out of my league Part 2

I’m in love with Kate Brooks, but she’s out of my league—that’s what I tell my stupid head, but my dumb heart says otherwise.

Take tonight, for instance. I run into Kate and her family coming out of the ballet, and I’m wearing a hockey sweater and out celebrating with my rowdy friends.

Not exactly the best way to meet the parents.

To make matters worse, Jason Rutledge, Kate’s boss, has decided he’s going to put out all the stops to impress Kate—and believe me, he can afford it.

It seems Jason is making his big play—he’s taking Kate to dinner and the opera.

Even though I’ve mentally prepared myself, losing out to Jason is rough—he’s ten years older than Kate, but so understated, he seems twenty years older.

I’m miserable the rest of the day.

I've done everything to impress Kate. I recall Kate asking me one day about a note I left—she couldn’t read my pathetic scrawl.

I do all of my writing on the computer and my cursive handwriting has never progressed beyond the level of grade four.

I broke my arm that year playing hockey, just when everyone else was learning how to write—I never mastered the skill and have been embarrassed about it ever since.

So, foolish as it seems, I took a night school course in calligraphy, hoping it would improve my handwriting—Why? Probably so I could impress Kate. What a loser.

The following day I’m in the cafeteria eating lunch and Kate joins me. I’m figuring she knows I’ve got a crush on her and wants to let me down easy.

I don’t want a pity party.

“So, why the interest in hockey, Jay?”

I know what she’s doing—being a diplomat’s daughter, or whatever she is, she’s been sent to charm school—put the other person at ease by having them talk about themselves. Grrrr!

“I played junior hockey—played for the U.S. Olympic team and played against Alexander Ovechkin. He was a superstar even then—and me—I was a journeyman player destined for the industrial leagues. I got wise and got out without losing most of my teeth.”

“My father would be impressed. He loves hockey, especially Olympic hockey. That’s awesome.”

Right. I’m sure he’d be more impressed with Jason Rutledge, I muse.

“Actually, I’ve got a confession to make—I love hockey too. I remember going to the Olympics with my father. You were one of our favorite players.”

“Me?”

I can hardly believe it.

“I wouldn’t mind going to a game with you sometime.”

I blurt out, “But what about Jason Rutledge?”

She giggles. “Jason? He’s too laid back for me. I told him I liked a hockey player—he looked him up on line, found out he had a tattoo and got one himself, just to impress me.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No, seriously. He had a French phrase engraved on his forearm in calligraphy—he told me it meant, forever yours.”

I shake my head in awe.

“Wow, that’s impressive—I mean, that he’d go to the extent of suffering the pain of having calligraphy engraved on his arm.”

“It’s kind of romantic—not the tattoo—that’s disgusting, but having the message done in calligraphy. I never had anybody do something like that for me.”

So, you were impressed, huh?”

She bursts out laughing. “Unfortunately not. First of all, Jason engraved the message in Gothic lettering which I hate and then the message itself was ludicrous.”

I look at her puzzled. “I think, forever yours, is romantic.”

“It is romantic—but that’s not what Jason engraved. I thought he spoke French, but he obviously doesn’t. The tattoo artist who did the lettering must have searched for some French phrase and copied one off a box of imported French salt. He engraved, toujours sec— the translation in English is ‘ ‘always dry’—they put it on boxes of salt in France.”

I could imagine the embarrassment.

“Did you tell Jason?”

“I did and he was mortified—he’s out trying to find someone who will use laser surgery to remove it.”

“That’s brutal.”

“In a way, it serves him right. Jason’s pretentious. I think he should leave the tattoo—it perfectly describes his dry personality.”

We both laughed.

Turns out I was wrong about Kate—she wasn’t out of my league—just played in a different one. I found out she played women’s college hockey at Boston College.

You can’t judge a book by its cover, or a man by his handwriting.

With Kate, I aimed high and missed, because I was focused on the wrong goal.

I was looking at Kate’s family status and missed the real Kate—standing in that college goal, as backup goaltender.

Now, I really do know who I am and where I stand.

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