Now we’re back in town, it’s Saturday morning, and we’re having another team meeting.
And I’m being put on the number one power play team.
That’ll be me along with forwards Bergie, JBo, and Easton. Millsy, everyone else calls him. Great.
So much for not making any changes. And no pressure on me at all. Obviously our new coach thinks we need to change things up. As he talks about it in the meeting, Millsy sits there with his arms crossed, his face grim. I guess I know how he feels about this move. JBo and Bergie are more open, nodding.
“We have to have a threat on the blue line,” Coach says. “Josh’s shot is like a howitzer. Plus he has a right-handed shot that should work well with Bergie being the hub.”
He goes over some plays on the whiteboard and I focus on that rather than Millsy’s sour expression. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do my best. I mean, I always do my best, but sometimes you need to really prove yourself. I’m new here and I want these guys to know I can do this. I especially want Millsy to know I can do this.
I’m a warrior.
After the meeting, I work out, finishing with a massage from Jack, our massage therapist. I’m kind of banged up after the last few games and those shots I blocked, so it feels great to have him dig his strong hands into my tight muscles.
Then I head to the hotel to get ready for my date.
I’m sick of this hotel already. It’s really nice, but it’s not home.
I’ve made the dinner reservation for five. Fire Tastes and Taps is a more casual place but apparently has great food. I’m wearing jeans this time, with a button-down shirt left untucked and a casual sport jacket over it.
This time I pay the taxi driver since we can walk to the restaurant from Sara’s. It’s not even that cold today. The doorman sends me up to Sara’s apartment and she opens her door to let me in.
Christ, she’s pretty.
As usual, her hair is down, long, wild, and wavy. She too is wearing jeans, dark skinny ones that hug her long legs, rolled to just above her flat ankle boots, and topped with a long-sleeved, silky, leopard-print blouse. The V opening dips daringly low between her breasts but shows nothing but smooth skin.
“Hey,” she says in her smoky voice. “How are you?”
“Good. Great. Especially now.” My gaze moves over her. “You look amazing.”
“Thank you! You too. Let me grab my purse and my coat.”
I wander farther into the living room while she disappears into her bedroom, returning with a small bag. She pulls her beige faux-fur coat out of the closet and I move behind her to help her into it.
“You’re such a gentleman,” she says, flipping her hair out from under the coat. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The air outside is crisp, the city glittering around us as we stroll along Second Avenue, then cut over a block to Third. We approach the entrance of the restaurant, flanked by shrubs sparkling with tiny white lights, a neon sign glowing above the door. The front is all glass windows, the inside shadowy and glimmering with lights and bottles and glass.
The décor is an interesting mix—worn wooden floor, simple wood tables and chairs, contrasting with elaborate crystal chandeliers and heavy velvet curtains separating the bar from the restaurant. Our table is at the window.
“This is nice,” Sara says as she takes her seat, looking out the window at the passing pedestrian and vehicle traffic.
So far, so good.
It’s busy here and the place is buzzy with conversation and music, the clink of cutlery and glass.
“I just want you to know I’m prepared for anything to happen,” I tell her as we pick up our menus.
She laughs. “I’d like to reassure you that the evening will be uneventful, but I don’t know if I should make any promises.”
“Fair.” I grin.
We discuss drinks and food, place our orders, then chat as we drink our old-fashioneds. I don’t drink a lot of cocktails, but this place specializes in them along with a vast array of draft beers.
“This is so good.” Sara licks her lips after tasting her drink.
“I thought you might order something…” I pause.
She lifts an eyebrow. “Something…what?”
“Girly?”
She grins. “I knew you were going to say that. I’m a girl but I’m not into sweet drinks.”
“You like wine.”
“Yes. I love rosé wine! But you know…” She shrugs. “Sometimes you wine, sometimes you booze.”
I burst out laughing.
We talk and joke around more as we eat our meals, both of us opting for seafood—her pan-seared salmon, me ahi tuna medallions. The food is fantastic, Sara keeps me laughing, and we order another round of drinks.
“Did you hear we have a new coach?” I ask her.
“I did hear! How is that?” She awaits my answer with curious eyes, and I get the feeling she’s thinking about how I don’t like change.
“It’s been okay, I guess. He’s a good defensive coach, so maybe I’ll learn from him.”
“That’s good.” She nods encouragingly.
“He put me on the number one power play unit today.”
“Okay, that sounds like something good, but you’re going to have to explain that to me.”
“You know what the power play is, right?”
“When the other team has a penalty.”
“Yes. So every team has different power play systems that they use to try to make the best of the power play and score.”
“Okay.”
“There are lots of different factors in who plays—right-hand versus left-hand shots, who’s your best shooter, who’s strong in front of the net, and who’s good on the point who can find passing lanes.”
“Wow. That’s a lot of strategy.”
I nod.
“But doesn’t that mean you’re one of the best players, if they use you on the power play?”
“Well, it means I’m good on the point.” I smile wryly.
“So modest. But you’re happy about this, aren’t you?”
