I look around the diner. This is one of those hidden gem type places that only regulars know about. “How’d you find this place?”
“We used to come here after tournaments when I was younger,” he says, a growing look of nostalgia taking over his face. “If we won, we’d get cheese fries and a chocolate shake.”
“And if you lost?”
“Then just a chocolate shake,” he grins.
“That sounds like a good consolation prize to me.”
He nods and leans back in the booth. His arm stretches over the top, and he looks completely at ease here. “Where did you grow up?”
“In Prairie Fields, a little under an hour north of Haulton.”
He hums in recognition. “I know where that is. Did you always want to stay close for college then?”
“No.” I twirl my glass around on the chipped tabletop. “I always thought I’d go out East, or maybe just somewhere else in the Midwest. But when my dad had his car accident, the idea of leaving and being a plane ride away didn’t sound appealing anymore.” Neither of my parents asked me to stay. They never would’ve done that. If anything, they encouraged me to still do campus visits to the universities I grew up admiring. “When Haulton offered me a full ride, I couldn’t turn it down.”
“Are you close with your parents? I haven’t noticed them at any games.”
“It’s hard for my dad to be in the car for more than a quick drive with his back pain, and then adding on sitting in a cold rink on metal bleachers?” I shake my head. “It’s too much on him. He tried his best my freshman year, but I saw the strain it put on him. Coach Maver sends them the footage after each game so they can watch it back. But yes, I’m close with them. I’m their only child.”
“So you’re spoiled.”
I throw my balled-up straw wrapper at him. “Shut up.”
He laughs, and each time I pull that sound out of him, a little burst of pride bubbles in my chest because laughing is not something Luke does freely. Even as he tends to smile a bit more these days, they’re still rare.
Our food arrives and he was right, the burgers are incredible. It’s dripping with butter and grease, making a mess out of both our plates and hands. Once we finish eating, Luke grabs the check and pays at the front counter. I don’t try to fight him on it. I’ll gladly take a free meal from a millionaire, retired NHL player as a struggling college student myself.
We then walk across the street to a dive bar that Luke hypes up, and the moment we walk in, I realize dive is agenerousterm for this place. Heads turn in our direction, the regulars eyeing up the newcomers, and I fall a half-step behind Luke. If anyone recognizes him, no one says anything.
My shoes stick to the floor, and in the dim lighting, it’s still easy to tell that they haven’t been mopped maybe ever. The sole TV hanging over the bar shows footage of Times Square and the countdown to the new year. Two older guys play pool at the beat-up table on one side, while the other end of the bar has a dartboard that looks like it’s hanging on by a thread. Classic rock music plays just loud enough to drown out the few conversations happening, giving a sense of privacy to the groups gathered.
Luke ushers me over to the bar where he orders without asking me. The bartender doesn’t ask for my ID, and I shoot Luke a curious look. Maybe he’s a regular here so they don’t ask him questions.
But when I watch the guy pour two sodas with the fountain gun, I realize that’s why. “We’re not drinking?”
Luke shakes his head.
“It’s New Year’s Eve. Isn’t that something to celebrate?”
“Drinking around you feels like it’d be crossing another line.”
But almost getting me off in the locker room didn’t?“You did at the gala,” I point out.
He grabs our sodas and guides me over to the empty dartboard. “That was different.”
“How so?”
He ignores me and grabs a few darts out of the empty paint can on the high-top table after setting our drinks down. I grab one and take a sip, only to realize it’s regular and switch it for the other.
“Do you know how to play?” he asks, gesturing toward the board.
“Sort of.”
He gives me a quick refresher, and we play a few practice rounds for me to get the hang of it. Once I do, he jots64and32on the chalkboard next to the board to keep our score.
“That’s how I have you in my phone, you know,” I tell him, pointing to his jersey number.
