Cold Day in the Sun

by Sara Biren

  He switches the song off a couple of minutes later as we pull into the nearly empty parking lot of the Full Loon Café. It’s usually a popular hangout on a Friday night. Thanks to the Snow Ball, we have the place to ourselves, except for a couple of people at the counter.

  Hot Sauce moves to help me out of my coat, but I put my hand up. “It’s OK,” I say. “I got this.” I shrug out of the coat, but he takes it from me to hang it on the coatrack around the corner.

  Clare, the hostess, whistles. “That’s some dress, Holland,” she says. “Is the dance over? Do we need to brace ourselves?”

  “It’s just getting started,” I tell her. “We bailed.”

  Clare’s been a hostess here for as long as I can remember, and she works at Goldilocks Hair Salon with Debbie, Hot Sauce’s mom. Clare knows everyone in town, because everyone in town comes to the Full Loon for their fantastic food and “world-famous, award-winning” pie. I don’t know what awards they’ve won, but the pie and the coffee are damn good.

  “So,” Clare says, leaning in, “you and Wes, huh?”

  “Um, no? Why do you say that?”

  She smiles. “Oh, I don’t know, Holland. You in that dress, him in a tux, sneaking away from the Snow Ball?”

  My cheeks warm again, thinking of him in that tux on the dance floor, holding me close. “We’re not together,” I say quietly. This is exactly why I shouldn’t go out with teammates. “Please don’t say you saw us here, OK, Clare?”

  I glance sideways at Hot Sauce as he walks up, hoping he hasn’t heard anything.

  “Oh, OK,” Clare says with hesitation. “Do you need a menu?”

  I shake my head, but Hot Sauce says yes.

  “Can we sit anywhere?” I ask.

  “Anywhere except the porch.”

  Hot Sauce follows me to a booth, one far from the restaurant’s front door, tucked around a corner and out of sight.

  “Very intimate, Dutch,” he says as he slides into the booth opposite me.

  “Don’t call me that, Hot Shit,” I tell him. I’m suddenly very aware that I’m basically alone in a restaurant with the most frustrating, critical, irritating person I know. I exhale a long breath.

  He ignores my dig. “It suits you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Holland, Dutch. Clever.”

  He studies the menu, his brows scrunched together. I don’t have to look. I’m in the mood for the Up North Nachos, a heaping platter of homemade tortilla chips and unseasoned rotisserie chicken smothered with melted Colby jack, black olives, mild salsa, and sour cream. There’s a reason Cora calls me Blando Calrissian. This is about as bland as nachos can get. Of course I’ll save room for pie. You’re never too full for Full Loon pie.

  My phone chirps with a group text.

  Cora: wru? Miracle said she thought she saw u leaving with Hot Sauce n I was ha, I knew it!?

  Me: Settle down. But yeah. We’re at the Full Loon.

  Morgan: squeeee

  Me: g2g details later it’s not what you think

  I put my phone facedown on the table as Hot Sauce sets his menu aside.

  “Do they serve all-day breakfast?” he asks. “Or do I want a burger? Anyway, yes, that’s where it started. Holland. Dutch. But then I started thinking about Earl ‘Dutch’ Reibel. You know that name?”

  I shake my head.

  “But you know Gordie Howe.” That’s not a question. Everyone knows Gordie Howe. Mr. Hockey. Mr. Everything. Number 9.

  “Of course. You play hockey, you know Gordie Howe like you know Wayne Gretzky.”

  “Exactly.” He grins. “Or the Hanson brothers. Well played, by the way.”

  “Thanks. So, what about this Dutch Reibel guy?”

  “If you were a Red Wings fan, you’d know Dutch Reibel. He played for them, too, only for a few years, but he was there for two Stanley Cup wins.”

  “OK? And?”

  “His first game with the Red Wings, his very first game out of the minors, he assisted on every single goal scored, four of them. He still holds the league record for it. Well, him and Roland Eriksson, who, you know, played for the North Stars.”

  I nod, even though I don’t know, but I have to say I’m impressed with his NHL knowledge.

  “Here’s something else,” Hot Sauce continues. “Dutch was the only player to surpass Howe as the Red Wings’ leading scorer, during the 1954–55 season, and he was fourth overall in the league. That was one of the years they won the Cup. In 1956, he won the Byng trophy.”

