Page 14

The blush that creeps up her cheeks is worth every minute I spent going back and forth with the girl down the hall, who initially refused to tell me if Hannah was in her room or not. Only the promise of two tickets to our next home game—and my solemn vow that I wasn't a stalker—convinced her to spill that Hannah had just walked back into her room after looking out the window.

"Stop calling me that," Hannah says, but she's not actually mad about it.

"What would you prefer? Han? Banan? Hammie?"

"Oh my god, Hammie?" She shoves my shoulder, and I dramatically fall sideways onto her bed.

"I'm never washing this shirt again," I declare, glancing where she just touched me.

"What? You're ridiculous," she says, but she's fighting a smile.

"You might have cooties on your hand now."

She wipes her hand on my knee, the touch sending my body into a frenzy.

I stare at her hand and joke, "Higher. Higher."

She hits my leg, and I catch her hand as she chuckles. Hell, I want to drink that sound. I don’t fully release her hand as my fingers catch hers. The sensation of our fingers dancing together makes her smile drop.

"What’re you doing?" she says, never removing her hand from mine.

I face her palm up. Really, I’d do anything to keep touching her. I swirl my finger in her palm.

"You’re being weird, Sanderson."

"And yet you agreed to an extended social interaction with me." I sit back up, noting how she doesn't pull her hand away even though what I’m doing is definitely weird. "I must be doing a few things right."

"Or I'm just tired of you harassing me."

"You ignored me for four days," I counter.

"I didn't ignore you. I was busy."

"Busy?" I lay my hand flat on hers.

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, actually busy with real life. Some of us have responsibilities."

"I have responsibilities," I protest. "A lot of responsibilities. I have hockey. And…more hockey. Homework, projects, exams just like you. And sometimes I feed the neighbor's cat when she's out of town."

Hannah laughs, and the sound does things to my insides.

"A true pillar of society," she says.

"I try."

We fall into a comfortable silence, both of us aware of the contact point where our hands rest. I want to pull her closer—to brush back the strand of hair that's fallen across her face, to trace the curve of her jaw with my finger. But I don't. That's not what this moment calls for.

"So," I say instead. "This extended social interaction. When is a good time for this busy woman?"

I pull my hand away as she bites her lip, considering. "Friday? After my bio ethics paper is turned in."

"Friday it is." I stand, not wanting to overstay my welcome. "I'll pick you up at seven."

"Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise."

"I hate surprises."

"Of course you do." I smirk. "Wouldn’t expect anything less. Wear comfortable shoes. That's all you get."

She narrows her eyes. "If this involves any sort of athletic activity, I'm out."

"No athletics," I promise. "Though I would pay good money to see you try to ice skate."

"Who says I can't ice skate?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Can you?"

"No," she admits. "But you don't have to assume that."

I laugh. "It’s not easy."

I head for the door, then stop, turning back. "I should probably get your number. In case I need to reach you between now and Friday."

"Why would you need to reach me?"

"To cancel if something comes up?" I suggest. "To confirm details?"

She sighs, but there's a hint of a smile. "Fine." She rattles off her number, which I immediately save in my phone.

"Now I can harass you properly," I say, typing out a quick message so she'll have my number too.

Her phone buzzes, and she glances at it. "A hockey stick emoji? Really?"

"It's my brand." I open the door. "See you Friday, Hannah Banana."

"Don't call me that!" she calls after me, but I'm already halfway down the hall, grinning like an idiot.

By the time I reach my car, I've already cycled through about fifteen different date ideas, rejecting each one for various reasons. Too cliché. Too boring. Too likely to make her walls go back up.

This isn't like my usual approach to dating, if you can even call what I normally do "dating." Usually, it's just meeting a girl at a party, hooking up, maybe seeing her a few more times if the sex is good. No planning, no overthinking, no worrying about getting it right.

But Hannah's different. She deserves more than my usual half-assed effort. And despite what my reputation might suggest, I'm actually capable of putting in effort when it matters.

By the time Friday rolls around, I've got the perfect plan. Non-traditional enough to be memorable, casual enough to keep her comfortable, and private enough that she won't have to worry about being seen with me. It took calling in three favors and bribing my teammate Peterson with expensive protein for his shakes, but it'll be worth it.

I spend an embarrassing amount of time getting ready—showering, shaving carefully (but leaving just enough stubble), even ironing my shirt, which might be a first. When I finally pull up to her dorm at 6:58 PM, I'm as nervous as I've ever been before a championship game.

I text her: Your chariot awaits, m'lady

Her reply comes seconds later: Never call me m'lady again if you want to live.

I laugh out loud, typing back: Noted. Also, I'm outside.

I know. I can see you from my window.

I glance up at the building, trying to figure out which window might be hers. Then I spot her, fourth floor, peering down at me. I wave, and she quickly ducks away from the window, like she's been caught doing something illegal.

Two minutes later, she walks out of the building, and my breath actually catches. She's wearing simple jeans and a green sweater that makes her eyes look like light brown sea glass, her hair loose around her shoulders. Nothing flashy or revealing, but beautiful in a way that feels authentic, unforced.

"Hi," she says, stopping in front of me.

"Hi," I reply, momentarily forgetting every smooth line I've ever used. "You look nice."

"Thanks." She tugs at the sleeve of her sweater. "Is this okay for whatever mysterious activity you've planned?"

"Perfect." I open the passenger door for her. "Your chariot."

"If you say 'm'lady' again, I'm walking back inside."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I assure her, closing the door once she's in.

