We’re both wearing almost identical jackets—puffy and black. I love this jacket; it’s thin but super warm. I put mine on, tucking my scarf inside my jacket while she winds a huge knit scarf around her neck.
“Do you have anywhere in particular you’d like to go?” she asks, leading the way out.
“Nope.”
“Okay, no problem. There are a lot of places near here.”
Out on the sidewalk she pauses as she pulls on a pair of brightly colored knit mittens. “Are you vegan?”
“No!”
“You don’t have to say it like that. There’s nothing wrong with being vegan.”
“Are you?”
“Nah. I love a good burger. Okay, I know where we should go.” She starts off and I move into step with her.
It’s nearly noon in Manhattan and the sidewalks are busy with people on their lunch breaks hurrying through the cold, the narrow streets as usual packed with traffic. I’m pretty sure there aren’t even designated lanes on these streets; everyone just maneuvers into whatever space they can get.
We don’t walk far. Just around the corner and nearly at the next street, Sara stops. “Here we go.” She pushes into a little restaurant I probably would have walked right by.
It smells amazing, like charbroiled beef, and damn, I’m starving. “Two,” I say to the hostess smiling at us, and she nods, picks up menus, and leads us to a small table.
I’m not sure if the place is really old or made to look like it’s old, with small hexagon-shaped tiles on the floor, dark woodwork and tables, patterned wallpaper, booths along the wall, and red leather chairs. I help Sara with her jacket again, spying a hook on a big column nearby, and I hang our jackets then join her at the table.
“I need coffee,” she mutters, picking up her menu. “I only had a few hours of sleep last night.”
“You’d never know that.”
She looks up at me. “Um…thank you?”
“You seem to have so much energy.”
“It’s the meth.”
My eyes pop open before I can stop them.
She laughs. “I’m kidding. My only addiction is caffeine.” She arches a brow. “You?”
I shake my head. “I might be addicted to caffeine too, but I don’t drink coffee.”
“What?” She stared at me like I just said I like to kick dogs. “How can you not drink coffee?”
I shrug. “Just never liked it. I drink a couple of Cokes every morning.”
“Coca-Cola.”
I grin. “Yeah.”
“That’s bad for you.”
“It probably is.”
The waitress comes by and Sara orders her coffee. I just stick with water.
“So why’d you only get a few hours of sleep last night?” I expect to hear she was out partying at some hot New York club.
“Oh, I was up late editing a video for YouTube.” She rolls her eyes. “It takes me so long to do it, but I have to get it perfect. I may not be perfect.” She acknowledges this with a smile. “But my videos have to be edited perfectly. It’s hard to explain, but I have a…style, I guess.”
“Huh. I guess I need to watch them.”
Her confidence does a vanishing act. She drops her gaze to the table and moves cutlery around. “I don’t know if you’d be interested,” she mumbles. “Most of my fans are girls.” Then she regains her self-assurance, looks up at me, and straightens her shoulders. “I talk about stuff like clothes…makeup…taste testing burritos…”
“I love burritos.”
Her smile is witchy. “I knew I liked you.”
“What else do you talk about?”
“Sometimes I cook. Sometimes I go shopping.”
I don’t say it out loud, but this doesn’t sound all that exciting. And yet, apparently she’s hugely famous. She has an undeniable appeal—her animated way of talking, her honesty, her infectious smile. Maybe she can talk about drinking water and make it interesting, I don’t know.
I study Sara as the waitress sets a cup of coffee in front of her. Her long brown hair is wavy and wild, parted in the middle. Her eyes are amazing…a clear, light greenish blue with a thick fringe of long, dark eyelashes. She’s wearing jeans, as I am, and a big green chunky knit sweater that appears to swamp her small frame. She thanks the waitress with a smile and my gaze wanders to her hands as she pours cream into the cup and adds a couple of spoons of sugar. Her right hand has gold rings on the three middle fingers…two of them sparkly stars and stacked thin bands on the middle finger.
I nod at her coffee. “I don’t think that’s much healthier than a Coke.”
She lifts her head and grins. “True. I’ve been trying out different kinds of milk, but I don’t think they have soy or almond milk here.”
“I’m kidding. You do you.”
When the waitress returns, we both order burgers and fries. Wagyu beef, no less.
“How long have you been doing…this?” I ask.
“This?” She smiles again. “The videos, the podcasts…?”
“Yeah.”
“I started doing videos when I was in high school. They were just stupid little videos I did for fun with my friends. But in my freshman year at college, I was having a hard time adjusting…and I got depressed.”
She says this matter-of-factly, which makes me think she’s probably talked about it a lot.
“It was pretty bad, and I didn’t really get it because I wasn’t unhappy. So I decided to take up making videos again and started a YouTube channel. My best friend helped me with them and I actually got excited about something, so I kept going. I had no idea it was going to turn into…this.” She waves a hand. “At first I was putting on makeup and doing my hair and making sure everything was perfect and then…I got exhausted. I was uploading so many videos and I didn’t have time for all that bullshit, so I just started being myself.”
“That’s pretty awesome.”
