“You’re welcome,” he said. “I wanted to thank you in person.”
“Sit down before you fall down,” I said. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please. Decaf if you have it. My anxiety levels are already elevated, and I’m trying to be intentional today.”
“I have decaf.”
Turned out Chip was a fan of chili dogs minus the onions. I did my best to keep myself from being a total putz, but the longer the man stayed, the more inclined I was to extend an offer I probably shouldn’t have. While there were no set rules in our station about falling in like with a person you recently aided, it was a thin line to walk. After a traumatic event, someone could transfer feelings of gratitude to the person who helped them. It happens a lot with police, paramedics, and firefighters. This could seriously complicate a relationship and pull me into a discussion about conduct and professionalism. We’d not only discussed this possible scenario in training classes, but I’d seen it happen in real life. A few years ago, a firefighter from a different station saved a woman from a house fire. They started dating. Things were great until they weren’t. It was a big, ugly breakup that ended with him resigning and going out west to fight on wildfire lines. Every firefighter in the city knew and gossiped about it for weeks.
So here I sat, eager to invite Chip to dinner with my mother and the rabbi, but hedging about doing so; damn it, I mean, it was just a meal. With my mom and a religious man. I wasn’t asking him to go out on a date or anything. I just wanted to get to know him better. Maybe see those green eyes crinkle at thecorners when he smiled or gazed at me. Shit. Yeah, this was a dicey situation for sure.
“I wanted to give you some tickets to one of our games. To thank you. All of you. And your captain too. I’m not just fixating on you, Rourke, because you have pretty eyes.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Okay, this was…
Courtney must have sensed me wavering. Maybe it was my ears turning red that tipped her off. Who knows. Women have a sixth sense about interpersonal things, it seemed.
“We’d love to come to a game! I love hockey!” she stated with volume.
Before I could say anything, the others were all about going to a hockey game.
“Okay, one game, then that has to be it, okay, Chip?” Morgan thankfully said, saving me from a tight spot. “We’re not allowed to take gifts over a hundred dollars.”
“These are free to the players. We get a limited number for family and friends, so there is no dollar amount. But I understand about the gift policy.”
“Food is always welcome,” Tim spoke up as he stuffed another cupcake into his mouth.
Chip’s gaze met mine over the empty plates and discarded cupcake wrappers. I felt a familiar lurch in my chest. The pull of attraction was going to have to have the brakes put to it to allow some time to pass before I could act on this tether of attraction sparking to life between Chip and me. Surely one hockey game with friends wasn’t crossing any ethical lines despite the winky winks Courtney was giving me on the sly.
There would be no winky-wink things taking place with Chip. Even if he did have eyes the color of a Canadian pine forest…
Chapter 5
Chip
The Copperheads were goingto win this afternoon’s matinee game against the Albany Raze. The stats said so. I’d been at the arena for two hours of pre-game prep instead of my usual one because Coach Ronan let me sit in on the video session. I watched seventeen minutes of Albany’s defensive zone setups and twelve minutes of their goaltender, Marshenko, who has a save percentage of .906 on the road and .921 at home. We were home tonight, which made him a slightly more difficult problem than the road number suggested, but still much easier than his career numbers against the Copperheads, which sat at .872 over six career games against us. Six was a small sample. At the AHL level, six was enough to suggest he didn’t see our shot patterns as clearly as he saw most, and I explained my observations to Coach Ronan twice, once in the video room and once while he was unwrapping a granola bar by the door of his office.
And now I had ten minutes before puck drop.
“Sable, with me.” She moved from where she sat, harness brushing my knee—my right knee, the bad one, the one currently strapped under a brace I would be free of in another six days, according to the orthopedist, eight if he was being conservative. Two and a half weeks since the fire. The MCLhad cooperated. The hyperextension had cooperated. I had also mostly cooperated. Sleep had been the issue. Not the knee.
Since the fire, Sable had been more attentive, which Jo mentioned was common after a high-stress event during the integration window. Six months in, she was understanding me quicker than the program’s benchmarks forecasted, and I was glad that we were making progress.
I left the coaches’ corridor with my crutch under my left arm and Sable on my right and made for Section 114, Row C, Seats 1 through 5. I had specifically requested Row C because it was on the aisle side of the section and would allow five people to sit together without anyone having to climb past others to reach them. I had also specifically requested Section 114 because Section 114 sits behind our bench. The firefighters wouldn’t get a great view of plays in the offensive zone in the third period when we’d switch ends, but they would get a great view of our bench. Also, I had a theory—currently unsupported by data but which I planned to test—that watching Walker Hannan captain a bench up close was a more interesting introduction to AHL hockey than watching the puck.
Sable led me up the aisle of Section 114. People I knew said hello as I passed, and I returned the right number of nods, while watching the floor between the rows so I wouldn’t trip over the brace or my crutch or my own dog.
I was three rows up when I saw them.
I had told Courtney to arrive at 1:55, twenty minutes before puck drop, to give them time to get to their seats and orient before the lights changed. They’d arrived at 1:53, two minutes early. Morgan was first up the aisle, taller than I remembered, wearing a black coat that fit him properly and a knit hat. Courtney followed, wearing a Copperheads scarf. Then Tim. Sully followed, dressed in a gray button-down and jeans, broadand easy, surveying the building as if he were checking exits, which he probably was.
And Dane.
He was in a navy Henley and dark jeans, and his hair was a little damp at the front, as if he’d come straight from the shower. He hadn’t shaved. He was gorgeous.
“Hi,” I said, trying to say a normal thing to one person. “Hi. Welcome. Your seats are these ones.” I pointed at seats 1 through 5. “Programs are on the seats. The pretzel stand on this concourse has the best soft pretzels, but the line gets long after the first intermission, so I’d recommend going at the end of the first period rather than the start of the second. The goal song is loud. There will be a foam hand giveaway during the second intermission. Sable is working, but you can say hello to her with your eyes.”
“With our eyes,” Tim repeated.
