Status: Done!
Changes
04
“Hey, Allie. It’s Grant,” Grant’s deep voice rasped over the phone.
“Oh! Hey, Grant,” I greeted, trying to keep the surprise in my voice undetectable. Pat pressed the button for the elevator and sent me a questioning glance. I simply rose up my shoulders in response.
I really had no idea why Grant was calling me. I had met him less than an hour before and his number was already finding its way onto my screen.
He sighed heavily over the line; “I know you didn’t expect me to call so soon, but I—uh—I was just wondering if you would like to go to dinner tonight.”
“Sorry, Grant. It’s just that—” I started, looking at Pat who was snickering at his own phone—probably talking to his teammates about the puckbunnies they would encounter during the night and which ones would weasel their way into their beds. “Actually, I’d love to.”
Pat’s eyes shot up from his screen and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. I simply waved him off.
“That’s great!” Grant exclaimed in my ear, “I just heard about this really good restaurant that we could go to.”
“Anything’s good with me,” I replied.
I heard Grant fumble with his phone slightly, “I’ll text you the details. Bye, Allie.”
I offered him a small goodbye before hearing the line go dead and bringing my phone down from my ear. Pat looked up at my expectantly, awaiting my explanation about the sudden phone call. “Sorry, Pat. We’re gonna have to take a rain-check on this dinner and club hopping thing.”
He pouted childishly, “Already ditching me for guys and you’ve been in the city for—what—like 24 hours?”
“After the Cup Parade on Friday, I promise you can take me club hopping until the early hours of the morning!” I offered him an apologetic smile.
He groaned, giving in, “Fine. But who is he?”
“Grant. I met him when I went for coffee,” I explained in the simplest terms, hearing my phone make a small noise.
Grant (6:48 PM): Italian Village. 71 W Monroe St, Chicago, IL 60603. How does 7:00 sound?
Pat and I stepped into the elevator when it arrived at my floor. I quickly typed out my response to Grant.
Sounds great. See you there :)
I stuffed my phone back into my clutch and looked up at Pat. He was typing out his own response to a text message—probably telling the boys that I wouldn’t be joining them at the club and that he’d be arriving solo.
“I’m sure dinner will be over relatively soon,” I spoke, breaking his attention away from the illuminated screen, “So around 11, text me and tell me where you are. Maybe I’ll grace you Blackhawks with my lovely presence.”
Pat rolled his eyes at my playfully, “Don’t get their hopes up. They like you better than me.”
“I mean, who doesn’t?” I asked cockily.
He shoved my shoulder jokingly and used one of his large hands to guide me out of the elevator when it finally arrived at the lobby. We strolled through the lobby, my tall heels clicking against the marble floors, before stepping out to the cool streets of Chicago. Pat pulled on his usual baseball cap, shielding most of his face from the wandering eyes of the crowds walking down the street, and then turned towards me.
He extended one of his strong arms and weaved it around my waist effortlessly, giving me a tight squeeze before pulling away, turning his back towards me, and strolling away in the direction of the club.
Although the restaurant was pretty far from my apartment, I decided to walk because I had time to waste before meeting Grant there. I simply walked in the direction that Siri told me to and allowed my thoughts to occupy my mind.
I felt bad for ditching Pat, but I couldn’t even begin to count how many times Pat had left me at bars. We’d enter the club together, get a few drinks, and then he would vanish from my sight—only to appear on my front steps early the next morning, asking me about the previous nights events. Once Pat found his victim—usually a underdressed “fan” of some sort—I was always left to my own devices to find a way home.
I had never liked Pat’s association with these “fans.” Most of them only cared for his popular status and the praise they would receive for spending a night with one of Chicago’s beloved. Pat always struggled to find those who actually liked him for him, which was attributed to his large name and bank account. He didn’t like letting people past the wall he had built over the years of his NHL career; this was part of the reason that we were still as close as we were—I was one of the few that he could trust outside of his immediate family. Puck bunnies simply satisfied his needs without having to risk letting a person get too close. His “man-whore” attitude was more thrust upon him than actually chosen.
My thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of the restaurant at the end of the block. I quickly pulled out my phone and checked the time.
7:04 PM
Fashionably late.
Grant stood outside the restaurant with his hands buried in the pockets of freshly-pressed khakis. He was clad in a crisp light blue button-up and his hair appeared as though it had been tamed slightly from its earlier wild state.
“Hey,” I greeted as I approached him, stealing his attention from his watch—that he’d been checking every ten seconds or so.