“I am. Sure. It’s a good opportunity for me. But…you know. It’s a change. I’ve had my share of changes lately.”
She smiles, a slow, gentle smile. “Yeah. But maybe a good change.”
When the waitress inquires about dessert, I shake my head. “I have something else planned for dessert,” I tell Sara.
She makes an excited face that’s adorable.
We take our time finishing our drinks and paying the bill, then head out.
As we leave, we pass by the bar and someone calls Sara’s name.
She looks over, smiles, and waves. “Hi!” She turns to me. “Come meet my friends.”
I follow her through the crowded space to the bar. She exchanges hugs and cheek kisses with two men, then they introduce her to another couple with them, Kamal and Sunny. Then Sara introduces me to Connor and Eli and their two friends. We shake hands.
Connor has a big brown beard and mustache, neat brown hair, and a strong handshake. Eli’s not as tall, slender, wearing a fedora, black-rimmed glasses, and a scarf.
“We’ve heard about your podcast,” Eli says to me. “Sara thinks it’s going to be a big hit with her fans.”
“When will it air?” Connor asks.
“Thursday next week,” Sara says. “I can’t wait!”
We make some small talk, and then Eli asks where we’re off to.
“We’re going to get dessert,” Sara says. “How about you guys?”
“We’re going to a poetry reading.” Connor raises his hands. “You should come with! It’s going to be fab.”
I blink. A poetry reading.
I glance at Sara.
“That sound
s fun!” She turns to me. “We can grab dessert after.”
Here we go again. I hate having my plans disrupted. But dammit, it’s not the end of the world. I need to chill. So I smile and say, “Sure!”
“It starts at seven-thirty,” Sunny says. “We need to get moving.”
We hang out while they take care of their bar tab and then all six of us leave the restaurant. Eli and Connor link arms and lead the way to the café only a couple of blocks away on Second Avenue—Original Rose Poetry and Café.
Wow.
We have to pay a cover fee, which Sara insists on paying for me since she dragged us here. I can smell the marijuana wafting from the café as we stand and wait to get in. Holy shit, we’re going to be higher than a giraffe’s ass just from sitting in there. Actually, maybe that’s a good thing, since I’m not exactly into poetry.
The place is dark and tiny. We’re shown to a table near the low stage where a microphone sits.
The bar menu consists of a few odd cocktails (Gay-Dar Ade, wow) and a bunch of craft beers. Sara orders a Pig’s Ass Porter. “I’ll have the same,” I mumble.
I shift in my wooden chair to survey the room. Behind the stage, the wall is covered with ornate panels, with columns on either side and a sign above that says Original Rose. Everyone here seems to know one another as Eli and Connor are talking to the people at the table next to us and Kamal and Sunny stopped on the way to the table to speak to someone else.
“This is so cool!” Sara looks around too. “I’ve never been here. I might have to come back and do a video.”
“Er, yeah.” I look for the waitress, hoping she’s bringing that beer.
Soon, the lights dim more, and a spotlight hits the stage. A man runs up and grabs the mic. “Good evening, everyone! Welcome to Original Rose. We have a great lineup tonight. You’re going to love hearing Gabor Nagy.” He lists off a few other names that mean nothing to me, to vigorous applause. “Enjoy!”
The first poet comes up to the stage and stands in front of the mike. He’s wearing black pants, a white shirt, suspenders, and a bow tie. The room falls silent.
The hush lengthens. I shift in my chair again.
“Nature’s Semen,” the man begins.
Jesus Christ. I slide my eyes sideways to look at Sara and she does the same. She makes an “Eeek” face, then we turn back to the poet.
“Water spills from my eyes
Like raindrops streaking down the window.
How odd it is that sadness brings out aqua
To run down our cheeks.
Alone in this world, humans cry
In response to emotion.
An infant’s cry is a puny call for help.
A teardrop is feminine.
It is weakness. It is suffering and sorrow.
I am weeping like the heavens.
Nature’s semen soaks the earth so plants can grow.
But my tears are barren.
Above all, a tear is a tear
For if everything is symbolic, everything would mean everything and nothing.”
He bows his head.
I start to applaud, but after a couple of claps I realize nobody else is. Everyone in the place turns, their gazes burning into me.
“You’re supposed to wait until he’s finished,” Sara whispers to me.
“I thought he was,” I whisper back, heat rising from the collar of my shirt into my face.
“Finishes all his poems.”
“Oh. Uh. Sorry.” Jesus. What the hell do I know? I slump down in my seat.
I do know I could have written a better poem than that. “Nature’s Semen”? Come on!
The man begins his next poem, “Poetry Sucks.” The crowd makes noises of appreciation, low “Mmmm” sounds, but holds off the applause until he’s finished all his poems. Then they jump up and clap enthusiastically.
Meanwhile, I’ve guzzled my whole beer. And I definitely need another one if we’re staying for more.
Is Sara enjoying this? I don’t want to be judgy, but if this is her kind of entertainment, I’m not sure there’s much point in us seeing each other again. The only poem I can remember is “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” Okay, I know a couple of others, but I don’t think the people here would appreciate them.
