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Coach King and his wife put on a spread every year for the hockey orphans who can’t make it home for holidays. Since home for me is Saskatchewan, I’m here celebrating American Thanksgiving with a half dozen of my teammates. Van’s from the West Coast, so he’s here with me as usual. Bergeron’s a fellow Canadian transplant, so the same goes for him. There are a couple of freshmen who couldn’t make it back home to Michigan, and Ethan Schuler, a senior and my former housemate.
Living at the hockey house was fun, but I quickly learned that I’m the kind of guy who needs his privacy. I love hanging with my boys, and I love bonding with them. I just don’t love it when one of them crashes into my room at 3 a.m., mistaking it for his own. Or when they eat all my food. Or steal my socks (I’m looking at you, Ollie). Laundry is not communal, and that’s a hill I’ll die on.
“Mrs. K, I know you and Coach are solid, but will you marry me?” Van flashes his panty-melting smile, but Mrs. G just rolls her eyes.
“That’s a tempting offer, but I have a feeling you’re only popping the question because I have an actual oven and know how to use it.”
“You wound me,” he jokes, stabbing his heart with a dinner roll.
“Seriously, Mrs. K, everything’s awesome. Your turkey isn’t dry like it is when my mom makes it,” one of the freshmen says, then blushes.
“Good to know I pass the test,” she says kindly. “Well, if you’ll all excuse me, I believe the deal is that I cooked, so you clean up, right?” A chorus of yeses echoes around the dining room. “Good. Then I’m pouring myself a cup of coffee and retiring to the den with a slice of pie. Happy Thanksgiving, guys.” She and Coach head into the kitchen while we all help ourselves to more servings.
“Dude, don’t fucking hog the mashed potatoes,” Schuler scolds Bergeron, who flips him off and adds another scoop to his plate.
“This stuffing is bomb. No clue what Coach’s wife puts in here, but I’m pretty sure it’s crack,” the taller of the two freshman says.
The guys chatter around me, talking about our game last night and what we need to do to get ready for our game against Mountville on Sunday. I finish everything on my plate, then take a quick glance around the table. The guys are all busy enough that I probably have a few seconds to check my messages.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I tap the app and hold back a grin when I see a new notification.
Seriousley617: Hoping you’re having a good Thanksgiving!
I send back a gif of a cat wearing a bib and sitting in a highchair.
Catlover99: Pretty sure I ate my weight in turkey and mashed potatoes. How’s your day?
There’s no immediate response and I see that she sent her message a few hours ago, so I close the app. But Schuler and Bergeron are bickering about whether stuffing is better in the bird or outside it, so I figure I have a little time to kill.
I do a quick google search: first date ideas.
Not that my meet up with Seriousley617 is a first date. Or a date at all. I mean, who am I kidding? We’ll probably meet at Drip. It’s close and who doesn’t love a mocha latte? But, it can’t hurt to do a little research. Right? I mean, if things go well, I may need to step up my game.
I scroll through the results. Hmmm...there’s the typical movie date, but the internet basically says that’s crap and I tend to agree. I mean, you can’t talk during a movie. You can’t really get to know each other. You can make out, I guess, but we’re in college, and I live a roommate-free life these days, so I don’t need to rely on a dark theater for a little romance.
A bunch of people suggest a picnic, and I get that, but it’s almost December, and we may be in Maryland, but I’m pretty sure I won’t be getting things started off on the right foot if Seriousley617 freezes her ass off on our first date. I’m a Canadian boy through-and-through, so I’m more likely to wear shorts on Christmas Eve than bundle up in a scarf and gloves in this temperate climate, but as my teammates like to remind me, I’m just a freak.
Ok, another idea is going to one of those escape rooms, but I’m pretty sure that has disaster written all over it. I don’t really want to do a group project on a first date, or any date, really. I set my phone on the table and reach for another roll, slathering it with butter. I don’t even feel bad. We had an optional skate this morning, and I worked my ass off, so these carbs are my due.
But they’re also my fatal mistake.
Ethan swipes my phone because my dumb ass set it on the table so I could stuff my face with a roll. I reach for it, but he’s halfway across the room, cackling.
“First date ideas? The fuck, Koz? You holding out on us? Who’s the lucky lady?”
I’m not giving up shit, not to Ethan. It’s not that he’s a bad guy. Just self-absorbed and a huge blabbermouth, so that’s two counts against confiding in him. Besides, I don’t know the freshmen well enough to trust them. Now, Van’s a solid guy, and Bergeron’s a good friend, so if they found out I was talking to someone on WolfChat, it wouldn’t be a crisis. But even so, I’m not ready to divulge anything. Despite me googling, this thing between Seriousley617 and me is so new that I don’t want to jinx it or overthink it.
“The lucky lady is your mom,” I say, cheesing a grin. “Now hand back my damn phone.
“No way. You want it, you gotta come and get it,” he says, darting around the room, holding the phone well above his 6-foot frame.
“Knock it off, asshole,” I say. “You wanna be the one to tell Coach you broke his wife’s vase or her set of antique teacups?” Ethan looks around the formal dining room and thinks better of his game of Catch Me if You Can.
But he doesn’t surrender the phone.
All it would take is a look from Friedline, our captain, or Booker, the alternate captain, and Ethan would hand it over. But I know him well enough to know that he’s fully aware of his seniority in this room, and he’s not returning my phone without saving face or digging up a little dirt.
“Don’t be a dick, Schuler,” Van says. “Give Koz back his phone.”
