The Mistake

“—but I won’t pay attention to it if it’s on.” I bite my lip. I’m already in this deep—might as well deliver the final blow. “I come from a football family.”


“Football,” he says dully.

“Yeah, my dad and I are huge Pats fans. And my grandfather was an offensive lineman for the Bears back in the day.”

“Football.” He grabs his water and takes a deep swig, as if he needs to rehydrate after that bombshell.

I smother a laugh. “I think it’s awesome that you’re so good at it, though. And congrats on the Frozen Four win.”

Logan stares at me. “You couldn’t have told me this before I asked you out? What are we even doing here, Grace? I can never marry you now—it would be blasphemous.”

His twitching lips make it clear that he’s joking, and the laughter I’ve been fighting spills over. “Hey, don’t go canceling the wedding just yet. The success rate for inter-sport marriages is a lot higher than you think. We could be a Pats-Bruins family.” I pause. “But no Celtics. I hate basketball.”

“Well, at least we have that in common.” He shuffles closer and presses a kiss to my cheek. “It’s all right. We’ll work through this, gorgeous. Might need couples counseling at some point, but once I teach you to love hockey, it’ll be smooth sailing for us.”

“You won’t succeed,” I warn him. “Ramona spent years trying to force me to like it. Didn’t work.”

“She gave up too easily then. I, on the other hand, never give up.”

No, he certainly doesn’t. If he did, we wouldn’t be in this incredibly romantic restaurant right now, nestled together on the same side of the booth.

“Hey, speaking of Ramona.” His expression darkens slightly. “What’s going on with you two?”

Tension trickles down my spine. “You mean since she went behind my back and offered to comfort you after V-Day?”

He grins. “You call it V-Day? I’ve been calling it V-Night.”

We burst out laughing, and a part of me finds peculiar solace in that, being able to laugh about a night that left me feeling so humiliated. So rejected. But it’s in the past. Logan has gone above and beyond to prove how much he regrets what happened and how sincere he is about starting over. And I wasn’t lying that day in the park when I told him I don’t hold grudges. Both my parents drilled the importance of forgiveness into me, of expelling the bitterness and anger instead of letting those negative emotions consume me.

“I met up with her the day I saw you at the Coffee Hut,” I admit. “We talked, she apologized. I told her I was willing to give the friendship another chance, but that I want to do it at my own pace, and she agreed.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“What? You don’t think I should?”

Logan looks pensive. “I don’t know. Hitting on me was a really shitty move on her part. Doesn’t exactly put her in the running for Friend of the Year.” A frown touches his lips. “I don’t like the idea that she might hurt you again.”

“Me neither, but cutting her off feels…wrong. I’ve known her my whole life.”

“Yeah? I assumed you two just got assigned to the same dorm.”

“Nope. We’ve been friends since childhood.”

I explain how Ramona and I were next-door neighbors, and from there, the conversation shifts to what it was like growing up in Hastings, then to what it was like for him to grow up in Munsen. I’m surprised by the complete lack of awkward silences. There’s always at least one on a first date, but Logan and I don’t seem to have that problem. The only time we stop talking is when the waiter takes our orders, and then again when he delivers the check.

Two hours. I can hardly believe it when I peek at the time on my phone and realize how long we’ve been here. The food was phenomenal, the conversation entertaining, and the company absolutely incredible. After we polish off our dessert—a piece of decadent tiramisu that Logan insists we share—he doesn’t even allow me to look at the bill. He simply tucks a wad of cash in the leather case the waiter dropped off, then slides out of the booth and holds out his hand.

I take it, wobbling slightly on my heels as he helps me to my feet. I feel weak-kneed and giddy. I can’t stop smiling, but I’m gratified to see that he’s sporting the same goofy grin.

“This was nice,” he murmurs.

“Yes, it was.”

He laces our fingers together and proceeds to keep them like that all the way to the car, where he reluctantly lets go so he can open my door for me. The moment he’s in the driver’s seat, our fingers intertwine again, and he drives one-handed the entire way back to campus.

It’s not until we’re standing outside my door that his easygoing demeanor falters. “So how did I do?” he asks gruffly.

I snicker. “You want a detailed performance review of our date?”

He tugs on the collar of his shirt, more nervous than I’ve ever seen him. “Kind of. I haven’t been on a date in…fuck, ages. Since freshman year, I think.”