Page 12 of Home Ice

Varga: not you Mikkelsen. you can order a pop. you’re still coming.

Rook: he’s been researching the altitude thing since Tuesday. there are tabs open.

Varga: red blood cells don’t lie, Mattias.

Then Heath, pinned to the top of the chat: dinner at his and Kieran’s, the Tuesday night after the trip, short ribs.

Kieran: mild batch available, no questions asked.

I typed “I’ll be there” and hit send before I saw that six guys above me had answered the same.

At 5:15, Max started texting.

Max: okay. tonight. what are we thinking, outfit-wise?

Rafe: I have stuff

Max: show me the stuff

I checked my closet. Everything hung where it always hung, evenly spaced, sorted by kind: practice clothes, travel clothes, and at the end the suits and the going-out stuff, bought in one afternoon when the team dress code arrived in my email. The salesperson had put combinations together, and I’d bought what they suggested.

I laid two options on the bed and sent a photo.

Max: the second one. always the second one. the first one goes to a donation bin tonight, we don’t have time to burn it properly

Max: wear the boots not the sneakers. you own boots, yes? farm boots count, actually farm boots would be incredible, do you have your actual farm boots

Max: don’t answer that, we’re saving that, that’s a February move

I hung the first option back in the closet, in its spot, and got dressed in the one Max picked. It was easy. Someone with more experience made the call. Listening to experienced voices had always worked out.

The mirror on the closet door was the only one in the apartment big enough for checking a complete outfit. Max had been right about the second option. I looked good or close enough that nobody would look twice. I straightened my shirt and grabbed my keys.

The group chat buzzed once more before I picked my phone up. Trier had posted a photo of his cat sitting upright in a bathroom sink.

Trier: she does this when the vet day is coming. she knows.

Next was more from Max.

Max: car’s coming for you. trust me, parking there is a nightmare, and when we leave together, that’s the money shot. black SUV. driver’s name is Dmitri, don’t bring up the Bears, you have been warned

Rafe: see you in 20. this is going to be fun

***

Dmitri had opinions about the Bears, and he shared most of them on the ride to the West Loop. I nodded and said “makes sense” at the right moments. By the time we pulled up to the restaurant, he’d offered to introduce me to his nephew’s youth hockey team, and I’d said yes to that.

Max was waiting inside the door, and he was even better looking than the photos I’d seen. He wore a cream coat over dark, pressed pants.

“Rafe Mikkelsen.” He shook my hand with a two-handed grip while he started talking. “Okay, first, you’re taller than your listed height. My fans will love that. Second, here’s the setup. Dinner’s private. Nobody watches us eat. When we leave, one photographer is across the street. I suggest your hand on my waist as we walk out the door. We take three steps past the photographer, and we’re done.”

“Got it.”

Max turned toward the back of the restaurant and then turned back, one finger up. “Also, the chef’s a fan of my videos. He may come out, and if he offers you the tasting experience, it’s four hours. Say no nicely. He’ll be fine about it.”

The back room had one table under a low brass fixture, a candle in a jar, and a door that shut, and when the door shut, Max slowed down. It wasn’t dramatic. He put his phone face down on the far edge of the table, sat back, and looked at me like we had all night.

“So, four thousand acres, mostly canola and wheat, with forty head of cattle. What I want to know is the part numbers don’t describe. What’s the best thing about it? Growing up on a farm. One thing.”