After weighing which option seemed friendlier and less stalkerish, which was more likely to be seen by her, which she was more likely to respond to, I had no fucking clue, so I went public. Thanks for the follow. Love your music. I tapped the backspace key. Like your music. Tap tap tap tap tap. Enjoy your music.
Fuck. I was so lame. I left it at “enjoy,” tossed my phone onto the passenger seat, and roared out of the parking lot.
Chapter 2
Jordyn
LOS ANGELES
OCTOBER
I settled on the couch in my rented Mulholland Drive house, alone, with a big bowl of popcorn, my phone, and the remote, ready to watch my two favorite teams take on each other. The Los Angeles Condors were playing the Aces tonight in Chicago.
I grew up in Chicago, so I still had a soft spot for the Aces, but I’d been living in Los Angeles—mostly—since I was sixteen, so they had to be the team I cheered for.
I’d been working so hard lately. My first solo album came out in August, but that hadn’t been my first album ever. I’d recorded an album of songs from Piper Reed, the TV show I’d starred in as a teenager, and I’d also voiced the role of Princess Paloma in a Disney movie and recorded the soundtrack for that. After my solo album released, I opened three concerts for Talkative Signal, a super popular band from the UK, to promote it, and then I went on a mini-tour of my own all over the country, which had just ended. I was so thrilled by how well my album was doing and the attention I was getting, I really was, but I was also happy to have some alone time.
Much as I loved performing and feeding off the energy of a crowd, I needed my downtime too, and I knew this would be short-lived because I had more PR stuff coming up—TV appearances and magazine interviews and photo shoots, and the American Music Awards next month. I was nominated for New Artist of the Year—oh my God!—and I was scheduled to perform. Plus, I’d been writing songs for my next album, which I was supposed to start recording in January, along with a few other artists that the A&R rep at my record label had lined up—big stars who would really help get my name out there.
Anyone seeing me right now would shake their head…home alone, dressed in rolled-up sweatpants and a loose hoodie, my hair in a messy bun, no makeup—and a big bowl of popcorn on my lap.
That wasn’t the glam image everyone would think about Jordyn Banks.
Sometimes the whole public-persona thing got exhausting. Like it was taking over my whole life. My whole being. Sometimes it was nice to just be me, the real me. The me who was a slob. The me who constantly lost my phone and keys and, well, everything, and the me who yelled at the TV when I was alone watching sports. There weren’t very many people in the world I could just be the real me with. I’d learned that hard lesson.
I snuggled deeper into the squishy couch cushions to watch the opening face-off.
I loved hockey.
My dad was a huge hockey fan, and he used to take me to Aces games when I was little. I guess that’s where I became a fan. My dad loved football and baseball too, and I watched those sports as well, but hockey was my favorite. My mom liked the game, but she’d rather go to the theater or a concert. And I guess that was where I got my love of music from. Why couldn’t you like the arts and sports?
I picked up my phone because following the hashtags on Twitter was part of the fun of watching a game when you weren’t there live. I did love going to Condors games when I could. My friends, mostly in the music business, weren’t much into hockey, but they humored me and went with me, and maybe I was converting them.
Oh hey…Chase Hartman had replied to my tweet.
My assistant kept an eye on my mentions and replies and brought anything to me that she thought I should see, but I also had lists for different people I follow so I would see their tweets. Earlier I’d happened to see Chase’s name in something one of the Condors players had tweeted, so I’d impulsively followed him. I followed a few of the other Aces players—their captain, Marc Dupuis, and some of the veteran players like Duncan Armstrong and Jared Rupp. I remembered Marc Dupuis’s first season with the Aces. He was so handsome and serious and sexy with his French accent that all the women in Chicago went nuts for him. Including teenage me.
Nothing wrong with a harmless little celebrity crush. I’m not a puck bunny—the only hockey players I’ve ever actually met were some of the Condors one night at a Hollywood club. Life took me away from Chicago and the Aces, so I’d never met Marc Dupuis, and now he was married, but I still followed him on Twitter and Instagram, along with some of the other Aces and Condors players. And now Chase. I just love hockey.
Chase had tweeted at me, Thanks for the follow. Enjoy your music.
I wasn’t sure what that meant. Did it mean he enjoyed my music? It almost read like he was telling me to enjoy my own music. No, that couldn’t be right. Smiling, I’d messaged him back: I’d wish you luck tonight but you’re playing my team. GO CONDORS.
I smiled again now reading his reply. Condors about to become extinct again. #SorryNotSorry
Ha. Not only birds chirp. #GoCondors
He wouldn’t see that until after the game.
I brought up Chase’s profile. He was a good-looking guy—thick, dark hair that was short on the sides but fell over his forehead, a nose with a bit of a bump that might indicate it had been broken, full lips, and a strong square chin with a cleft.
Now I was curious about him. I diverted my attention away from the TV long enough to Google “Chase Hartman.” Age twenty-five—just a year older than me. Born in Sudbury, Ontario, Canada. Played left wing, picked eighth overall in the draft—wow.
You’d think a guy who was picked that high in the draft would be a superstar. I leaned forward to watch the game more closely. He wasn’t on the ice this shift, but seconds later there was a line change and he was there, skating fast with the puck. He made a beautiful pass to a teammate who shot the puck. Too bad the Condors goalie made an amazing save.
Wait, wait…not too bad. I was supposed to be cheering for the Condors here.
This was the problem when you liked both teams.
I watched Chase Hartman play, and he was pretty good, but I thought he should shoot the puck more himself instead of passing it all the time. But what did I know. I thought I was pretty knowledgeable about hockey, but I was also smart enough to know how much I didn’t know. I knew too many assholes who criticized players for doing something dumb (let’s see you out there on a pair of skates going twenty miles an hour with a stick and a little black rubber disc and a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound defenseman bearing down on you, and see how well you do) or who criticized the coaches for face-off matchups or line pairings or scratching players (that’s why you’re watching from a couch and not from behind an NHL bench, buddy).
The Condors scored and I remembered to cheer, pumping a fist in the air. “Yeah!”
Even though I was alone, when I watched hockey I tended to be vocal about it.
I rubbed at my throat. That one yell had given me that weird tickling sensation that had been bugging me lately. Hopefully I wasn’t coming down with a cold or something, because I did not have time to be sick.
When the Aces scored the next goal and tied the game, and it was Chase Hartman who had set up the play, I found myself sitting there with a happy grin on my face. My gaze landed on my phone. What the hell. I picked it up and tweeted at him. Nice goal. But still #GoCondors!
Gah, my mentions were flooded. I’d used the hashtag, which meant a bunch more people saw it.
WTF do you know about hockey? some douche-hole asked me.
I rolled my eyes and ignored them all. People could be assholes. I didn’t like it, but it was a reality I was becoming used to.