As I walk around to the driver's side, I take a deep breath. This is it. A real date—sorry, extended social interaction—with Hannah. No accidents, no closets, no misunderstandings. Just us, hanging out. She hadn’t mentioned my brother in her dorm the other day. Progress.

I slide into the driver's seat, feeling her eyes on me.

"What?" I ask, starting the engine.

"Nothing," she says. "Just trying to figure out what kind of date a hockey player considers perfect."

"Who said anything about perfect?" I pull out of the parking lot. "I'm aiming for memorable."

"That's either reassuring or terrifying."

I glance over at her. "Trust me?"

She hesitates, then nods. "Against my better judgment, yes."

"Good." I reach for the radio. "Now, let's see if I can find some '90s alternative rock…"

"You remembered that?" she asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

"I listen when you talk, Hannah." I find a station playing Pearl Jam. "Especially about the things that matter to you."

She doesn't respond, but I catch her small smile from the corner of my eye. It feels like a win.

Twenty minutes later, we're pulling into the empty parking lot of the old drive-in theater on the edge of town. It's been closed for years, but tonight, the massive screen is lit up with the test pattern, and there's a single car parked near the projection booth.

"A drive-in?" she asks, peering through the windshield. "I thought this place was shut down."

"It is, officially. But the owners are friends with Peterson's dad. They're renovating it to reopen next summer." I park in what would have been the center row, the prime viewing spot. "They agreed to run a private showing tonight."

"You arranged a private movie screening?" She turns to me, clearly impressed despite herself. "What are we watching?"

"That depends." I reach behind the seat and pull out a bag. "Option one: The Princess Bride . Option two: Die Hard . I wasn't sure if you were a romantic comedy or action girl."

"Those are my only choices?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, I also brought Jurassic Park as a wildcard option."

Her face lights up. "Jurassic Park. Definitely."

"Dinosaurs over romance or Bruce Willis? Interesting choice."

"Jurassic Park is a classic," she says defensively. "Plus, there's a little romance, a little action, and a lot of people getting eaten. It has everything."

I laugh. "Jurassic Park it is." I pull out my phone and text Peterson, who's handling the projection booth tonight.

"How did you even set this up?" she asks as we wait for the movie to start.

"I'm a man of many talents and connections," I say mysteriously.

"You bribed someone, didn't you?"

"I prefer to call it 'mutually beneficial exchange of favors,' but yes."

She laughs, and it's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. "You're ridiculous."

"You keep saying that, but here you are," I point out. "In my car, about to watch killer dinosaurs on a private movie screen."

"Here I am," she agrees softly.

The screen flickers, and the opening credits of Jurassic Park begin to roll. I reach into the back seat again, pulling out a cooler.

"What's that?" she asks.

"Refreshments." I open it to reveal an array of movie snacks—popcorn, candy, sodas, and at the center, two mint chocolate chip ice cream cones, carefully stored in special containers. "I wasn't sure what you'd want, so I brought options."

She stares at the ice cream, then back at me. "How are those not melted?"

"Dry ice," I explain. "And carefully calculated determination."

She picks up one of the containers, a smile playing at her lips. "You really planned this out, didn't you?"

"When it matters, I put in the effort." I meet her eyes. "And this matters the most."

For a moment, we just look at each other, the movie forgotten. Then she breaks the gaze, reaching for the popcorn.

"We'll see," she says, but there's no edge to it anymore.

As the T-Rex roars on screen, I resist the urge to use the oldest trick in the book—the fake yawn and stretch to put my arm around her. Instead, I just enjoy being here with her, watching her reactions to the movie, the way she jumps at the velociraptor scenes, the little comments she makes under her breath.

By the time the credits roll, the moon is high in the sky, casting a silver glow over the empty drive-in. Neither of us moves to leave.

"So," I say finally. "How'd I do on our first extended social interaction?"

She pretends to think about it. "I'd give it a solid seven out of ten."

"Only a seven?" I clutch my chest in outrage. "What would have made it a ten?"

"Well," she says thoughtfully, "the ice cream was a nice touch, but it would have been better with hot fudge."

"Okay, diva. Next time then."

"Who says there's going to be a next time?" But she's smiling as she says it.

"There's definitely going to be a next time." I turn to face her fully. "Admit it, you had fun tonight."

"It wasn't terrible," she concedes.

"High praise from Hannah Banana."

"Don't push your luck," she warns, but there's laughter in her voice.

I start the engine, reluctant to end the night but knowing better than to overstay. "Home?"

She nods. "Home."

The drive back to campus is quiet, but it's a comfortable silence. As I pull up in front of her dorm, I'm debating whether to walk her to the door. Before I can decide, she speaks.

"Thank you," she says. "For tonight. It was unexpectedly nice."

"You're welcome." I turn to look at her. "For the record, I wasn't trying to get you alone in a dark parking lot for sinful purposes."

"I know." She unbuckles her seatbelt. "Though the thought crossed my mind when you first mentioned the drive-in."

"I'm a gentleman," I say with exaggerated dignity. "I never make a move on the first date."

"Extended social interaction," she corrects.

"Right. That." I grin. "The second one, though, all bets are off."

She rolls her eyes, but there's a softness to her expression that wasn't there before. "Goodnight, Sanderson."

"Goodnight, Hannah."

She steps out of the car, closing the door behind her. I watch her walk to the entrance, expecting her to go straight in. But at the door, she turns and gives a small wave.

I wave back, feeling like I just scored the game-winning goal in overtime.

As I drive home, I'm already planning our next extended social interaction. And this time, I'll remember the hot fudge.