“I wanted it to be good, okay?” He takes my hand, threading our fingers together. “It’s like a fifteen minute walk.”
The CN Tower rises above us. We pass the Rogers Centre, and then?—
We stop in front of a building with “HOCKEY HALL OF FAME” in large letters.
I stare at him. “You brought me to the Hockey Hall of Fame.”
“I brought you to the Hockey Hall of Fame on Valentine’s Day because I’m romantic as hell.” He’s already pulling me toward the entrance. “Come on. This is going to be fun.”
“Rodriguez, I don’t know anything about hockey.”
“I know. That’s what makes this perfect.” He pays for both our tickets before I can reach for my wallet. “You get to watch me be a complete nerd about something.”
The first galleryis dedicated to the origins of hockey. Old photos, vintage equipment, early rules behind glass.
Rodriguez immediately starts talking.
“Okay, so see that?” He points to a photo of men playing on a frozen pond. “That’s 1880s hockey. Zero padding. Wooden sticks. Absolute chaos. Someone probably lost teeth in this exact game.”
“That sounds horrible.”
“True but also authentic as hell.” He moves to the next display. “Look at this. This is what goalies wore. Basically just a leather mask and a prayer.”
“You’re telling me people voluntarily got in front of frozen rubber projectiles wearing that.”
“I’m telling you hockey players have always been unhinged. It’s part of our charm.” He’s grinning. “Come on. The good stuff is further in.”
We move through the galleries and Rodriguez keeps up his steady stream of commentary. Some of it is actual hockey history. Most of it is him making fun of old players’ mustaches, doing terrible impressions, telling me absurd stories about fights and rivalries.
“You’re making half of this up,” I say.
“I’m making maybe thirty percent of it up. The rest is real and that’s what makes it better.” He points to a photo. “That guy? Actual enforcer. His job was literally to fight people.”
“That can’t be real.”
“That is one hundred percent real.” He’s moved on to the next display. “Oh, this is my favorite part. Come here.”
He leads me to a section dedicated to legendary players. Photos and jerseys and plaques.
“That’s Gretzky,” he says, pointing. “The Great One. Best player who ever lived. That’s Lemieux. That’s Howe. That’s?—”
“Holy shit. Tim Horton.” I grab his arm and pull him toward the display. “Oh my god, I forgot they’d have him here.”
Rodriguez blinks at me. “You know who Tim Horton is?”
“I’m from Toronto. Of course I know who Tim Horton is.” I stare at the photo. “He was such an absolute hottie too.”
“I—you—” Rodriguez sputters, gesturing between me and the photo. “You’re just now telling me you have a thing for hockey players?”
“Don’t judge me. Look at him.”
Rodriguez looks at the photo, then back at me. “I can’t believe the one hockey player you know is because you thought he was hot.”
“He made donuts AND he could fight. What’s not to love?”
“JuJu.” He turns me to face him, hands on my shoulders, expression deadly serious. “I can fight on the ice. You’ve never seen how good I can fight.”
“But can you make donuts?”
