ANNIE

When I wake, it’s dark.

“Dad?” It feels like I’m home alone, but I call out again just in case. “Dad, are you home?”

No answer. I turn the TV down and call a few more times in case he’s wrapped up in his work. I listen for the shower. The garage door opening. Nothing.

Sliding the plush blanket around my shoulders, I cinch it tight and tiptoe through the house. It’s too big for my dad by himself, and the modern feel is a little too fake. I don’t know why he bought this place when he was trying to downsize.

But that’s not my problem. I head into the kitchen and make one last sweep, but my dad’s not hunched over the laptop he keeps at the small, built-in desk. My dad works everywhere, even the kitchen.

Tonight, however, it’s just me.

I sink into the desk chair as a flash of annoyance ripples through my body. I’m not hurt. No, this has happened far too many times for me to feel upset. I’m focused instead on the minor inconvenience of being stuck here without a car. I have to get back to school, homework, real life—and who knows how long my dad’ll be stuck at the office?

I pop a Nespresso capsule into his shiny new machine and press the button, watching as it whirs to life. Once my cup is ready, I plop back into the chair and check my phone—no messages.

I debate texting him, but decide against it. If he doesn’t care enough to see me, I’m certainly not going to force him—not at this point in my life. I’m a full grown adult. I don’t need him for anything; I never have. I’ve made it a point to pay for my own college, even though he’s offered. I don’t want to owe him a thing.

But I will borrow his internet to stall as I debate my car situation. Flicking on the computer, I debate getting started on some homework. I could just work here all night until my dad gets home, but that’s just depressing. I don’t feel like working alone on Saturday night because my dad forgot me at home.

Instead, I find myself typing a familiar name into the browser: Cohen James.

The results list is quite lengthy. Even more so when I click onto the Image tab. There he is, those green eyes glinting off the screen as he’s captured in various stages of post-game smiles, candid shots of him on the ice, and a few photos of him out to eat or sharing a drink with friends.

I scroll further. There are a few photos of him with a girl on his arm, but I find myself oddly pleased that it’s never the same one twice. Nowhere in the search results is a snapshot of the woman who picked him up from the YMCA today.

A sinking feeling follows. It’s just as I suspected—he has a different woman waiting for him every night of the week. I glance toward the Target bag on the counter, thankful for my newest suit. It makes me look like a dinosaur. No way will I let him make me a member of his revolving harem.

I flip back to the results listing and find an article near the bottom of the first page that announces Stars Starting Forward Leaves Little to the Imagination. My finger presses down on the link, even though I know it’s clickbait.

Inside, I don’t find naked pictures of Cohen James like the article’s title insinuates. Sure, there’s one blurry image from a cell phone, but it’s impossible to even tell whether or not it’s really Cohen.

I’ve almost hit back to return to the homepage when a line at the bottom catches my attention. More specifically, a pair of words. Indecent exposure.

Apparently my swim instructor had been hazed by some of the older members of the Stars team. Cohen’s a new trade this year, fresh from the LA Lightening, and apparently the captains thought it’d be funny to introduce Cohen to MN with a bang.

Unfortunately, he’d been caught standing outside his teammates’ home, serenading the captain with no clothes on. Some poor older woman walking her dog had been scared stiff, called the cops, and Cohen had been slapped with an indecent exposure fine, and another tick against him in the troublemaking column.

It’s funny, sort of, the image of Cohen singing at the top of his lungs without pants. For some reason, I can picture it clearly. I can also picture him not snitching on his teammates.

As the article suggests, it was all Cohen’s fault. I hardly doubt that’s true, but he didn’t correct anyone, and I give him some grudging points for that. Even more than a jerk, I can’t stand a tattletale jerk.

This is where my research must end. Before I feel any more sympathy for the guy. Standing, I rinse my coffee cup, dry it, replace it in the cupboard, and then wipe the browser history clear.

Then, I fork out my phone and make a call to Sarah, my best friend and roommate.

“Hey, how’d it go today?” she asks when she picks up. “I thought you’d be home sooner—oh, are you at dinner with your dad, already?”

“What are the chances you’ll let me buy you a bottle of wine tonight?”

“What do you need?”

“My car.”

She sighs. “He didn’t show?”

I nod, realize she can’t see me, and murmur an affirmative answer. “I don’t want to call my mom and get him in trouble. It’s probably best if I just find my own way home.”

“I’m sorry, Annie.”

“Hey, don’t be—you know how this goes. If you’re too busy to come get me though, I’ll suck it up and phone her—I know she’s just waiting for the call.”

“You said wine?”

“I’ll splurge and buy you the eight dollar bottle.”

“I’m a poor college student. How about two of the four dollar bottles?”

“I like that math,” I agree. “Two bottles it is.”

“Give me fifteen minutes.”

Ten minutes into my wait, I text my dad and tell him I have to get going, but thanks for the coffee. He doesn’t respond right away. In fact, it’s not until I’m with Sarah and chowing on a Chipotle burrito—apparently swimming makes me ravenous—that he texts me to apologize.

I turn my phone off, and instead focus on showing off my Target score.

“What do you think?” I hold the horrid suit up for Sarah to see. “Do you think this will get Cohen’s attention?”

Sarah wrinkles her nose, her fingers reaching out for the coarse fabric that, in all seriousness, feels like dragon scales. “Why are you doing this again? He seems funny. I liked that article about him serenading his team captain.”

“Because,” I say cheerily. “I want to drive him crazy.”

“Crazy? Then you should really go with the black one. It looks great with your boobs.” She looks at her own, smaller ones. “I could never wear it, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, not sexually crazy,” I tell her. “Just regular crazy.”

“Well, then you’ve nailed it.” She picks at the fabric, unconvinced. “It’s horrible.”