We order another round of beers and Sara shifts in her chair next to me to look into my eyes. “Maybe I just don’t get good poetry,” she whispers. “But that seemed god-awful to me.”
My lips twitch. “Really? I’m kind of fascinated by ‘Nature’s Semen.’ ”
She snickers and ducks her head. “We don’t have to stay.”
“We just ordered another beer. I deserve that beer for sitting through this.”
“Agree. You totally do.”
“I’m ready for the next act. I bet we’re going to hear about the wonders of farts.”
She chokes laughing, falling against my shoulder. “Oh God, I hope so.”
Tension releases from my body and I lean my head against hers, both of us hiding our smiles.
I was wrong. It’s not farts. It’s borborygmus. Which is pretty damn close.
“When your stomach rumbles at Christmas,
It’s borborygmus.
Not a sickness, or an illness.”
I feel Sara shaking beside me and I know she’s trying to hold back her laughter. That makes me nearly lose it, and I actually snort out loud. Sara laughs harder and she coughs trying to cover it up. We’re both dying, heads pressed together. Hopefully everyone else thinks we’re making out and not laughing our asses off.
I don’t want to be rude to these people who get up there and read their poems, which they’ve obviously worked hard on and take very seriously. So I try to sober up and listen to the next poems.
In another break, Sara finishes her beer. “We have to get going,” she announces to her friends. “Thanks for letting us tag along! This was so fun!”
We all stand.
“Great to meet you,” I say to the others.
Then we make our escape outside.
We both start laughing, leaning on each other as we stumble down the sidewalk. “I’m sorry,” I wheeze. “That’s just not my scene.”
“I guess it’s not mine either. I swear last time I went to one of these, the poems were actually good.”
“What’s a good poem? I don’t even know.”
“You don’t know any poems?”
“Hold on.” I pause, holding up a finger. “Twinkle, twinkle, little star…”
She doubles over in a fit of giggles.
“Wait, wait. I have a better one. “There once was a man named Jock, who had an extremely long—”
“Noooooo!” She’s laughing harder.
“He wrapped it around his stomach and down, through his trousers and into his sock.”
We turn the corner onto Fifty-seventh, both of us cackling away.
“How about that dessert?” I say.
“Oh! Right! I definitely want dessert.”
“We need to get over to Lexington.”
We zigzag a bit to end up at Cakey Bakey, where I’d planned for us to go. Better late than never, I guess.
“I love this place!” Sara claps her hands.
“Well, good.” I open the door for her, and we enter to the smell of sugar and vanilla.
Sara vacillates over the extensive cupcake menu, finally settling on peanut butter chocolate. I order a red velvet. There’s only a tiny seating area with tables and chairs, but we snag one and sit to eat our dessert. Sara dives in, and her enjoyment is gratifying. She looks up at me with a smear of chocolate icing on one corner of her mouth. “Yum!”
It’s still there when we’re done and we stand to leave, so I move in and swipe it away with my index finger. “Little icing there,”
I murmur. Then, her eyes widening and her lips parting, I brush it over her bottom lip. Her tongue comes out and slides over her lip…and my finger.
Heat rises around us like we’re in the center of a bonfire.
She juts her chin forward slightly and sucks my finger into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it, our eyes locked on each other. Jesus. I think I’m about to combust.
“What now?” she asks, her voice husky.
Chapter 11
Sara
“Um…this is as far as I got with the planning.” Josh leans closer. “My plans were messed up yet again.”
He lowers his hand from my mouth. I’m buzzing, heavy heat building low inside me. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head and brushes a kiss over the corner of my mouth. “Don’t be. I hate having my plans messed up, but maybe things can turn out even better.”
“Like listening to bad poetry?” My voice comes out low and raspy.
“Yeah.” He touches his nose to mine. “I haven’t laughed so much in a long time.”
“Laughing is always good.” I lay my palm on his cheek. “I think so anyway.”
“I think I forgot that. And I agree.”
“Good.” Once again, I’m glad I’ve made him laugh. “We could go back to my place.”
“Okay.”
I take his arm as we step outside, both of us adjusting scarves and gloves for the chilly temperature. It feels so easy and natural and I love being so close to his amazing body. We set off along Lexington, past little shops and restaurants, some still open. “This is my hood,” I murmur. “I still feel like it’s new to me.”
I smile. “It’s a pretty good hood.”
“Yes. I can’t wait to move into my place. My stuff is being delivered next week, but I’m going to be away.”
“Oh, damn. Another road trip?”
“Yeah. Chicago and Raleigh. Then we get home late Friday and we’ve got another game Saturday.” He shakes his head.
“Oh! Speaking of your Saturday game! My friend Kaylee is coming to the city and we’re going to go to the game.”
“Do you have tickets?”
“Ack. Not yet.”
“I’ll get you tickets.”
“Really?”
You Had Me at Hockey (Bears Hockey) Page 9
