Updated Mar 22, 2026 • ~10 min read
Chapter 8: The First Date
POV: Rory
Rory – THE REAL FIRST KISS
Rory spends Thursday in a state of low-level panic about her dinner with Henrik that manifests as changing outfits four times before settling on dark jeans and a emerald sweater that Margot insisted “makes your eyes look incredible and your tits look great,” calling her best friend twice for pep talks about why dating the hockey player isn’t the worst decision she’s ever made, and having what might technically qualify as a mild anxiety attack in her bathroom at six-thirty PM when she realizes that this is actually happening, she’s actually going on a real date with Henrik Andersen, and there’s a non-zero chance she’s going to completely sabotage this before dessert arrives because that’s apparently what she does when vulnerability is required.
Henrik picks her up at seven exactly—punctual in a way that feels very Swedish and very different from Carlos who was chronically fifteen minutes late to everything including their own wedding—and he’s wearing dark jeans and a grey henley that does unfair things to his shoulders, and when Rory opens her apartment door he looks at her with an expression that makes her feel beautiful in ways that have nothing to do with the sweater and everything to do with the genuine appreciation in his eyes.
“Hi,” Henrik says, and he sounds almost nervous which is weirdly comforting because at least she’s not the only one freaking out about this date. “You look incredible.”
“Thanks,” Rory says, grabbing her jacket and trying to remember how to function like a normal human on a date instead of the anxious mess she currently feels like. “You look good too. Very… henley.”
“Very henley,” Henrik repeats with a smile. “Is that journalist-speak for hot?”
“It’s journalist-speak for I’m nervous and apparently can’t form complete sentences,” Rory admits as they walk down to his car, and Henrik’s laugh is warm and genuine in a way that helps ease some of the tension coiling in her stomach.
The restaurant is everything Henrik promised—small Italian place in Lincoln Park with dim lighting and private booths and the kind of authentic pasta smell that makes Rory’s mouth water before they even sit down—and the owner greets Henrik in what sounds like Swedish before switching to accented English and assuring them that their booth in the back corner will be completely private, no interruptions, just good food and whatever conversation they need.
They order wine and pasta and settle into the kind of awkward first-date small talk that feels ridiculous considering they’ve already had sex and thought they might be pregnant together, but Rory appreciates Henrik’s willingness to start over, to treat this like a real beginning instead of just the continuation of a crisis that happened to involve attraction.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” Henrik says after their wine arrives and they’ve exhausted safe topics like the weather and the team’s upcoming game schedule. “Something real. Not stuff you’d tell a journalist interviewing you.”
Rory considers lying—offering some safe anecdote about her childhood or her favorite movie—but Henrik is looking at her with genuine interest and she finds herself saying, “I wanted to be a novelist when I was younger. Wrote terrible romance stories in notebooks I kept hidden from my parents. But my dad convinced me that journalism was more practical, more stable, and I was good at writing about real things so I pivoted. Sometimes I wonder if I gave up too easily on the dream.”
“That’s not giving up easily,” Henrik says quietly. “That’s being practical. Lots of people have childhood dreams that don’t survive reality.”
“What was yours?” Rory asks, grateful he’s not treating her admission like a failure. “Your childhood dream that didn’t survive?”
Henrik is quiet for a moment, swirling wine in his glass, and then he says, “I wanted to be a veterinarian. Loved animals, wanted to help them, thought that’s what I’d do with my life. But I was good at hockey and my family needed the money and by the time I was sixteen I was already being scouted for professional leagues. The choice was pursue the dream that would maybe pay off someday or pursue the talent that could support my mother immediately. I chose hockey.”
“Do you regret it?” Rory asks.
“Sometimes,” Henrik admits. “When I’m exhausted from travel and dealing with injuries and the constant pressure to perform. But mostly no. I love hockey. I’m good at it. And it gave my mother a comfortable life after my father left. That matters more than childhood dreams about saving puppies.”
Their food arrives and the conversation shifts to lighter topics—terrible teammates from past seasons, the worst sporting event each of them has ever witnessed, whether Swedish food is actually as bad as Americans think it is (Henrik insists it’s misunderstood, Rory remains skeptical)—and by the time they’re sharing tiramisu that’s so good Rory makes an involuntary sound of appreciation that makes Henrik’s eyes darken in a way she definitely notices, she’s forgotten to be nervous and is just enjoying spending time with someone who listens when she talks and makes her laugh and looks at her like she’s the most interesting person in the restaurant.
“This was nice,” Rory says when they’re back in Henrik’s car heading toward her apartment, and the evening feels suspended in that space between date and whatever comes after. “Really nice. We should probably do it again.”
“Tomorrow?” Henrik suggests immediately. “Or is that too eager? I can play it cool and wait a few days if that’s more appropriate dating protocol.”
“Tomorrow works,” Rory says, smiling at his enthusiasm. “Though maybe not dinner two nights in a row. That feels intense.”