“I love doing it. But it also kills me, you know?” She tips her head to one side. “You’re a famous athlete. We talked about pressure earlier. So you must get it.”
“I guess. Do your fans pressure you?”
“My fans are great, mostly. But of course there are haters. Social media can be really fucking hard sometimes. People send me nasty tweets and leave terrible comments on my videos.” She makes a face. “It can really fuck you up.”
“Yeah. I’ve seen a few guys get themselves in trouble on social media.”
“Right?” Her eyes widen. “It’s wonderful but it’s awful too. Luckily, my skin has gotten thicker over the years. For a while, I wondered what the heck I was doing. Like, why? What am I giving people? And then I realized that by just being myself I was giving girls the message that it’s okay to be yourself, with all your flaws, and wear whatever you want and not wear makeup if you don’t feel like it.”
I let her words sink in, because I’ve treated this podcast like a fun little break in my schedule with this woman who’s famous for…what? I didn’t even know. But I get it. She’s actually delivering something worthwhile. And that’s pretty cool.
“So…” I pause.
“What?”
“If you’re like every other girl and so relatable…how many of them get to interview NHL players?”
She leans forward. “Yes! That’s it exactly! That’s my struggle lately. I get invited to all kinds of events, like Fashion Week and the Winter Ball and movie premieres, and I’m interviewing people like you! That’s the absurdity of it! The more famous I get, the more I get to do these crazy things that aren’t, well, relatable. And…pressure. Well, mostly, I pressure myself.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “Sometimes I get so anxious when I’m editing a video because of the expectations I put on myself and I put so much work into it, it actually sends me into another pit of dep
ression.” She meets my eyes. “Usually this is when guys get scared and leave.”
I’m silent, processing that and trying to figure out how to respond. Since she’s so honest, I figure I should be too. “I have no desire to leave.”
Her slow smile is luminous. Our eyes meet across the small table. “Thanks. I’m a mess, but I can be fun.”
“We’re all a mess, in some way.”
She nods slowly. “Yeah. I think that’s one reason a lot of people like my stuff. They can relate.”
I can definitely see that.
“And lately,” she continues, “I feel pressure from my publicist. She wants me to be different.” She shakes her head. “I just want to be me.”
Our burgers arrive so we pause the conversation as the waitress asks if we need anything else. Sara asks for a coffee refill, which is done right away.
“So how are you a mess, Josh Heller?” Sara picks up a fry with her fingers.
“Eh.” She puts herself out there, but I’m not sure I’m ready to do that. That’s a lot for the first time you meet someone. She doesn’t need to hear about how I just want to be like I was before the accident. “Being traded sucks.”
“Right.” She nods. “I bet people don’t think of the players’ personal lives when that happens. People are sad or mad or happy for their team, I guess.”
“Yeah. Everyone here’s been great. But I don’t know the city, don’t really know anyone here except my teammates and even they’re mostly strangers to me. I know Brando—Brandon Smith—from playing together on the world junior team years ago, and…” I stop, then plow ahead. “I know Easton Millar from when we played major junior hockey, also a long time ago.”
She doesn’t react to that.
“I don’t know that many people here either.” One corner of her mouth lifts. “I’m so busy working all the time I haven’t really made many real-life friends here. Sometimes it gets lonely. But…” She shrugs and picks up her burger. “I stay busy.”
“If neither of us has many friends here…maybe we could hang out.” Wow, I didn’t even think about that. How unlike me. What is happening?
She gives me a level look.
“I know you’re busy,” I add. “I am too. When we have time.”
She smiles that slow, sexy smile again. “Yeah. I am busy. Again, guys usually cut and run when they discover that.”
Just then my phone rings. Jesus. Why didn’t I turn it off? I pull it out and glance at the screen. Cora. Holy shit.
I silence it and put my phone away.
“You don’t need to take that?”
“Nope.”
After her initial anger, Cora started calling me to talk about a long-distance relationship. I was up front with her that I didn’t want to do that, and she didn’t take it well. Shit.
“I get being busy,” I say, continuing our conversation. “Like I said, I am too.”
“I’d love to hang out with you.”
There’s a pause, a few seconds that stretch out, taut and buzzing. Once again that honesty is disarming. She makes me feel…I don’t even know. She makes me feel good. And I don’t usually feel good when I’m not at the arena.
“Do you have a nickname?”
I blink at the unexpected question. “You mean a hockey nickname?”
“Yeah.”
“The guys call me Hellsy or Hells Bells.”
Her delighted laughter rings out. “I like Hells Bells. Can I call you that?”
“No.”
She laughs again.
“How about you?”
“I don’t play hockey.” She smirks.
“Ha ha.”
“Okay, I’ve been called Sahara. My dad calls me Sarahbarah. And when I was little, I was RaRa.”
“RaRa kind of suits you.”
She makes a face. “Don’t even think about it, Hells Bells.”
I grin. She amuses me so much.
“What do you think about brunch?” she asks.
“Uh…” Is she asking me out?
“I mean, do you think it’s brunch because of the time of day? Or food related? Like, can you have a hamburger for brunch?”
