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Axel’s easy justification is that I’m allowed to have a personal life in my off-hours, blurred as those might be. And when he asked me if I wanted to stop what we were doing, I didn’t hesitate. My answer was a hard, immediateno.
And his response to that was a guttural, “Thank God,” followed by taking me against the refrigerator.
I know he’s right, but it’s a little weird to think about having to explain it to people I don’t know very well. But not one person brings it up, and soon I’m relaxing into the night.
“You know much about hockey?” Natalie asks, coming to stand by me at the glass.
“I’ve been watching the games with Otto, and Axel explained a few things. So, the basics?”
Her eyes light up. “Don’t worry. We’ve got you covered.” Then she nods past me. “George, get over here. Class is in session.”
George slides over, piles of curls bouncing around her face. “Do you know how to skate? The best way to learn about hockey is to play it…”
By the end of the first period, I’m pretty sure I’m going to be deaf in both ears. I’m reeling from the amount of hockey knowledge bestowed upon me. And I have to pee. When I come back, the girls are engaged in a heated argument about a bad call.
Cammy pulls me over to the bar, blue eyes sparkling as brightly as the rock on her finger. “They’re talking about a bad call from a 12U girls game last week. Sit by me while they rehash every pass and shot.”
George’s hand flies up as she shouts, “Bullshit!”
I take a startled step back toward the bar. Then turn to Cammy. “I’m thinking it’s a good thing this NHL girlfriend thing is a temporary gig. Not sure I’ve got the fire to fit in long-term.”
She shakes her head, taking a sip of her drink. “Nonsense. Those girls are nuts— in an awesome way, but still nuts —about hockey. They played together in college, and Nat coaches. George helps out when she isn’t playing herself. But most of us don’t live and breathe it to that extent.”
The guys are back on the ice, and I find myself holding my breath watching Axel move with power and skill. He’s confident and cocky. And when he looks up at the glass and nods, I feel it in my heart.
Cammy clears her throat beside me. “Besides, given a little time, who knows what kind of fire you’d have. It’s pretty easy to fall in love with these guys.”
I choke, and she pulls a wide grin. “I mean, the team. The sport.”
Yeah, right. She’s not even trying to be subtle, which has me rolling my eyes with a snicker. “I’ll have to take your word for it since Iwon’thave that time.”
“March. Paris,” she says, taking another sip. “Dream job. Got it.”
There’s a gleam in her eyes that tells me I don’t think she does, but she’s so cute about it, I don’t try to convince her.
She offers me another cocktail, but outside of sharing a beer with Axel here and there, I’m not much of a drinker and probably won’t even finish the one I have. Cammy’s crazy fun and generous with team tea. And somehow, knowing more about who the players are as people and how they met their significant others makes the on-ice action all the more exciting.
By the time it’s over, my cheeks hurt from smiling, my voice is hoarse from cheering, and the girls have convinced me to agree to Axel’s request that we hit the Five Hole bar for a celebratory beer— the only denial I’d managed to stay firm on this morning.
I’ve been peeking in through the phone app to see how things were going at home, but I’m not used to being away from the little guy this long and call the sitter on our way to the bar. She tells me he’s perfect, had a bottle not too long ago, and is sleeping soundly. She’s fine staying later but has to rush me off the phone when Axel beeps in on her other line.
Cammy’s just hanging up with her sitter too, one of George’s cousins, when we get to the Five Hole. I’ve been to a couple of bars, but they were the small-town variety. Quiet and drab, with a handful of patrons occupying the stools at any given hour.
Nothing like this one.
This bar is packed with fans wearing Slayers jerseys, voices rising as the excitement over the game carries on.
Cammy grabs my hand, pulling me through the throng. “Come on, this way.”
The crowd thins when we get to the back room, and a couple of the girls have already gotten a table for us. We talk about Paris and babies. Hockey egos and reformed players. We swap stories about family, and I’m stunned to hear that George’s might actually out-crazy mine.
It’s fun.
I’m on my way back from the bar with a water when some guy bumps into me. Just a little bump, but he reaches out, steadying me with his hand. “Sorry about that,” he says, leaning into my space before adding, “Guess we should have talked before we left, huh?”
I pull back, confused. “Sorry?”
He edges closer, giving me a too-familiar smile. I don’t think I know him. Do I?
