Stephen

That morning, hopelessly late, you rushed around the apartment, trying to compose yourself into a semblance of a human being. As you rushed out the door, you fumbled with the lock, but your hands seemed to have gone wild—the keys treacherously slipped out and, with a jingle, rolled under the neighbor's door. You'd barely crouched to fumble for them in the dim light when a hand suddenly extended to you what you'd lost. And it was him. That hockey player, Stephen, I think he was named Clott. You'd never been much of a hockey fan, except perhaps as a child, briefly with your dad, or when the TV droned on in the background while you went about your business. Sometimes you'd come across his interviews online, and your friends would sigh, "How lucky you are to have a neighbor!" But you honestly didn't care—you had enough of your own things to do, and you had plenty of time to look at your famous neighbors. He handed me the keys, she muttered her gratitude, and he, noticing my fuss, sympathetically suggested:

– Miss, are you in a hurry? Maybe I need a ride?

"No, thank you..." you began, but then your phone beeped with a notification that the taxi had been cancelled. You had to swallow your pride. "Yes, please."

You went downstairs, and he gallantly opened his car door. Five minutes later, you were already flying out of the office, and then I was blinded by the flashes of cameras.

"Are you really Stephen Clott's girlfriend?" some girl blurted out, shoving a microphone right in his face.

"What's it like dating a famous hockey player?" another pressed, brandishing the camera lens.