Page 23 of Penalty Shot

“Um, yeah. He’s very nice.”

“How did you two meet? How long have you been together?” another one asks.

“We’re not together,” I manage.

“Girls, you know who’s dying to hook up tonight? I bet he’d even volunteer his driver’s license. Gordon Lanski. Wanna meet him?”

I snort because Lily has acquired a new pastime calledBreak Gordon’s Balls. The five of us leave the bathroom together, a gaggle of women looking for fun on a random Thursday night.

The second I exit the bathroom, my evening’s version of fun is waiting outside. Randall reaches over and clasps my hand.

The other women swoon.

They can have him tomorrow.

***

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Haughland. They’re fully booked as well.”

We’re at the front desk of the Westin, which—along with two other hotels downtown—is hosting a landscaping and composting convention and therefore fully booked. The young man volunteered to make a few calls for us, only to confirm that nothing is available.

“Don’t look so sad,” I say to Randall, nudging him with my hip. He’s adorably disappointed, like the ice cream shop ran out of his favorite flavor. “Let me buy you a drink.”

He gives the front desk receptionist a nod of thanks and leads me to a corner of the lobby. “Come home with me tonight. I know that’s one of your rules—”

“Randall.” I interrupt him. “Let’s call it a night, OK? You must be exhausted after the game.”

“How about getting something to eat? I’m freaking starving for a cheeseburger,” he says like it occurred to him that food is the solution to disappointment. He’s not wrong. A greasy meal sounds like heaven.

“I know the place,” I say with a snicker.

While we drive to Jack & Jill, a popular North Columbus diner frequented by university students and shift workers, Randall seems thoughtful.

“This play you wrote, is it inspired by Regency plays?” he asks.

“Worse. It’s inspired by Shakespeare.”

He laughs. “The only Shakespeare I ever read wasHamletfor high school.”

I try not to cringe. “What did you think?”

“Don’t remember much from the SparkNotes, to be honest.”

No point hiding my cringe now. “You’re not alone. I’ve always thought Hamlet was a douche.”

“Wow, isn’t that like criticizing the G.O.A.T. of drama?”

“Goat?”

“It’s a sports term for greatest of all time.”

“Ah! See that’s Hamlet’s problem right there! He thinks he’s too good for criticism! What a douche.” We both chuckle at my unsolicited evaluation of the literary canon.

“I get the appeal of the Prince of Denmark,” I concede. “Theater will always make room for brooders with daddy issues and unfaithful mothers. And there’s no denying that the man has killer lines. But so many performances miss the part where Hamlet is aware of his ridiculousness. He could be funny instead of boring.”

“I’d have paid attention if my high school teacher described the play that way,” Randall offers.

I could rant for another ten minutes. When the play is torn apart to be one philosophical speech after another, it’s a snooze fest. And expecting teenagers toreadit? Snooze and shudder.