Halfway there, a little boy in a winter coat nearly runs into a display of canned soup while staring at me.
His mother catches his hood. "Tyler, watch where you're-"
She notices me. "Oh!"
There it is again. That smile. That terrible smile.
"Hi, Colby."
"Hi."
Tyler points excitedly. "Mom, that's the hockey guy!"
"Yes, sweetheart."
The kid looks around me. "Where's Jillie?"
I blink. "What?"
"Where's Jillie?"
His mother turns bright red. "Oh my goodness. Tyler."
"What? They always hang out together."
I open my mouth.
Close it again.
Because somehow a six-year-old has managed to trap me in a conversation I cannot win.
The mother apologizes three times while dragging him away.
I stand there staring after them. I’ve played in front of twenty thousand screaming fans. I have faced reporters after playoff losses. I have survived rookie hazing.
None of that prepared me for today’s small-town grocery shopping.
By the time I reach the coffee aisle, I am beginning to suspect the entire town has collectively lost its mind.
Or maybe mine.
Possibly both.
I grab my usual coffee.
A voice behind me says, "That one's too bitter."
I turn.
Mrs. Bellamy stands beside a shopping cart filled with enough groceries to survive a natural disaster.
She studies the coffee bag.
Then she studies me.
Then she studies the empty space beside me, as if she expected someone else to be there.
Specifically, a baker and a first grader. I immediately regret leaving my cabin.
