“So, we’re in Boston the night before the game, and I’m hungry, but our coach was strict about curfew, and the restaurant was closed, so I decided to order in.” He pauses. “Indian food.”
“Uh-oh,” I say, starting to see where this story is going.
“Now, let me say, it was some of the best Indian food I’ve had in my entire life. Delicious. And Idemolishedit—probably ate enough for three guys.”
“Oh, no,” I say with another chuckle.
“Oh yes. So I wake on game day, and my stomach is a little… off. But I’m sure I’ll be fine by game time, and my coach would’ve my balls on a silver platter if he figured out the reason I wasn’t feeling well, so I didn’t say anything. Figured I’d tough it out. You know, man up and power through it. So by game time, my stomach is making noises like a washing machine full of tennis shoes.”
“Oh my god, you played sick? Like, puking?” I can’t hide my disbelief. Even I’m notthatstubborn.
Lou throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, sweet summer child, IwishI’d been puking. No, Young Padawan, my issues were coming from a place quite a bit south of puking.”
“Oh my god! You didn’t? During the game?”
“Well, by some miracle, I make it through the game. The big problem is that when the final buzzer sounds, it’s tied. We gotta go into overtime, and I’m pretty sure I’m gonna have an—ahem—incident, like immediately. So the second the horn sounds, I’m off the ice, making a break for the bathroom. My ass cheeks are clenched so hard I’m pretty sure I could have turned a lump of coal into a diamond.”
“Holy shit,” I choke out.
“Indeed,” he snickers, taking a pull from his beer. “ So there I am, in full gear, waddling at top speed down the tunnel like some kind of armored penguin in distress.”
Oh my god, I howl. “But you made it, right? You didn’t actually shit your pants right there on the ice?”
“Pretty fuckin’ close,” he laughs. “But I make it to the bathroom and full-on dive into the stall,” Louis continues, animating the story with his good hand. “There’s barely time to get my pants and Under Armour down far enough so that I can sorta hover there and, uh—let nature take its course.”
“Oh my god.” I wipe away tears of laughter.
“So I’m in theredying. It's violent, like my guts are staging a coup, and I’m praying to every deity I know to either end this or kill me. And then I hear Fredéric, our equipment manager, calling for me.”
He puts on a ridiculous French Canadian accent. “Louis! Louis! Where are you? Coach is looking for you! Deux minutes! You must get back on ze ice!”
I’m doubled over with laughter by now.
“Anyway, I’ll never know how, but I managed to get myself under control and get back out there. But I did miss the first three minutes and thirty-four seconds of overtime. Our poor backup had to go in cold because I was trapped in a bathroom stall, shitting my brains out in full goalie gear, while eighteen thousand people wondered where I went.”
The laughter rips out of me almost unexpectedly. The stress, the anxiety, the constant low-level hum ofneed-to-be-bettersnaps, as I fight for breath and my stomach starts cramping.
“A heavily armored penguin!” I gasp, wiping at my eyes.
“Hockey is not always a dignified sport, Tanner,” Louis says solemnly. “You gotta let that shit go. Literally, in my case.”
“Oh my god,” I breathe, forcing air back into my lungs. “The great Louis Tremblay. Defeated by curry.”
“It keeps you humble.”
The laughter slowly tapers off, leaving a comfortable silence. The fire crackles while outside, the storm throws rain against the glass in aggressive sheets, but in here, it’s cozy and warm and comfortable. Secure.
The firelight catches the sharp line of his jaw and the soft curve of his mouth. His hair is messy, falling over his forehead, and his sling makes him look vulnerable in a way he never allows on the ice. He’s looking back at me, his dark eyes soft.
He’s not a statue or an idol. He’s a guy who eats bad takeout and laughs at himself. He’s a guy who brought me here, to the edge of the world, because he knew I was drowning.
What I’m feeling isn’t about admiration or envy because I want this man’s job. I don’t want what he has anymore—I just wanthim.
The guy who sees me so clearly. Who somehow knows what I need and gives it to me before I’ve even realized it.
Louis holds my gaze, his eyes still full of laughter, but there’s more. There’s heat and want. The air between us crackles almost louder than the fire.
I take a slow breath, letting the cedar and warmth fill my lungs.