“Oh, hey,” he offered me a warm smile, “You look beautiful.”
I looked down at my outfit mechanically, suddenly realizing that I was still in the dress that I had planned to wear to the club—something that definitely wouldn’t be what I wore for a first date.
“Thanks,” I smiled after a moment of silence, “But don’t pay too much attention to my outfit; I was on my way out to a club with some friends when you called.”
“You didn’t have to cancel your plans with you friends,” he frowned down at me as he guided me towards the door of the restaurant.
“I know,” I nudged him playfully, “I wasn’t really feeling the party scene, anyway.”
The hostess greeted us politely before showing us to a small table towards the back of the restaurant.
“So,” Grant eyed me above the top of his menu, “Tell me about yourself, Allie.”
I returned his gaze, “What do you want to know?”
“Where are you from?”
“Buffalo, but I just moved here from Boston,” I supplied simply, “I start working with the Chicago Tribune at the end of the summer.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
I raised an eyebrow at him, chuckling at his childish question, “Red.”
He gasped playfully, “Ohmygod. Me, too!”
“We have so much in common!” I joked.
And the rest of dinner continued similarly—questions and jokes being thrown around constantly. It felt good to have fun with someone new and I really enjoyed getting to know Grant. We even allowed our empty plates to occupy our table for a while as we immersed ourselves in simple conversation.
He was an up-and-coming lawyer at Abbey Spanier and was currently paying his dues as a junior employee—which meant fetching his boss her 5 o’clock coffee and making frequent runs to the copy room. Grant’s father owned a very large investment bank—which he always tried to convince Grant to join—and as a result, Grant was left with a very large sum of money in his bank account, more than he knew what to do with. He wasn’t bragging about his money, but was simply informing me about him and his family. In fact, his defiance against his father made him appeal to me even more. He worked for something he wanted rather than taking the easy route and accepting the company from his father.
Ultimately, Grant paid the large bill—after a long protest from me—and we made our way out of the dimly lit restaurant. Grant offered to walk me back to my apartment, which I gladly accepted, and we continued our light conversation as my heels clicked against the sidewalk.
“I had a really good time tonight, Allie,” Grant spoke as we stood at the bottom of my stoop, “And I’d really like to be able to see you again.”
“I think we might be able to arrange something,” I giggled, shifting my body towards him slightly.
He smiled, “Good.” His large hand cupped my face as he swooped down and placed a light kiss to my lips, “I’d really like that.”
A large grin appeared on my face as I turned away from him and made my way back into my apartment building. I practically skipped to the elevator and pressed the correct button for my floor.
As I spilled into my apartment, I kicked off my dangerously high heels and padded down towards my bedroom. I slipped off my dress and threw a large t-shirt over my head, walking back out to my living room. Flopping onto the couch, I turned on my phone and sent a quick text to Pat, telling him that I wouldn’t be able to come partying with him.
♢♢♢♢
“Give me the biggest bottle of champagne that you have!” Jon slurred excitedly into the ear of a bartender, whose shirt was a few sizes too small. She winked at him suggestively and promised that she would return with his order. As soon as her ass was out of Jonathan's vision, he turned towards me.
“She’s a hot one, eh?” he laughed, throwing his head back and dumping a bright-blue liquid down his throat. He swallowed the burning liquid and shook his head ferociously, shoving a glass of similar-colored liquid into my hands.
I threw the shot back without hesitation and slammed the small glass onto the counter of the wooden bar. I looked around the crowded bar. Loud music that thumped throughout the room was challenged by noise of constant chatter and cheers. People were shoved in every nook and cranny and large piles of empty bottles occupied the small round tables that were scattered throughout the room. Most of their teammates were crammed in a specific corner of the club—though some were making their way around the club in search of a “companion” for the night—and a large crowd of fans had gathered around, throwing their iPhones in the faces of the players with flashes erupting sporadically.
I shook my head at the scene. The constant report of our every single move on every single social network made it difficult to have fun—or pick up any puck bunnies. After multiple disputes with my PR advisor, I decided it was probably in my best interest to distance myself from puck bunnies whenever cameras were present.
The under-dressed bartender suddenly appeared in front of us, bearing a large bottle in her hands. Jon thanked her, whispered some comment in her ear, and simply told her to put it on the Blackhawks’ tab.
“Let’s get this party started!” He shouted and stumbled towards our group of friends and hockey players. I simply followed behind him, making sure he wouldn’t trip and send the over-sized bottle flying into the mass of people.
