“He lets Stanley run two more reps. Blue gets it right both times. Coach blows his backup whistle. He says,Ermington. Getoff my ice.Stanley skates back to his line. Coach takes practice back over like nothing happened.”
“And Blue.”
“Blue has gotten the drill right every rep since.”
“No way. Are you serious?”
“I am completely serious. Stanley fixed in seven minutes a thing Coach could not fix in two weeks, and Coach is never going to acknowledge it.”
I am laughing into my coffee. I have to set the cup down.
Benson shakes his head. “Stanley is the captain of nothing.”
“Sounds like he’d make a good captain,” I say.
“Hey,” he scowls playfully. “Watch it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I mutter, confused.
He says, “I don’t need him taking my spot.”
“You’re captain?”
The food comes. Donna sets the plates down as Benson watches me.
“Thank you,” we say to Donna.
Benson looks at me and says, “I am.”
I have no idea what that entails, but I’m sure it must mean he’s a really good player and leader.
Benson’s pancakes smell amazing. I have a grilled cheese cut diagonally and a cup of tomato soup and four oyster crackers in a small paper packet on the saucer. The grilled cheese is too hot when I pick it up, so I watch Benson cut his pancakes. He’s so organized as he does so. The squares are even, and he pours the syrup in a perfect spiral.
“Do you come here often?” I ask.
He puts the syrup away and shakes his head. “Not as much anymore.”
“You love pancakes?” I ask.
He’s about to take a big bite, and then he puts his fork down. “Yeah, I do. Why?”
I look at his arms through his t-shirt. “Is that healthy?”
He shakes his head. “No, but I didn’t think you would judge me.” He leans back and groans.
I blush, watching him.
He rubs his stomach with his hand, lifting his shirt. I catch a glimpse of his lower abs, and panic shoots down my spine at the fluttering feeling in my lower belly. He pretends not to notice what he’s doing to me and grabs the fork again.
“Is this like the chocolate candy bars?” I ask. “Where I’m a bad influence on you.”
He looks up and smiles. “Maybe.”
“I don’t want to be a bad influence.”
He looks down at my plate and shakes his head. “You’re not. I’m the one with the pancakes.”
The grilled cheese is the right kind of crispy at the corners, and the soup is just right. Benson is on his second square of pancake, his bacon half gone, and he continues talking about hockey. His hands are moving in the air over the table when he describes the way Stanley scores most of his goals, which is, apparently, by being in places defensemen do not expect a person to be.
