Page 13 of He Has Pluck
She shrugs. “No, but it’s not a big deal.”
I fall in beside her as we head for the exit to the hallway, bypassing the door to the locker room. “You must be dead on your feet and starved.”
She gives me a suspicious look, narrowing her eyes. “What’s it to you? You’re not one of those softies—you’re a hockey player, right?”
“Guilty on both counts.” Grinning, I take her elbow and stop before we get to the door. “How about if I get you some food. I bet they have plenty left in the kitchen.”
She laughs, but it’s a cynical laugh. “All right, if you think you have something to prove, I’ll let you take a shot.” She’s back to full combat.
We head to the kitchen, and I talk to the chef, though it takes no convincing, and I get her a plate of food. She sits at the table in the kitchen, and I join her. This facility is amazing. It looks like the back end of a hotel restaurant like where I worked as a teen. The chef tells us he’s going to be here for another half hour.
“Thanks, I won’t take that long.” She turns to me and says, “You can feel free to leave. In fact, that would be a good idea.”
“Why? Tell me why it would be a good idea if I left?” I might even agree, but I have a need to know why she doesn’t like me.
“Because you and me,” she moves a hand between us, “are not ever going to be a thing.”
“Who says I thought otherwise?” I’m partly indignant that she would assume that’s what my being here is about, and partly embarrassed that I might have had some of those thoughts even if I have dismissed them.
She laughs and forks a healthy helping of macaroni into her mouth because that’s what they had left. The steak tips and ribs were all gone. She doesn’t complain, and that’s remarkable because every woman I’ve been with since I can remember would be worried about what eating so many carbs would do to her waistline about now.
When I’m about to prompt her for an answer to my question, she swallows and speaks up. “Your eyes tell me. And that overly enthusiastic grin.”
I wipe any semblance of a grin from my face. Time to get straight to the point. “What do you have against me besides the fact I’m a hockey player?”
She nods. “Now we’re getting to what’s really on your mind.” She shoves another forkful of macaroni and a chunk of meatball into her mouth and closes her eyes as if she’s enjoying the food. A lot. Shit. My dick-driven mind goes to picturing how she would look enjoying an orgasm. She finishes savoring the food, and I grab her wrist to prevent her from filling her mouth with food again.
“And the answer is?”
“I don’t owe you an answer. And I don’t have to like you.” She yanks her hand from mine and continues eating.
“You really are an ice chip.”
“And you really think you’re hot stuff,” she says like she disagrees wholeheartedly.
“Okay. What is it about hockey that you don’t like?”
“It’s not hockey per se. But it’s a game, a fabrication invented by men for amusement. It’s not real life. In fact, it’s an escape from real life.” She darts an accusing look straight at me, and I feel it down to my soul like a punch.
She thinks I’m living in a dream world. And maybe I agree. But so what? It’s my dream and there’s no harm in it. “And you live in the real world?”
She nods, swallows her food and studies me for a few beats. “I live there, breathe it in, experience it, let it touch me, hurt me and then film it to capture all that for others to see and experience, to make people aware of what life is really like, the struggle and difficulties outside the bubble of American wealth.”
“How noble.” I’m thinking how pretentious. She gets it and stabs her middle finger in my direction. Then she keeps eating, and I’m starting to be impressed with her appetite.
“Everyone has struggles, Ice Chip. Even you.” I pause a beat, see the flicker in her eyes as she averts them. “You definitely have something going on.”
“Right now, my struggle is to get through the filming of this documentary without sticking a fork in my eye.” She puts down her fork.
I snort a laugh. “We’re a lot alike,” I say, meaning it. “We’re both chasing dreams. You want to save the world, and I want to win the Stanley Cup. I’d say I’m more likely to succeed.”
“So I should just give up? Not try to inform people, alleviate ignorance?”
“You can do what you want, Ice Chip. But don’t be disappointed when you fail.”
“I can handle a little disappointment. Can you handle the consequences if you fail? What’s your plan B?”
“If I don’t make it in the NHL, I’ll probably end up in a dead-end job, take up drinking and then die in the street. Just like my dad.” As I speak the words, giving daylight and oxygen to my deepest fears, I shudder. And I have no idea why I revealed so much, why I allowed my fears to surface and spit them out into the world.