  His eyes flash as he tells me all this, the corners of his mouth upturned.

  “Your point?”

  “My point is that Dutch Reibel played hard. He played his heart out every single game. He’s one of the greatest players in the history of the NHL, on par with Gordie Howe. Gordie fucking Howe! And the thing is, Dutch, when I think of how hard you work, how you bring your best to every game, you remind me of him.”

  I don’t mind being compared to an NHL great, even if I’ve never heard of him, but I’m a little weirded out that Hot Sauce has given this so much thought.

  “And what’s the moral of this story?” I ask. “That even if I continue to work hard and get a bunch of assists and take out the captain for most goals scored, I’ll fade into obscurity and no one will remember my name, but they’ll apparently remember yours. Superstar Hot Sauce Millard. Future Mr. Hockey?”

  “Are you even listening to me?” He shakes his head and sighs as the waitress comes over. “Go ahead.” He nods, then looks up at the waitress.

  “Oh, OK.” It seems strange that he thinks I should order first, like it’s chivalrous or something, but after I rattle off my usual (after which Rosemary says, “The usual. Got it,” and winks at me), Hot Sauce grabs his menu again.

  “I can’t decide between the Twisted Sister double bacon burger with pepper jack, which is a great name, by the way, or the El Toro. Which is hotter?” He looks back and forth between me and Rosemary, waiting for one of us to answer.

  “I wouldn’t know,” I say.

  “You want the one with more kick?” Rosemary asks.

  He nods. “The hotter, the better.”

  “The Twisted Sister, for sure. I can ask Daniel to throw a couple of extra jalapeños on it.”

  “Fresh? Not jarred? I like a little crunch.”

  “Fresh. Got it.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  Who is this boy sitting across from me in a tux, politely conversing with Rosemary and me? Where is my frustrated, impatient, insulting captain?

  “The thing is, Dutch, I’ve been watching you play hockey now for over a year and you’re good. You’re really good. And I’m not saying that you’re good for a girl, or that you’re good for a girl who’s playing with a bunch of guys. You. Are. Good. You’re skilled and you’ve got a ton of power in your legs and your shoulders, you know? And your wrists. I’d never really thought about it before, how a person can effortlessly put so much grace and energy into a shot with the flick of a wrist.”

  Uhhhhhh.

  I must look shocked, because he asks, “What? Has no one ever told you that you’re talented?”

  “Well, sure, but—”

  His eyebrows pinch together again. “What?”

  I’ve heard it all my life from my parents and brothers and coaches, but, I realize, this is the first time I’ve heard it from him. He’s so quick to tell me what I’m doing wrong, every single day. Sure, I’ve gotten “nice shot” and “good job” once or twice, but nothing like this. I can’t exactly tell him about the tiny bit of pride I’m feeling because of it.

  Rosemary comes back with our meals, so I no longer need to find a way around this conversation.

  “Ooh,” I say, and rub my hands together as she sets down the gigantic platter of cheesy, delicious Up North Nachos. I pick up a black olive slice and pop it into my mouth. So far, my escape from the Snow Ball with Hot Sauce is turning out . . . OK.

  “This looks amazing,” he says, taking the top of th
e toasted bun off his Twisted Sister burger. He reaches into an inside pocket in his tuxedo jacket and pulls out a packet of Cholula. Even in his tux. It’s kind of adorable.

  “Some like it hot, huh, Hot Sauce?” I say as he tears open the Cholula with his teeth. I’m feeling a little hot myself, wondering what those teeth would feel like on my bottom lip (where did that even come from?). I continue to watch as he divides the sauce over his burger and fries.

  “I love it hot. Atomic Fireballs, Buffalo wings, wasabi, chile peppers. The hotter, the better. Want to try?” He picks up a fry, the tiniest bit of hot sauce on the end.

  “No, thank you. I’m not really a spice girl.”

  He pops the fry into his mouth, and I watch him chew. I’m suddenly obsessed with the mechanics of his jaw, the strong lines and edges.

  “You could be,” he says. “It takes practice.”

  “I could be a spice girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “With practice.”