We finally reached our destination and Jon brought everyone’s attention to the large bottle that was secured under one of his arms. Our friends cheered at the presence of even more alcohol, excitedly gathering around the Captain, and called for the Cup to be brought over. After people took their turns chugging from the Cup, everyone dispersed into smaller groups and calmed down some.
I pulled my phone out of the pocket of my shorts and checked the time and any new text messages I had received.
12:32 PM
Allie Barnes (11:34 PM): Not coming out tonight, too tired. But have fun! :)
Allie Barnes (11:35 PM): P.S. don’t worry; I’m not with Grant.
As my fingers sloppily typed out my response, I let out a sigh of relief—but I wasn’t really sure what for. All I knew was that I would have to look into this Grant guy.
Rest up, babygirl. Text me in the morning to make sure I’m still alive ;)
“Texting your girlfriend?” Patrick Sharp plopped down in the seat next to me, immediately peering over my shoulder at my illuminated screen.
I nudged his shoulder away from me, “Shut up, Sharpie.”
He chuckled at me before a relatively serious expression took over his features, “What’s wrong, man?”
I shrugged a shoulder, “Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
I sighed, “Sorta lonely, that’s all.”
He nodded, signaling that he understood, “Ah. The bunnies aren’t doing it for you anymore."
I gave him a slight nod before a large smile was plastered across his face. “Daw! 'Lil Peek-a-boo is growing up!” He threw a heavy arm around my shoulders and gave me a tight squeeze—like my dad would after I did anything remotely decent. With a large pat on my shoulder, he fled from his perch on the seat beside me and tackled Andrew Shaw, who was spastically dancing a few feet away.
I sighed and leaned back in my seat. A new drink found its way into my hands and then to my lips, the burning liquid making its course through my body.
It was true: I was lonely. Puck bunnies usually satisfied me enough, but tonight—when I didn’t want to be seen with a sleazily dressed girl hanging off my arm—made me long for a certain companion of mine. I missed having Allie on my arm. Although she didn’t provide me with some of the things that bunnies gave out eagerly—specifically, sexual favors—she was exactly what I needed most of the time.
With Allie on my arm, I always had newfound certainty and sturdiness. Her presence continually made my life seem more balanced and fulfilled, and the awe of every guy in the room definitely served as a confidence-booster.
Before that moment, I hadn’t realized how much of an impact she had had on my poise, happiness, and life in general.
“Oh! Hey, Grant,” I greeted, trying to keep the surprise in my voice undetectable. Pat pressed the button for the elevator and sent me a questioning glance. I simply rose up my shoulders in response.
I really had no idea why Grant was calling me. I had met him less than an hour before and his number was already finding its way onto my screen.
He sighed heavily over the line; “I know you didn’t expect me to call so soon, but I—uh—I was just wondering if you would like to go to dinner tonight.”
“Sorry, Grant. It’s just that—” I started, looking at Pat who was snickering at his own phone—probably talking to his teammates about the puckbunnies they would encounter during the night and which ones would weasel their way into their beds. “Actually, I’d love to.”
Pat’s eyes shot up from his screen and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. I simply waved him off.
“That’s great!” Grant exclaimed in my ear, “I just heard about this really good restaurant that we could go to.”
“Anything’s good with me,” I replied.
I heard Grant fumble with his phone slightly, “I’ll text you the details. Bye, Allie.”
I offered him a small goodbye before hearing the line go dead and bringing my phone down from my ear. Pat looked up at my expectantly, awaiting my explanation about the sudden phone call. “Sorry, Pat. We’re gonna have to take a rain-check on this dinner and club hopping thing.”
He pouted childishly, “Already ditching me for guys and you’ve been in the city for—what—like 24 hours?”
“After the Cup Parade on Friday, I promise you can take me club hopping until the early hours of the morning!” I offered him an apologetic smile.
He groaned, giving in, “Fine. But who is he?”
“Grant. I met him when I went for coffee,” I explained in the simplest terms, hearing my phone make a small noise.
Grant (6:48 PM): Italian Village. 71 W Monroe St, Chicago, IL 60603. How does 7:00 sound?
Pat and I stepped into the elevator when it arrived at my floor. I quickly typed out my response to Grant.
Sounds great. See you there :)
I stuffed my phone back into my clutch and looked up at Pat. He was typing out his own response to a text message—probably telling the boys that I wouldn’t be joining them at the club and that he’d be arriving solo.
“I’m sure dinner will be over relatively soon,” I spoke, breaking his attention away from the illuminated screen, “So around 11, text me and tell me where you are. Maybe I’ll grace you Blackhawks with my lovely presence.”
