Page 55 of Date With Skates

How could I not love a hockey bar?

Sticks and pucks decorate the walls. Signed jerseys and photos of players, old and new.

There are other sports’ memorabilia too, it’s just that hockey is up front and center.

I’m just about done with my first beer when Roman shows up, dressed in jeans and a flannel.

“You made it,” I say as he hops onto the stool.

I wave down the bartender, who’s busy, but comes over when she’s done.

I order a beer for Roman and another for myself.

“So, what made you so eager to come out?” I ask with a smirk. “Bored already?”

Pretty sure I know the reason. It’s the same reason I’m here.

“Something like that,” he grunts, looking up at the TV that’s showing Olympic highlights.

“Yeah, I get it.” The waitress drops our beers off, and I tell her to put them on the tab I started when I first walked in. “You talk to Nico?” I ask Roman as I bring the glass to my lips.

“No.” He eyes me carefully. “You talk to… whoever it was you were hooking up with?”

“Nope.”

Neither of us says a word for a moment, and the TV switches to hockey highlights from last night’s games. We lost 2-1.

Of course we did, when our best defensive line wasn’t playing.

“So, we’re in the same boat then,” he says.

“Seems that way.”

“Great. We’re going to have two depressed fucks on the team when we start in a couple days.”

I laugh, staring down at my beer. “I’ll get over it. Always do.”

“This feels different.”

I nod, but I don’t really know what to say. He’s right, but I don’t want to admit that out loud.

“Are you going to tell me who it is?” he asks.

I shrug. “Maybe. But not today.”

The TV shifts back into Olympic hockey.

Great.

They’re talking about how Team USA couldn’t get the gold over Canada.

Sitting here isn’t making either of us feel any better, so we decide it’s time to go. After paying my tab, we get up and head toward the door, but we’re stopped by a few fans and then a few players who ask us about our time at the Olympics. We’re genuinely happy when we talk about it, but it doesn’t last.

When I get home, I throw my dirty clothes into the washer. I turn everything inside out, because that’s how my mother taught me to do it, so I go one by one. When I pull out a white t-shirt that is way too small to be mine, I hold it up to look at it better and figure out how it got in my suitcase. It looks like a child’s.

A familiar scent wafts up, and I instantly bring the shirt to my face to inhale.

Étienne.