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But she doesn’t laugh. She reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder, and the warmth of it calms me down a notch. “I have an idea, okay?” She reaches down and plucks my phone off the table. I see her tap something into my translation app. Then she hands it back.
She’s translated:Is there anything you DON’T like on pizza?
I like a woman who cuts to the chase. I typeananasinto the Finnish side of the app, and press translate. Then I hand her the phone.
When she reads it, she gives a warm chuckle that I feel in my belly. “Okay then. Can I just bring you my favorite pizza?”
I nod, more confident in the appealing gleam of her gaze than I am in my ability to understand what she just said.
“Great.” She grabs my phone again and taps something quickly. Then she sets it down, trots off toward the kitchen and calls out— “One more, Uncle Rico! A medium pie, the Chiara Special!”
A grumble sounds from the kitchen, and I pick up my phone to read what she wrote.Maybe we should form a club, because I agree with you. Pineapple has no business on pizza.
When I catch her eye, she winks at me. And I fall a little further in love. Although I wish we could have a real conversation.
I watch her cash out the couple at the far table, smiling and speaking easily with them. And the week’s exhaustion settles into my chest like a heavy weight. It’s so much effort to communicate the smallest things.
Maybe food will help. It’s the only idea I’ve got.
Chiara brings me a tall glass of cold water, plus bread in a basket, with olive oil for dipping. And then she brings me a small green salad which I demolish instantly.
When the pizza finally arrives, it’s gorgeous. A crisp crust blackened in spots by the wood-fired oven. The cheese bubbles. The scent of garlic washes up to my nose. But it’s a funny pizza—one half green, one red. I’ve never seen that before.
“Here you have the pesto, feta and vegetables,” she says, pointing at one half. “That’s the healthy side. I like artichokes and peppers and onions. But over here are all the meats—you’ve got your prosciutto, pepperoni, and olives on a margherita base.” She pats me on the shoulder. “Enjoy!”
And I do. In fact, I eat the whole pie. Every slice. It’s delicious, and I haven’t felt so well cared-for in months. “Could I have coffee?” I ask, because I know how to pronounce it, and I’m not quite ready to leave this perfect moment.
She brings me dark espresso in a dainty white cup. And then she brings out a tray with three things on it—a slice of cheesecake, a tiny plate of little cookies, and an ice cream scoop, which I understand to be a clue as to what their other dessert would be.
I point at the small cookies, and she places them on the table with a smile. “Take your time, hon,” she says. Then she gives me a patient smile.
That smile could break a man.
Specifically this man.
It’s been a long week, and maybe I didn’t handle it all that well. But I know one thing with absolute certainty: I need to learn English.
Or else this perfect woman won’t want to date me.
OCTOBER
“Fuck this noise!” one of my teammates shouts when practice is over. “You D-men have got to get your shit together.”
The fact that I can understand him means that my English is improving. But it’s cold comfort.
Six weeks in, my life in Brooklyn is a slog. I’m still living out of a hotel, because I can’t find an apartment close to the rink that’s also in my price range. My paycheck is not small, but I don’t have any job security. If I sign an expensive lease, and then I’m traded again, I’ll blow up my budget on months of promised rent.
Also, my team is on a losing streak. The other new defenseman—the veteran player who’s supposed to become Brooklyn’s latest star—is also having a difficult time settling in.
On the one hand, at least I know I’m not the cause of all our woes. On the other hand, we could use a break. Things are tense in the locker room.
But we have a saying in Finnish, and I can almost hear my youth coach saying it in my ear:Työ tekijäänsä neuvoo. Work teaches the worker. He would remind me to dig in and keep trying. So that’s what I do.
And to shore myself up, I make frequent trips to Romano & Bianchi for pizza. Not only is it close to my hotel, but I have memorized Chiara’s work schedule. Today is Tuesday, and she works the lunch shift. If I hurry, I can get there by two o’clock, with plenty of time to linger over lunch, and chat her up.
So I hurry through the locker room and claim a shower before they’re all taken.
“If only you showed that same hustle on the ice today,” Castro grumbles.
