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“Uh, no, not really.” I tried to skirt around him. Leon stepped back to block me, grinning like a fool.
“You’re not going to believe this, but I think I met the One.”
I blinked at him. “What?”
“Last night.” He clapped his hand to his chest, a theatrical gesture. “I was on my way to meet you, and this woman came running. She was waving this fifty and yelling ‘wait, wait,’ and then she tripped and her briefcase went flying. A taxi ran over it and her papers flew out, and she had this look on her face like she wanted to cry. But she got up instead and handed me that fifty, and she said it was mine. It fell out of my wallet.”
I let out a whistle. “Damn. She’s a keeper. Most folks you’d meet would hang onto that fifty.”
Leon flapped his hand like that wasn’t important. His expression had turned all soft and mushy. He looked like that stupid heart-eyes emoji. “She chased me two blocks, all the way from the coffee cart. The least I could do was help round up her papers. And she spilled her coffee as well, so I got her a new one. And somewhere in all of that… man, I think I’m in love.”
I stifled a snort, not wanting to wake Izzy. “You met her last night, and now you’re in love?”
“You don’t get it. She’s amazing. She’s so smart, so funny, and her face, holy shit. Model-high cheekbones. You should see her. She’s gorgeous. How often do you get that, smart, funny, and hot? And sweet and kind too. She’s totally perfect.”
“No one’s perfect,” I said.
“She is. Delores.”
“Well, she has a weird name.”
Leon punched at me. I punched him back. He shoved me into the bathroom. I shoved him into the wall.
“Seriously,” I said. “She sounds awesome. Congrats.”
“We’re going out again tomorrow. We’re getting ice cream.” He rubbed his arm where I’d punched him and his lovestruck grin widened. He kept on talking, planning his date, but my mind was drifting. Tonight was a game night, which made today game day, which made me behind on my game day routine. I should’ve already been well into breakfast, four eggs, two tomatoes, two strips of bacon. Then stretching, a jog, a long, steamy shower. More stretching, then?—
“—so perfect. I know it sounds goony, love at first sight, but you’d know if you saw her. You can’t not fall in love.”
I clapped his shoulder like I hadn’t been drifting. “That’s great, man,” I said. “I can’t wait to meet her. But, listen, it’s game day, and?—”
“Right, your routine.”
“Sorry, man, really. We’ll get back to this later.”
Leon rolled his eyes and waved me away. I jogged to the living room to round up my clothes, then back to my bedroom to dress for my jog. When I swung by the kitchen I found my belt from last night, hanging out of the sink like a long, skinny tongue. I snatched it up, guilty, and stashed it in the bag drawer, and got to work preparing my breakfast.
I couldn’t settle that night, heading onto the ice. Tension hung in the air like a lingering smell. An unpleasant taste, almost. Acid and copper. It came off my teammates in pungent waves. My limbs were all stiff with it, squaring up for the face-off, my head in a jumble, my feet blocks of lead. I could feel it already, the end of our season, this game, the next game, and we’d be out.
“I can’t feel my fingers,” said someone behind me. “These gloves are the worst. Hey, are these mine?”
I gripped my stick tighter, then tried to relax. Going into this stiff was inviting disaster — a crap game for sure, maybe an injury. If I couldn’t focus, I’d be worse than useless.
“Dude, are these your gloves? Why did I?—”
I rolled my eyes back. Stared up at the ceiling. The hot lights glared down at me, harsh in my face. I blinked to clear my vision and squinted into the stands, and that’s when I saw her — Izzy, up front. It wasn’t weird that she’d come. She came to most home games. But when my eyes lit on her, something strange happened. My frustration drained out of me, and I caught myself smiling. My tense limbs went fluid. My feet felt light.
Last night, I thought. Last night, I’d felt powerful, on top of the world. Sure of myself, like I couldn’t go wrong. My body knew what to do without my head’s input, without second-guessing, without a doubt.
I lifted my hand without thinking.
In the stands, Izzy waved.
My heart skipped a beat. The ref skated up. Someone yelled out you suck, but I barely heard it. I was settling into my body, into my game, remembering something I’d near-on forgotten. Remembering it was a game I’d once played for fun. I closed my eyes for a second and pictured my street, the house I grew up in, the net on the tarmac. Me on my rollerblades with my flat tennis ball, my crappy old hockey stick with its plumber’s-tape grip. I breathed deep and fancied I smelled warm asphalt, sweat and old hockey pads, the tang of cut grass.
“Fun,” I said, and the puck dropped. I took control of it, and the game was on. It was on, and it was fun. How had I forgotten?
I flew down the ice and passed the puck to Enrique, but he choked and biffed it, and the other team got it. I steamed in like a freight train and slapped the puck back our way, but their center dove for it and coddled it up the ice. He shot and missed, caught the rebound, and shot again. The goal horn blared, and the first point was theirs.
