Tate has a tendency of gravitating towards guys that she knows she probably shouldn’t go for. First it was Cole Sillinger, then the Kid Laroi, and now, pretty boy hockey player Jack Hughes.

Being in hockey yourself you’ve heard all the things you could about him. He’s an Instagram hockey player, a pretty boy hockey player, just straight up a player.

But no matter the warnings she wouldn’t listen to you. She still went to his first game back after his injury, where he literally cut his hand trying to cut his steak.

“I can’t believe you actually like this guy,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest.

Tate rolls her eyes. “He’s sweet, you just don’t actually know him.”

You sigh. “I know his type. I grew up with his type. Christ, before I realized I was gay I dated his type.”

She pulls out her phone and chooses to ignore you. Her fingers type quickly and she sends a text, a small smile on her face.

“You’re texting him aren’t you?” Findlay chimes in, diving onto the couch next to her to be nosy.

When he reaches for her phone she pulls it away and quickly turns it off. “Knock it off, weirdo. Maybe I am. So what?”

“So, you’re gonna get your heart broken,” you say. She shoots you a glare.

“No I’m not, stop saying that. Give him a chance.”