Pat rolled his eyes at my playfully, “Don’t get their hopes up. They like you better than me.”
“I mean, who doesn’t?” I asked cockily.
He shoved my shoulder jokingly and used one of his large hands to guide me out of the elevator when it finally arrived at the lobby. We strolled through the lobby, my tall heels clicking against the marble floors, before stepping out to the cool streets of Chicago. Pat pulled on his usual baseball cap, shielding most of his face from the wandering eyes of the crowds walking down the street, and then turned towards me.
He extended one of his strong arms and weaved it around my waist effortlessly, giving me a tight squeeze before pulling away, turning his back towards me, and strolling away in the direction of the club.
Although the restaurant was pretty far from my apartment, I decided to walk because I had time to waste before meeting Grant there. I simply walked in the direction that Siri told me to and allowed my thoughts to occupy my mind.
I felt bad for ditching Pat, but I couldn’t even begin to count how many times Pat had left me at bars. We’d enter the club together, get a few drinks, and then he would vanish from my sight—only to appear on my front steps early the next morning, asking me about the previous nights events. Once Pat found his victim—usually a underdressed “fan” of some sort—I was always left to my own devices to find a way home.
I had never liked Pat’s association with these “fans.” Most of them only cared for his popular status and the praise they would receive for spending a night with one of Chicago’s beloved. Pat always struggled to find those who actually liked him for him, which was attributed to his large name and bank account. He didn’t like letting people past the wall he had built over the years of his NHL career; this was part of the reason that we were still as close as we were—I was one of the few that he could trust outside of his immediate family. Puck bunnies simply satisfied his needs without having to risk letting a person get too close. His “man-whore” attitude was more thrust upon him than actually chosen.
My thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of the restaurant at the end of the block. I quickly pulled out my phone and checked the time.
7:04 PM
Fashionably late.
Grant stood outside the restaurant with his hands buried in the pockets of freshly-pressed khakis. He was clad in a crisp light blue button-up and his hair appeared as though it had been tamed slightly from its earlier wild state.
“Hey,” I greeted as I approached him, stealing his attention from his watch—that he’d been checking every ten seconds or so.
“Oh, hey,” he offered me a warm smile, “You look beautiful.”
I looked down at my outfit mechanically, suddenly realizing that I was still in the dress that I had planned to wear to the club—something that definitely wouldn’t be what I wore for a first date.
“Thanks,” I smiled after a moment of silence, “But don’t pay too much attention to my outfit; I was on my way out to a club with some friends when you called.”
“You didn’t have to cancel your plans with you friends,” he frowned down at me as he guided me towards the door of the restaurant.
“I know,” I nudged him playfully, “I wasn’t really feeling the party scene, anyway.”
The hostess greeted us politely before showing us to a small table towards the back of the restaurant.
“So,” Grant eyed me above the top of his menu, “Tell me about yourself, Allie.”
I returned his gaze, “What do you want to know?”
“Where are you from?”
“Buffalo, but I just moved here from Boston,” I supplied simply, “I start working with the Chicago Tribune at the end of the summer.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
I raised an eyebrow at him, chuckling at his childish question, “Red.”
He gasped playfully, “Ohmygod. Me, too!”
“We have so much in common!” I joked.
And the rest of dinner continued similarly—questions and jokes being thrown around constantly. It felt good to have fun with someone new and I really enjoyed getting to know Grant. We even allowed our empty plates to occupy our table for a while as we immersed ourselves in simple conversation.
He was an up-and-coming lawyer at Abbey Spanier and was currently paying his dues as a junior employee—which meant fetching his boss her 5 o’clock coffee and making frequent runs to the copy room. Grant’s father owned a very large investment bank—which he always tried to convince Grant to join—and as a result, Grant was left with a very large sum of money in his bank account, more than he knew what to do with. He wasn’t bragging about his money, but was simply informing me about him and his family. In fact, his defiance against his father made him appeal to me even more. He worked for something he wanted rather than taking the easy route and accepting the company from his father.
Ultimately, Grant paid the large bill—after a long protest from me—and we made our way out of the dimly lit restaurant. Grant offered to walk me back to my apartment, which I gladly accepted, and we continued our light conversation as my heels clicked against the sidewalk.
“I had a really good time tonight, Allie,” Grant spoke as we stood at the bottom of my stoop, “And I’d really like to be able to see you again.”
“I think we might be able to arrange something,” I giggled, shifting my body towards him slightly.
