction, in every sense of the word. Happily ever after might exist between the pages, but it certainly doesn’t in real life. At least not for me.
I take a sip of my latté, and give an exaggerated huff as I set it down. Jess instantly goes into problem-solving mode when she sees that I’m really stressed about this. As a brand-new high school guidance counselor, she can’t help but want to fix me.
“Okay, it’s simple,” she begins. “You have to learn the
