You Had Me at Hockey (Bears Hockey)

by Kelly Jamieson

  She emerges from the elevator and I watch her walk toward me, her faux fur coat hanging open. My gaze wanders from a chunky gold necklace shining at her throat, down over the short black dress to her excellent legs, and then lower to sexy black shoes with impossibly skinny heels.

  Whoa.

  What a contrast from the girl I hung out with the other day. But when I meet her eyes, it’s the same person, those sea green eyes dancing with life and humor. “Hi.”

  “Hi. You look gorgeous.”

  “Thanks. You look gorgeous too.” She touches the lapel of my black wool coat.

  “The taxi’s waiting for us.” I set my hand on her low back and usher her out as the doorman opens the door for us. We slide into the back of the bright yellow car and I give the driver the restaurant address.

  Sara shifts so she can face me. “I’ve heard of this place but never been there. This’ll be fun!”

  We make small talk on the way there. I discover she watched the game last night, which startles me. Although…I like it.

  “I have questions,” she announces. “So many questions.”

  “About?”

  “Hockey. I mean, I didn’t understand much. You guys move so fast out there! They drop the puck and wham, everyone’s skating all over the place.”

  “Uh, yeah.” I’m amused by her description.

  “They were talking about you.”

  “Who was?” Clearly, her mind zips all over the place.

  “The TV guys. They seem to think it was a good deal to get you from Dallas. They said…hell, I don’t remember what they said, but they were complimenting you.”

  My mouth twitches into a near-smile. “Oh yeah? Were they talking about my passing and shooting skills? My controlled entries?”

  She frowns. “Why does that sound dirty? How do you make hockey sound dirty all the time?”

  “It’s one of my hidden skills. They probably didn’t talk about that.”

  She snorts. “No! They didn’t.”

  “It must have been my amazing skating. My hockey sense? My high compete level?”

  “Well, they weren’t talking about your modesty.”

  Goddamn, she makes me laugh.

  “They probably said all those things,” she admits. “It sounded really good anyway. I thought how cool it was that I know you.”

  I like that she’s maybe a little impressed with me since I’m kind of intimidated by her.

  Traffic is nuts. We’re barely moving. The driver keeps honking, but there’s nowhere for the cars in front of us to go, so I don’t get the point of it.

  We keep talking, but after a while I pull out my phone to check the time. It feels like we’ve only traveled two blocks. “Shit,” I mutter.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Our reservation is for seven. This traffic is nuts.”

  “Of course. It’s Saturday night in Manhattan.”

  I hate being late. I hate rushing. I hate not being in control. “We could get out and walk there faster.”

  She laughs softly and pats my leg. Well, that’s distracting. “Not in these heels, dude. Don’t worry. If we’re a few minutes late they’ll hold our reservation.”

  “I’m going to take a different route,” the driver announces, jerking the wheel to turn off onto a side street. “I don’t know what’s going on up there. Maybe an accident.”

  Unfortunately, his other route isn’t much better. My knee is bouncing and my jaw aching by the time we finally pull up in front of Allettante. It’s two minutes after seven, but it might as well be an hour for how stressed I am.

  I pay with my credit card and jump from the taxi, holding out a hand for Sara to follow. Then I hustle her inside the small, unassuming entrance. But, as Sara said, there’s no problem that we’re late.

  We check our coats and are shown to a table for two against one wall. The place is tiny, with dark blue walls and floor, white and light wood furniture, and subtle lighting.

  “Lovely.” Sara takes a seat and looks around.

  I already checked out the menu online because I like to be prepared, but I pick up the heavy folder anyway. We first order a bottle of wine, then decide to share a starter, Mediterranean chicken salad cups. Once we’ve ordered our meals, the menus have been removed, and the wine poured, Sara smiles at me over her wineglass. “Okay, explain more hockey to me.”

  “Really?” I study her across the table. In the candlelight, she looks like she’s glowing. She’s wearing makeup tonight, lips shiny, her eyes shadowed, making the light-colored irises really stand out. Her hair is somewhat tamed into shiny waves.

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t even know where to start.”

  Sara peppers me with questions about the game last night, which I try to answer. I could talk about hockey all night. I can’t imagine that would be interesting to her, but she keeps going. “Okay, tell me about too many men. That doesn’t sound like a problem to me.”

  It takes a second for that to sink in, then I bark out a laugh. “Jesus. Okay, well, a team is only allowed a certain number of players on the ice, including the goalies. Usually it’s five plus the goalie, but if you have a penalty it’s one less.”

  “Oh yeah, I have questions about penalties too. Go on.”

  Suppressing a smile, I continue. “Sometimes we’re changing lines on the fly, meaning the play is still going on when some guys are going off and some are coming on, and if we screw up and have too many players on the ice, it’s a penalty.”

  “Okay, I can see that. It seems like kind of a dumb mistake when you know how many you should have.”

  “It is a dumb mistake,” I say wryly. “What about penalties?”

  “You guys actually have to have a time-out when you get a penalty?”

  “Time-out? No…oh.” I start laughing. “You mean like a little kid being put in the corner.”

  “Yes. Punished.”