He smiled, “Good.” His large hand cupped my face as he swooped down and placed a light kiss to my lips, “I’d really like that.”
A large grin appeared on my face as I turned away from him and made my way back into my apartment building. I practically skipped to the elevator and pressed the correct button for my floor.
As I spilled into my apartment, I kicked off my dangerously high heels and padded down towards my bedroom. I slipped off my dress and threw a large t-shirt over my head, walking back out to my living room. Flopping onto the couch, I turned on my phone and sent a quick text to Pat, telling him that I wouldn’t be able to come partying with him.
♢♢♢♢
“Give me the biggest bottle of champagne that you have!” Jon slurred excitedly into the ear of a bartender, whose shirt was a few sizes too small. She winked at him suggestively and promised that she would return with his order. As soon as her ass was out of Jonathan's vision, he turned towards me.
“She’s a hot one, eh?” he laughed, throwing his head back and dumping a bright-blue liquid down his throat. He swallowed the burning liquid and shook his head ferociously, shoving a glass of similar-colored liquid into my hands.
I threw the shot back without hesitation and slammed the small glass onto the counter of the wooden bar. I looked around the crowded bar. Loud music that thumped throughout the room was challenged by noise of constant chatter and cheers. People were shoved in every nook and cranny and large piles of empty bottles occupied the small round tables that were scattered throughout the room. Most of their teammates were crammed in a specific corner of the club—though some were making their way around the club in search of a “companion” for the night—and a large crowd of fans had gathered around, throwing their iPhones in the faces of the players with flashes erupting sporadically.
I shook my head at the scene. The constant report of our every single move on every single social network made it difficult to have fun—or pick up any puck bunnies. After multiple disputes with my PR advisor, I decided it was probably in my best interest to distance myself from puck bunnies whenever cameras were present.
The under-dressed bartender suddenly appeared in front of us, bearing a large bottle in her hands. Jon thanked her, whispered some comment in her ear, and simply told her to put it on the Blackhawks’ tab.
“Let’s get this party started!” He shouted and stumbled towards our group of friends and hockey players. I simply followed behind him, making sure he wouldn’t trip and send the over-sized bottle flying into the mass of people.
We finally reached our destination and Jon brought everyone’s attention to the large bottle that was secured under one of his arms. Our friends cheered at the presence of even more alcohol, excitedly gathering around the Captain, and called for the Cup to be brought over. After people took their turns chugging from the Cup, everyone dispersed into smaller groups and calmed down some.
I pulled my phone out of the pocket of my shorts and checked the time and any new text messages I had received.
12:32 PM
Allie Barnes (11:34 PM): Not coming out tonight, too tired. But have fun! :)
Allie Barnes (11:35 PM): P.S. don’t worry; I’m not with Grant.
As my fingers sloppily typed out my response, I let out a sigh of relief—but I wasn’t really sure what for. All I knew was that I would have to look into this Grant guy.
Rest up, babygirl. Text me in the morning to make sure I’m still alive ;)
“Texting your girlfriend?” Patrick Sharp plopped down in the seat next to me, immediately peering over my shoulder at my illuminated screen.
I nudged his shoulder away from me, “Shut up, Sharpie.”
He chuckled at me before a relatively serious expression took over his features, “What’s wrong, man?”
I shrugged a shoulder, “Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
I sighed, “Sorta lonely, that’s all.”
He nodded, signaling that he understood, “Ah. The bunnies aren’t doing it for you anymore."
I gave him a slight nod before a large smile was plastered across his face. “Daw! 'Lil Peek-a-boo is growing up!” He threw a heavy arm around my shoulders and gave me a tight squeeze—like my dad would after I did anything remotely decent. With a large pat on my shoulder, he fled from his perch on the seat beside me and tackled Andrew Shaw, who was spastically dancing a few feet away.
I sighed and leaned back in my seat. A new drink found its way into my hands and then to my lips, the burning liquid making its course through my body.
It was true: I was lonely. Puck bunnies usually satisfied me enough, but tonight—when I didn’t want to be seen with a sleazily dressed girl hanging off my arm—made me long for a certain companion of mine. I missed having Allie on my arm. Although she didn’t provide me with some of the things that bunnies gave out eagerly—specifically, sexual favors—she was exactly what I needed most of the time.
With Allie on my arm, I always had newfound certainty and sturdiness. Her presence continually made my life seem more balanced and fulfilled, and the awe of every guy in the room definitely served as a confidence-booster.
Before that moment, I hadn’t realized how much of an impact she had had on my poise, happiness, and life in general.