  “Yeah. You didn’t have that perfect backhand the first time you picked up a stick, did you?”

  Hot Sauce Millard, state champion, called my backhand perfect.

  “Someone, your dad, I’m guessing, showed you how, and then helped you get the feel of it,” he continues. “How many backhands did you execute before it was second nature? Thousands, probably, right?”

  “Are you suggesting that I practice eating spicy foods?”

  “Yep.”

  “I don’t know. I’m pretty mild.”

  “ ‘Mild’ is the last word I would use to describe you, Dutch. Come on, try a bite?”

  I wave my hand over my plate of Up North Nachos. “This is about as spicy as it gets for me, Hot Sauce.”

  I pick up a chip, making sure it’s got equal parts salsa, black olive, sour cream, and . . . what’s this? A green pepper? That’s new. Well, anyway, I like my flavors to blend. I put the whole chip in my mouth and chew.

  And holy fuck. If Hot Sauce Millard weren’t sitting across from me looking so damn hot in that tuxedo with his messy hair and gorgeous eyes (What? Gorgeous? What is wrong with me?), I would spit whatever the hell is in my mouth back onto my plate.

  My flesh is burning. Searing. Flames lick my cheeks, my lips, every inch of my face from the inside out. Tears spring into the corners of my eyes, but I blink them back.

  Must. Not. React.

  Oh my God, the heat is shooting in every direction. To my ears, the top of my head, my hair follicles, down through my core, through my limbs to the tips of my fingers and my toes in their flimsy, strappy heels. My fingernails ache with the heat.

  “Dutch? You OK?”

  Blink. Blink, blink.

  Nod. “Dutch.”

  I try to smile, to move my lips to say something, anything, to in some way communicate that even though I have consumed something that the devil placed on my Up North Nachos by mistake, I am fine.

  But I am not fine. A tear escapes my left eye.

  “You’re aware that you just ate a raw jalapeño pepper, right?”

  “What?” I burst out, relieved that I haven’t lost the ability to speak.

  He points at one of the green peppers on my platter. “This is a jalapeño pepper.”

  Why would they do such a thing? There have never been jalapeños on my favorite nachos before. What is different about tonight?

  Oh, I’ll tell you what’s different about tonight. The boy sitting across from me, Hot Sauce Millard, with his packets of Cholula and his “I like a little crunch.” He asked for extra heat on his burger. Did that lead to an unfortunate mix-up in the kitchen?

  “Are you OK?” Hot Sauce asks again. “Your cheeks . . . are a little pink. I mean, I like it. I think it’s cute.”

  I swallow and nod.

  Number one: He thinks my red-hot cheeks (pink! Ha!) are cute. Number two: I’ve survived. I’m a survivor. I have walked through flames (in more ways than one) and I would walk through them again. I may have even liked it—once I got past the initial shock and pain, I enjoyed the flavor.

  “I think that jalapeño changed my life,” I say.

  His smile—full-on, with a single dimple on the right side of his chin—lights up the air around us.

  “That’s my girl,” Hot Sauce says.

  My girl.

  What I’m feeling now is even more than whatever burned through me from that pepper.

  “How about some Cholula on those nachos?” he asks.

  I decline his offer, but I eat every bite of my nachos, including the seven remaining jalapeño slices, blow my runny nose so much I have to ask for extra napkins, and live to tell the tale.

  “Room for pie?” Rosemary asks as she clears our plates.

  “Yes!” I cry, and Hot Sauce smiles. I like it. I like this happy, smiling Wes.

  I just called him Wes.

  I kinda like Wes.

  “Do you have . . . Dutch apple? Two slices?” he asks, and this terrifying, wonderful feeling that Wes likes me back vibrates through me.

  “Of course,” Rosemary says. She turns to go.

  Wait a minute. She thinks that Wes ordered for me! Not happening.

  “Wait!” I call, and she turns back to me. “I’d rather have toffee cream. And a cup of coffee with room, please.”

  Rosemary frowns and looks from me to Wes. “So, one slice of Dutch apple, then?”

  “Two slices of Dutch apple,” Wes confirms, “and one slice of toffee cream. To go, if you don’t mind.”

  “To go?” I ask.

