Thank God I didn’t have to stay in the hotel with the team last night. I left the game and went straight to Pam’s apartment, where we drowned our sorrows in Ben & Jerry’s.

Today we’re tooling around town, doing a little shopping.

“No, not that store,” Pam says as I try to head into a cute little boutique. “They only sell to skinny bitches. This girl is thick.” She pats her own rear end.

“Please, spare me the lies. You are in no way thick, but I hear you.”

We wander down the sidewalk, mostly window shopping but occasionally dipping in to try things on. Pam tells me that the guy she met at work turned out to be already-married.

“What?” I ask.

“Yep,” she says, pulling her mass of blonde hair up on top of her head into a bun as we try on sunglasses. “We’d been making out during late-night rotations at the clinic and one night, this woman comes in and gets in my face. She tells me she saw a picture of us on her husband’s phone. Just a normal picture of us together with his arm around me. But still the fucker is married. No Bueno.”

“Indeed,” I agree. What did you say?”

“Just that I had no idea he was married, and I was sorry. What could I do in that situation? She had the right to be angry.”

“Wow,” I say with a big sigh. “That’s cray.”

“And how about you and hockey boy? He posted a video of you?”

I nod and make a face. “Probably get me fired.”

“Why? Can’t tell it’s you.”

“I feel like my coworkers will know it’s me,” I say. “Plus, as you know, I left that whole scene in tears and freaking out like a big weirdo.”

“Well obviously he didn’t take it personally. I feel like he posted it to prove he really likes you, Holls.”

“How could he really like me? He knows, like, nothing about me.”

Pam levels me with a look that tells me she thinks I’m being a dummy. “Girl, you ever heard of a thing called chemistry?”

“I mean, yeah,” I say as we move on to look at a rack of dresses. “There’s chemistry, for sure. When he kissed me, I felt it all the way to my toes, but that’s not the same as really knowing someone.”

“Well, you’ve got to start somewhere,” Pam says. “And sometimes love just hits you like a ton of bricks, when you’re least expecting it.”

“Ugh,” I say. “And sometimes it hits you like a ton of bricks and leaves you lying half-dead in a ditch. Believe me, Evan Kazmeirowicz is not in love with me, I’m not in love with him, and even if I was, I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole because he’s not the kind of guy who falls in love and settles in for life.”

Just then, the song Crazy in Love comes on in the store. Pam starts dancing and pointing at me. She sings, “My girl Holly’s so crazy in love. My girl Holly’s so crazy right now.”

I wave her off and walk away, hiding my resulting grin. She’s silly and loud and brash and I love her. But do I love Evan Kazmeirowicz? No. Definitely not. I lust him—I can admit that much, but love is a whole other ball of wax and he has not earned even my basic trust, so love is impossible.

“I’ve got some pre-game prep work to do,” I say, grabbing her arm and dragging her from the store. Drive us back to your place, Jeeves.”

“Only if you promise we can call your hot uncle Troy on the way home,” she says. “I miss that silver fox.”

“Eww.”

“Facetime!” she yells. “I want to see that sexy man’s face, or you can walk home!”

I laugh out loud and shush her as we make our way to the car. “You going to come to the game tonight?” I ask, just to change the subject.

She doesn’t fall for it. “I said we’re calling uncle Troy, girlfriend. So, get on that phone and dial.”

I shake my head and Facetime my uncle.

“Hey Holly-dolly,” he says, his voice tinny through the speaker phone. “What’s up?”

“Hanging with Pam, she says hi.”

“Hiiii!” Pam sings, smiling and leaning into the picture for a second.

“Hey Pam, how’s my second-favorite girl?”

“Second favorite?” she asks with mock despair.

“You know Holly-dolly is my best girl.”

Pam pretends to pout, making us both laugh. Troy says, “Hey, I know you usually sit in the stands to get your social media shots and whatnot, but the LA owners offered me a couple of seats in the suite upstairs for tonight’s game. I can’t make it because I’m in Vancouver doing some scouting. You and Pam want to sit up there tonight?”

“Heck yes!” Pam yelps.

“I guess that’s a yes,” I tell him.

“Awesome. Good networking up there. They already know you’re killing it for the Crush on social. They’ll probably try to steal you away.”

“Good,” Pam says quietly. “Go work for another team so you can bone that hot guy.”

“What did Pam just say?” Troy asks. “I couldn’t hear her.”

“She said thank you for the seats.” I give Pam a pointed look. “She’s driving.”

“Oh, no problem. And I hate to cut this short, but I’ve got a practice to watch.”

“Okay, love you.”

“Love you too,” he says.

“Love you!” Pam yells.

“Okay,” Troy says with a laugh. “Have fun tonight, girls.”

We hang up and head back to Pam’s place. We’ve both picked up cute dresses and decide to dress up for the game since we’ll be up in the LA owner’s box. As we get dressed, I continue to work on social media, sending out tweets and posting pre-game messaging. I’m not doing the Snapchat messages tonight, because we’ve launched a “Who’s Your Crush?” contest. We’ll pick ten winners to get a personal Snapchat shout-out before the home opener for the season. Fiona is beside herself over this idea, loving that we’re specifically reaching out to female fans. Of course, we have a few men in the contest, too, which makes it fun. It’s the first thing I’ve done, though, that she’s been really excited about, so I guess it’s a good thing.

Pam looks ultra-hot in the emerald-green dress she picked out. She’s paired it with peep-toe booties and has her hair loose and wild around her shoulders. She’s a bit curvier than me, bigger boobs and hips. And she totally owns it. Every pair of eyes will be on her tonight. Next to her, I look plain in my little black dress and knee-high, high-heeled boots. My figure is more athletic than hers. I have much smaller breasts and slim hips. I’m not womanly like her, and while I don’t spend a lot of time critiquing myself or comparing myself to others, sometimes I wish I was built like her—a real knockout.

She notices I’m quiet in the car. “You’re not going to be all emo tonight, are you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Good, because I’m ready to flirt with some hot hockey players.”

“Well, it will more be hockey owners and sponsors up in the box. We won’t see much of the players unless we happen to run into them after the game,” I remind her.

“Then let’s happen to run into them after the game,” she says with a wink.