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On the ice, I’m untouchable. Metaphorically speaking. Hockey isn’t known for being a non-contact sport.
lol
And it feels…cheap, to diminish last night to proof I don’t think about hockey all the time.
Prove*
And Harlow chased my dream with me, setting all the other opportunities she could have pursued aside.
Ughhhhhh. I hate it.
“Have a drink, Conor,” Harlow whispers to me. “No.” “I promise you, I’m a thousand percent comfortable with it. And I know you’re uncomfortable here, so it would make me feel better if you had a beer.”
I don’t know why she always pushes him to drink when he’s driving. So fucking weird. It’s not like it’s a huge sacrifice to not drink while out every once in a while.