  “To go.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Wes goes out to warm up the truck before we head over to T.J.’s for the team after-party, and I wait by the front door with Clare and the pie.

  “He’s a gentleman, that one,” Clare says, and I choke back a laugh when I think of some of his very ungentlemanly motivational tactics at the rink. “That whiny girlfriend he used to bring in here wasn’t good enough for him.”

  I freeze, my fingers tightening around the to-go bag. “Who?”

  “Wes’s girlfriend from Park Rapids, maybe? What was her name? Gillian, I think.”

  “Gillian. From Great River?”

  “Yes, that’s it. Great River. She visited a few times after they moved here. She complained about one thing or another every single time. Her burger was overdone. Her burger wasn’t done enough. Her strawberry pie had too many tiny seeds in it and they were stuck in her teeth.”

  I’d laugh if I weren’t so surprised—and I’ll admit, disappointed—that Wes has (had?) a girlfriend named Gillian. Gillian from GR. Maybe that’s why he turned Jo down.

  “But he doesn’t bring her around anymore?” I try to sound casual as I dig for info. I flip through a sheaf of memories from last season. Not that I’ve paid much attention to that arrogant state champion a-hole who lives to make my life on the ice miserable, but I think I would have noticed a girlfriend/puck bunny hanging around the locker room door.

  “They broke up not long after the season started. Last year. She did have fantastic hair. These glossy, dark, perfect waves. Pretty, too. Classic beauty. She could have been in a Pantene commercial.”

  Classic beauty? What does that even mean?

  “And here he is. Enjoy your pie!”

  I step out into the cold night and Wes once again gets out to open the door for me.

  “You don’t have to do that, you know. Any of it. Open doors, let me order first, stuff like that,” I say as he takes hold of my hand to help me into the truck. Again. “This isn’t the Dark Ages. Or the fifties.”

  “Oh, I know.” He closes my door and walks around to the driver’s side and gets in. “I want to. Plus, I let you order first because I had no idea what to get, so I didn’t want to hold you up while I deliberated.”

  How can I argue with that? “Still,” I try. “No sense in both of us being cold after you’ve already been in the truck.”

  He laughs. “A little cold can’t hurt us, Dutch. We’re hockey players.”
/>
  I like that he called us “us.” And the Dutch thing is growing on me.

  This night has taken an interesting turn.

  I turn it right back.

  “Tell me about Gillian.”

  His grip on the steering wheel tightens. After several long, uncomfortable seconds he says, “Gillian? My ex-girlfriend, Gillian? How do you even know about her?”

  Ex-girlfriend.

  I ignore his last question and try to keep my tone casual. Conversational. “Why did you break up?”

  He barks out a laugh. “Let’s just say she wasn’t cut out for a long-distance relationship.”

  “Oh, yeah, what is it, a whole hour from here to Great River?”

  “Hour and a half.”

  “Does she play hockey?”

  “No.”

  “Did she play hockey?”

  “No.”

  He’s not giving me a whole lot here, but what difference does it make? I didn’t know she existed until a few minutes ago.

  “When did you break up?”

  “Halloween. Not this past Halloween, the one before.”

  Halloween. Two months after he moved here. They’d only been “long distance” for two months before she gave up on him. No wonder I didn’t know about her. Other than that day at Little Dipper’s, I didn’t see Hot Sauce much, not until the season started.

  “How long had you been together?”

  “Eleven months.”

  “What happened?” I ask, and then bite my bottom lip. “No, you don’t have to answer that. I’m asking too many questions.”

  He’s quiet for a second, and then says, “It’s OK. One of my GR teammates was having a Halloween party, so I drove back to surprise her. She’d told me she was dressing up as Harley Quinn, so I bought a Joker costume with fake tattoos and everything. Turns out I was the one surprised when I found her making out with the goalie.”

  “Huh. It’s always the goalie, isn’t it?” My joke falls flat. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. Kinda sucked, but it hadn’t felt right for a while. Not since—not since I’d moved.” He pauses, then asks, “What about you? What’s your dating history?”

  I consider this—my answer and the question itself, and the fact that this conversation exists. That Wes and I exist together in this truck on this road on this night. Dressed in formalwear. It’s all a bit surreal.