“No.” I shake my head firmly. “If you have a hamburger, it’s lunch.”
“Even if it’s, say…ten-thirty in the morning?”
“Why would you have a hamburger at ten-thirty in the morning?”
“Say you did.”
“Well, then it’s lunch.”
“I think if you eat a meal at ten-thirty or eleven, it’s brunch no matter what you eat.”
“The word brunch is a combination of breakfast and lunch.”
“That proves me right.”
“What?” I frown. “Okay, maybe it does. What does it matter?”
She points a French fry at me. “Exactly.”
I snort-laugh. Jesus.
“How’s your hamburger?”
“Fantastic. You were right.”
“Good.” She takes another bite of her burger, chews, and swallows. She has a spot of ketchup just beside her mouth. “What’s something that makes you really angry?”
“Hmm. Bad drivers.”
“Yeah.” She appears to like my answer. “What else?”
“Lying, cheating, laziness, people not keeping their word, friends who betray you.” Ah shit. I shouldn’t have said that last one.
Her face softens. “Oh yeah. Those are all good ones. I also get angry when I’m hungry. Things bother me so much more.”
“Hangry. Oh yeah, definitely.”
“Excuse me.”
We both look up to see a woman standing by our table with two teenage girls, maybe fourteen and sixteen.
“My daughters are wondering if they could get your autograph.”
They’re looking at Sara. Not me.
The fact that this startles me makes me want to laugh. I feel my ego deflating like a balloon with the air let out of it.
“Of course!” Sara signs their paper napkins and poses for a picture with the girls, who tell her they watch all her videos. She’s very sweet about it, talking easily to the girls.
When they’re gone she slumps back in her seat. “Sorry. That still freaks me out.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I still can’t believe anyone wants my autograph.” She shakes her head. “It’s bizarro.”
We finish our lunch. She insists on paying, since it was her idea, and I let her. Outside the restaurant, we pause.
“Where are you headed?” I ask.
“Subway station, I guess. Just going home to do more work.” She gestures.
“I’ll walk with you there, then.”
We’re right near Bryant Park and as we get closer, Sara says, “Oh, they’re doing the bumper cars on ice!”
“What? Bumper cars?”
She takes my arm, urging me forward so we can see. There’s an ice rink in the park and sure enough, brightly colored bumper cars occupy one part of it. “Let’s see if we can do it!”
“Wait, what?”
She’s bouncing toward the entrance. “I think you have to buy tickets ahead, but sometimes they have spots open. Come on!”
With my mouth hanging open, I follow along, my gut tightening, I don’t have any plans for the rest of the day, so I can do this, but all this socializing is a lot and I kind of don’t like having things sprung on me like this.
People are skating around on another part of the rink. The city buildings tower around us, a few flakes of snow drifting down from the pale sky.
Sara has already paid our admission fee by the time I catch up to her, and we’re soon led out onto the ice and given instructions and rules to follow. I can’t believe this is happening. I cross my arms as I listen, my neck and jaw sti
ff and tight.
Sara is practically jumping up and down, nodding along to the guy giving us the talk, and then she glances at me. Her smile dims and her eyes widen. She moves closer to me and whispers, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I can barely unclench my jaw.
“You don’t want to do this?” She sets a hand on my arm.
“No, it’s fine.” I exhale and try to relax. “It looks fun.”
She eyes me curiously, returning her attention to the guy saying, “When the ride is over, the cars will start to beep. Drive your car back to the rink wall or ask an attendant for help returning the car.”
He finishes up and we all climb into the little cars, which are kind of like brightly colored inner tubes with seats. My knees are up against my chest—okay, slight exaggeration—but I manage to cram myself in and operate the joysticks.
Bumper cars. Jesus.
Chapter 6
Sara
I am such an idiot.
I got all excited about the bumper cars and dragged Josh to them without even asking if he wanted to, or waiting to see if he was willing. The look on his face is grim annoyance. Shit.
So much for my newest friend.
I’m too much for a lot of people. But I can’t be something I’m not.
Bam!
Someone bumps my car from behind, jolting me out of my moment of self-rebuke. I immediately grab the joysticks and back up and go after them. I manage to nudge them, but we’re all sliding all over the ice. People are laughing, and my woes disappear as I try to head toward Josh.
He’s cruising around, evading people with all the ease and confidence of a Formula One driver. When I try to bump him, he jerks the wheel and I instead bounce off the wall. And he laughs.
Well, good. At least I’ve got him laughing again, even if it’s at me and not with me. Well, maybe it is with me, because I’m laughing too, chasing him and trying to bump him, hitting other cars while he expertly slides around. Then when I’m bumped into the wall, the tables turn and he comes at me.
He’s grinning, and I try to get out of the way but I can’t move fast enough, and wham, he bumps me. It’s not that hard, not like he’s trying to injure me, and I laugh more, the kind of helpless laughter that you can’t stop, that makes me weak and keeps me from being able to drive this damn little car. He bumps me, then pushes me along the ice, and I give up, giggling away.
You Had Me at Hockey (Bears Hockey) Page 4
