This could be a complication.
I turn away from the window to gather my thoughts and pull together some sort of a game plan.
Tonight needs to go well. Not only do I have to recover from a less-than-stellar first impression this morning, but I also have to start our friendship over from scratch. Usually, when I meet someone new, there’s no pressure. If we click—we click. If we don’t—well, then I say a polite thank you, next and move on with my life. But if I screw this up with Dax, I won’t be able to get back to my reality, which means I will lose the person who knows me best in the world. Even holding the idea of that happening in my head for a single moment makes my stomach feel like someone’s wringing it out like a dishcloth.
I need booze. Something to steady my nerves. Clearly not having learned a lesson from our margarita party last night, I make my way to the bar. Sliding onto a maroon cracked-leather barstool, I greet the bartender, Larry, with my sexy wink that Dax has informed me, on more than one occasion, is not the least bit sexy.
“Evening, Lawrence.” I nod at the television mounted to the wall behind him. “Your Jays are looking pretty decent this year. It’s just a shame Joe Nintendo broke his toe. Won’t be rounding the bases like he did last year.” I rest my chin between my two hands and wait for Larry to argue with me. It’s our shtick. We do it every Tuesday night. I say something about sports that’s completely ignorant or entirely made up. He gets all riled and red, arguing with me until he realizes I’m joking. Then he pulls his bar towel from his back pocket and pretends to swat me with it. I run away, yelling, Free beer! He puts it on my Visa card at the end of the night.
However, this Larry just squints at me and scratches his balding head.
Right. I’m still in curse country. And since I’m not friends with Dax, I don’t frequent the Grand Victoria’s bar, so this poor guy doesn’t know who I am.
“Uh, yeah,” he finally says. “Looking like it’s going to be an interesting season. What can I get for ya?”
There’s no need to think hard about this answer.
“Pitcher of Hurry Hard, please and thank you.” It’s what Dax and I drink every week. We split a pitcher of beer and a Rock On party platter. Dax eats the wings. I get the potato wedges. We order two dipping sauces for the mozzarella sticks because we both refuse to share. And although Dax in this timeline doesn’t know me, it’s never a bad idea to approach someone with free beer. I figure I can use it as a peace offering.
With the pitcher in one hand and a stack of glasses in the other, I turn in time to see a group of players exit the ice. Half of them head to the changing rooms to shower or change or grab belongings from lockers. The rest head straight for the bar.
Dax skips the shower and heads straight to our usual table, next to the window but far enough from the DJ table that you can hold a conversation. I intercept him just as he’s about to sit down.
“It’s you.” His eyes widen as they meet mine. “What are you doing here?”
My stomach instantly fills with a hundred fluttering yet very confused butterflies. Fluttering because I haven’t had my beer yet, and I’m nervous. Confused because this is Dax I’m talking to, and there’s no reason to be nervous. I should be good at this by now.
He doesn’t sit. But he grips the back of the chair with enough force that his knuckles turn white. I wonder if he’s considering throwing it in my path and seeking out the nearest exit. After this morning, I don’t blame him.
“I am not stalking you, I swear. I came for the cheap hot wings and to check out the league because I’m thinking of joining. And then I saw you out there on the ice and I wanted to apologize. I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I’m Gemma.” Setting the beer down, I thrust my hand toward him and wait. He shakes it because Daxon McGuire is a true gentleman, even in the face of a potentially unstable female.
“I owe you an explanation.” I take a seat on one of the benches, completely uninvited. After a moment of deliberation, Dax takes the chair across from me.
Grabbing a glass from the stack, I pour myself a drink, taking the time to conduct one last mental run-through of my story.
Kiersten, Aunt Livi, and I all agreed that it was probably best for me not to tell Dax the whole parallel universe story, seeing as my mission is to get him to sign up for a lifelong friendship. Instead, I’ve concocted a string of excuses that are close enough to the truth that I’ll remember them and normal enough that they’ll make me appear quirky—or at least that’s the plan.