  “Okay, yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

  “Except it wasn’t always two minutes. One time we—I mean, you—I mean, the Bears—had a penalty and the guy got out after only about forty seconds.”

  “Because the other team scored.” I grimace. “If they score, the penalty’s over.”

  “Ah.” She tips her head back, pondering that. “Interesting.”

  Our appetizer arrives—lettuce cups filled with chicken, feta, chopped tomato, and olives in a sort of creamy dressing.

  Sara picks up one cup and takes a bite. “This is so good! Do you like olives?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Good, good.”

  “That sounded like a test I just passed.”

  She smiles back. “I have more.”

  “Really?”

  “No. That’s bullshit.” She rolls her eyes. “I have friends who test guys, though—they’ll tell a guy they’re cold just to see if he offers his jacket.”

  “Huh.”

  “Right? Then they get mad if he fails, but they won’t tell him why because he should know it.” She shakes her head. “I hate those kinds of games. But maybe that’s why I’ve never been super successful in the dating department. Maybe you need to be good at those games.”

  “I don’t like games either.”

  “Says the hockey player.”

  I laugh. “Yeah. But in hockey, everyone knows the rules.”

  “Right.” She tilts her head thoughtfully. “That’s exactly the problem with stupid dating games…nobody knows the rules.”

  I eye her black dress with tiny sleeves. “Are you warm enough?”

  Her laugh is rewarding. “Yeah. If I want to borrow your jacket, I’ll ask.”

  I smile back at her. “Okay.”

  We finish off the chicken salad cups. The waiter whisks the plates away and refills our
wineglasses. Sara slides her glass closer to herself across the table. “I have an idea I want to run past you.”

  “Yeah?” I take a sip of my wine, a dark red.

  “What would you think about teaching me to skate and having it filmed?”

  Not what I was expecting. I consider that. “For you to put on YouTube?”

  “Yes.” She holds my gaze steadily. “I think it would be fun.”

  I wrinkle my nose, then answer honestly. “I’m not sure.”

  Her lips quirk and her eyes soften. “Can I convince you?”

  “Maybe.” I rub my jaw. “I’m not into a lot of attention.”

  “You’re a hockey star!”

  “Nobody knows me here. Not many people knew me in Dallas. Hockey’s, like, the least important sport in this city.”

  “True.”

  “I have to do some media appearances and talk to the press. It’s part of the job. But I don’t really like it.”

  “You did really well for the podcast.”

  “I didn’t want to do that either,” I confess.

  She pushes out her bottom lip adorably, but her eyes twinkle.

  “No offense,” I add. “I’d never heard of you, and well, I’d rather lay low, but…I figured I had to do it since I’m the new guy.”

  “I understand. You would look good on the video. I’d be the one making a fool of myself.”

  I smile.

  “Maybe you could think about it.”

  “I can do that.”

  She presses her fingers to her lips and rubs, frowning.

  “What’s wrong.”

  “Er, nothing. Thanks for at least considering it.”

  “Sure. I watched some of your videos yesterday.”

  “Did you?” She grins. “I’m amazed you actually showed up tonight. Now you really know how weird I am.”

  “You’re not weird. You’re honest. You say what everyone else is thinking.”

  “I guess I do. Sometimes I need to be a little less honest.” Her eyes shadow and she drops her gaze. “Especially around toxic people. I’ve made that mistake of being too honest and then they use it against you in some way.”

  “That’s shitty. But I get that.”

  She lightens the moment. “And when someone asks if they look good. Honesty is not the best policy in that situation.”

  “True.”

  Our meals arrive and we wait as we’re served. Sara holds her hands out palms up and peers at them. Then she rubs her fingertips together, frowning.

  Her smile doesn’t return as she licks and bites her lips, staring at her food.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask once we’re alone again. “Is that not the right order?”

  “No, it’s fine. Fine. I’m just…not feeling quite right.”

  My eyebrows pull down. “Are you sick?”

  “Um.” She draws in a deep breath. “I’m not sure.” She squeezes her eyes tightly shut for a few seconds. “Let’s just eat.”

  “Okay.” I pick up my cutlery. My pork chops look amazing, and I cut into one but keep an eye on Sara. She pokes her fork into her pasta, a concoction of eggplant, zucchini, red pepper, onion, and goat cheese.

  She spears a small piece of eggplant and pops it into her mouth, but she looks…uncomfortable. She’s blinking a lot and seems to be breathing fast. What is going on?

  She rubs her mouth with her serviette and when she lowers it, my gaze lingers on her mouth. It’s a pretty mouth for sure, but right now…it seems bigger. Her lips are fuller.

  “I think I have to leave.” She looks up at me. Her cheeks are flushed. She really isn’t well.

  “Uh, sure.” I catch the waitress’s eye and she hurries over. “I’m so sorry, but we need to leave unexpectedly. Can we get our check?”

  “Of course. Would you like your meals packaged up?”

  I glance at Sara. She shakes her head. Her eyes look funny now. She’s already standing so I figure we need to leave quickly. “What was in that appetizer?” she asks, her voice a little wheezy.