“Coffee then,” Henrik proposes. “Saturday morning. Casual. Low pressure.”
“I can do coffee,” Rory agrees, and then because she’s feeling brave and the wine has lowered her inhibitions slightly: “Want to come up? For actual coffee, not a euphemism. Though I suppose it could be a euphemism if you want it to be.”
Henrik parks outside her building and turns to look at her with an expression that’s equal parts desire and caution. “I want to come up. But Rory, I need you to know—I’m not expecting anything. If coffee is just coffee, that’s fine. If it’s more, that’s fine too. But I don’t want you to feel pressured.”
“I don’t feel pressured,” Rory says honestly. “I feel terrified and hopeful and like I’m standing at the edge of something that could either be amazing or disastrous, but I don’t feel pressured. So yes, come up. For coffee. And we’ll see what happens after that.”
Her apartment is small and slightly messy in the way apartments get when you work too much and clean too little, but Henrik doesn’t seem to notice or care, just follows her inside and accepts the coffee she makes while she tries to remember how to breathe normally instead of in the shallow anticipation of someone who’s about to make a decision that will probably change everything.
They sit on her couch with careful distance between them—close enough to touch but not touching, existing in that suspended moment before something begins—and Henrik says quietly, “Can I kiss you? Sober, I mean. For real this time, not drunk or crisis-driven or anything except that I really want to kiss you and I’ve been thinking about it all night.”
“Yes,” Rory says, because there’s no point pretending she doesn’t want the same thing, doesn’t want to know if the chemistry from their first night was just alcohol and timing or if there’s something real beneath the attraction.
Henrik sets down his coffee and moves closer, cups her face in his hands with a gentleness that makes Rory’s breath catch, and then he kisses her—slow and careful and completely different from their first kiss in his apartment that was all urgency and alcohol-fueled desire—and this kiss tastes like tiramisu and red wine and the promise of something real building between them.
Rory melts into it, hands coming up to grip his shoulders, and when Henrik deepens the kiss with a soft sound that might be her name, she thinks that this is it, this is the moment where she either runs because it’s getting real or stays because he’s worth the risk of getting hurt.
She stays.
Stays through the kiss that turns heated, through Henrik pulling her into his lap with his hands careful and respectful even while his mouth does things that make her forget why maintaining boundaries seemed important, through the moment when she pulls back gasping and says, “I don’t want to rush this. I want to, but I’m scared of repeating patterns. Of jumping into physical without building emotional foundation.”
“Okay,” Henrik says immediately, and he doesn’t look disappointed or pushy, just understanding. “We go slow. As slow as you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You say that now,” Rory says, and she hates how vulnerable it comes out, how much it reveals about her fears. “But what happens when going slow gets boring? When the chase is over and I’m not exciting anymore?”
“Then I stick around anyway,” Henrik says simply. “Because I’m not interested in you for the chase, Rory. I’m interested in you because you’re brilliant and funny and you call me on my bullshit and you make me want to be better than I am. That doesn’t get boring. That gets more interesting the longer I know you.”
“You can’t know that,” Rory argues. “We barely know each other.”
“Then let’s get to know each other,” Henrik says, and he’s still holding her carefully, still looking at her like she matters. “Slowly. Thoroughly. Until you believe that I’m actually here for the right reasons.”
Rory stares at him—this man who’s being patient when he could push, who’s offering understanding when he could take advantage, who’s promising to stay when everyone else has left—and feels something crack in her carefully constructed emotional walls.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay. We’ll try. But Henrik, I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything,” he says.
“Don’t lie to me,” Rory says. “About anything. Not about where you are or who you’re with or what you’re feeling. I can handle truth. I can’t handle being lied to again.”
“I promise,” Henrik says. “No lies. Even when the truth is uncomfortable or inconvenient or makes me look bad. You get honesty. Always.”
Rory kisses him again—softer this time, grateful and hopeful and terrified—and when they finally separate it’s late enough that Henrik should probably leave but early enough that Rory doesn’t want him to.
“Stay,” she says impulsively. “Not for sex. Just… stay. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
Henrik looks surprised but pleased, and he texts someone quickly—probably Lucas or another teammate asking for coverage for early morning practice—and then he’s following Rory to her bedroom where they lie down fully clothed on top of the covers and he pulls her against his chest with arms that feel safe instead of confining.
“This okay?” Henrik asks quietly.
“This is perfect,” Rory admits, and she falls asleep listening to his heartbeat and thinking that maybe—just maybe—trusting Henrik isn’t the mistake she’s been telling herself it is.
Maybe some athletes actually mean their promises.
Maybe some relationships start backwards and still end up right.
Maybe she’s allowed to hope for something good instead of waiting for disaster.
She’s still terrified.
But she’s staying anyway.
🔥
END CHAPTER 8
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