  The waitress lists all the ingredients: lettuce cups filled with chicken, feta, chopped tomato, and olives in a dressing of hummus with Greek yogurt and lemon juice.

  “Hummus,” Sara croaks. She grabs her coat and leaves.

  I take care of the bill as fast as I can and catch up to Sara on the sidewalk, my mind spinning like a pinwheel in a hurricane. “Are you okay?”

  She shakes her head. “I think I’m having an allergic reaction. I’m allergic to chickpeas.”

  I blink. “Oh Jesus. The hummus.”

  “Yes.” She covers her face with both hands. “I didn’t look at all the ingredients in it.”

  “How bad is this?”

  She uncovers her face and my eyes widen at seeing her lips and eyelids swollen.

  “Holy shit.”

  She closes her eyes. “I need to go to the hospital. It’s anaphylaxis. It happened to me once before.”

  “Hospital. Jesus. I don’t even know where the hospital is.” I glance around the narrow street. “Should I call an ambulance?”

  “Um…I don’t know. Maybe we can get a taxi.”

  “No.” I pull my phone out. The way she’s talking, like she can’t catch her breath, we don’t have time for a taxi. My cousin Chris has a peanut allergy and this happened to him once when we were all up at the lake. He had an EpiPen, luckily. I call 911 and ask Sara, “Do you have an EpiPen?”

  She leans against the brick wall. “No. I used to, but I never needed it, so I stopped carrying it.”

  “Shit.” I tell the 911 operator where exactly we are—the address of the restaurant is displayed clearly on the building, so that’s good—and what’s happening. “She’s having trouble breathing.”

  “My fingers and my feet are swelling up too.” She holds up her hands. “They’re itchy. So is my mouth.” She looks scared, like she’s going to cry.

  The operator asks if I can make her comfortable and elevate her legs.

  “Uh…we’re on a sidewalk. I’ll try.”

  I whip off my long coat and set it on the sidewalk then help Sara sit, her back against the wall, her legs over my lap. It’s not very elevated but it’ll have to do. I wrap the coat around her since her legs are bare.

  “Dizzy,” she mumbles.

  Christ. Jesus Christ. How long is this going to take? Our first date and she’s going to die? Holy fuck.

  I rub her hands with mine and speak softly to her. “You’re okay. The ambulance is on the way.”

  She nods.

  A couple pass by on the sidewalk. They glance at us and keep going. Probably think we’re drunk.

  I slide an arm around her shoulders, trying to comfort her any way I can. I know how to do CPR but Jesus, it better not come to that.

  We hear the siren long before we see the ambulance. It comes cruising down the narrow street, lights flashing off the buildings, and I jump up and wave to them. They come to a stop blocking the street, but who cares, and the EMTs jump out and hustle over to Sara. I feel such a sense of relief that they’re here, my legs almost give out.

  They ask all kinds of questions, assessing her lips and tongue, asking her to say her name, talking about urticaria and intubation and hypotension. They get her into the ambulance and ask if I’m coming with.

  “Uh…”

  Sara lifts a hand. “Please.”

  Shit. “Okay.”

  They slap an oxygen mask on her face and start an IV to give her epinephrine as we speed to the nearest hospital. While listening to her heart and lungs, they have to take her dress half off and holy shit, I try not to look as the EMT unzips it and pushes it down to her waist, revealing scraps of sheer black lace. I avert my eyes and hold Sara’s hand until we arrive at the hospital and pull int
o a loading bay. They lift her out and wheel her inside. And I freeze.

  I don’t want to go into a hospital.

  I could smell it when the sliding doors opened. I can see people in scrubs and stethoscopes moving around inside. Sick people. Injured people.

  I’m reliving the time around the accident. I don’t remember the first ambulance ride because of the concussion. I have only hazy memories of dark and light, voices and sounds at the first hospital I was taken to in Swift Current. I remember the sense of urgency in everyone around me, doctors and nurses, while I floated wearily, too tired to care or understand. Then they transported me to Regina, to a bigger hospital, and once I was more stable, to Winnipeg. I spent months in the hospital there as an inpatient and then more months going back nearly daily for outpatient therapy. I never want to set foot in a hospital again.

  My stomach churns, my skin clammy. I curl my hands into fists and stare at the hospital doors.

  Chapter 8

  Josh

  I have to do this. I can’t just abandon Sara in there. I take a few deep breaths. Then I swipe a hand across my sweaty forehead, square my shoulders, and stride into the ER.

  They’ve already taken her back, which tells me how serious this is because the ER is full of people waiting. They won’t let me go back there at first, so I find a seat and slump there, holding my phone, staring sightlessly at the floor.

  How the hell did this happen? I had the whole evening planned—nice dinner, then a short walk to the wine bar for a glass of wine and some piano music. I was too afraid to plan to take her back to my place, but the idea was definitely there. We were having a good time—at least I was. I think she was too. Now…Christ, she’ll never want to see me again after poisoning her like this.

  I scrub my hands over my face and wait. And wait.

  Finally, a woman comes and calls my name. My head snaps up and I jump to my feet. “You can come on back,” she says. “She’s doing better.”

  “Thank God,” I mutter, hiking after her.