Walker looked off into the middle distance, jaw tight. “So, when I signed with my first pro team and saw 10 was free, I grabbed it. Just to be petty. No deep meaning. No childhood hero. I just wanted him to see it on the stat sheets and know I was still here even if he fucked it all up and ended up an accountant.” He gave a sharp exhale that might’ve been a laugh. “Stupid, really. But I kept it.”
I nodded in encouragement and then met Walker’s gaze. He stared back at me, and we smiled at each other.
Before I could even react, Bob elbowed him hard in the ribs, earning a grunt. Arnaud, perched on the other side of Walker, sniggered and jabbed him with his elbow from the opposite direction.
“Ah, quelqu’un a le feu pour le professeur,” Arnaud teased, his French accent curling the words. “Someone ?as it ?ot for teacher.”
Walker flushed a deep red, scowling at Arnaud while Taft outright cackled from across the room. I couldn’t help but smile—part amused, part… something else. The blush crept up Walker’s neck, and the way he ducked his head, looking both embarrassed and oddly pleased, was adorable. Something warm unfurled in my chest, and I knew I was in trouble.
Beneath the hoodie was a bag of my favorite coffee from the little shop across the road, the one I always joked about being the only thing strong enough to keep me functioning. I smiled at that, already picturing my first cup.
There was an envelope as well, and when I opened it, two glossy season tickets slid out. Copperheads season tickets. “Bythe glass,” Walker explained, his voice softer as he waited for my reaction.
Chip leaned forward. “You know, they didn’t always use the kind of plexiglass we have now. Back in the ?70s and ?80s, it was acrylic and rigid as hell. Didn’t flex much on impact. Players would hit it at full speed and just bounce off like rag dolls. Concussions, shoulder injuries… it was basically like hitting a wall.” He tapped his temple. “Nowadays, it’s polycarbonate. Still strong, but it has give. Absorbs impact better. Statistically, there’s been a 17 percent drop in glass-related injuries since the switch. Seventeen. That’s a lot of spared collarbones. And in 1987, they?—”
“Jesus, Chip, enough with the stats!” Bob snapped, and Chip paled and dipped his head.
“Sorry, I just… sorry.”
Bob groaned. “No. Shit, I’m sorry,” Bob said and tapped his head. “My bad. That was interesting about the glass,” he added, and then it was his turn to look embarrassed.
Walker pulled the subject back to the tickets. “So, you and a friend can be right up there watching us… if you want.”
“My brother’s a huge hockey fan, so he can explain it all to me,” I said, my voice catching just a little. I glanced around at them, my chest tightening with something warm and unfamiliar. I’d grown used to end-of-year gifts: boxes of chocolates, hand-drawn macaroni art projects, and maybe the occasional friendship bracelet. But this… this was something else. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“We wanted to,” Taft said with a shrug. “And anyway… ” He grinned wickedly. “There’s more under the cardboard.” He pointed at the box.
I pushed the corrugated cardboard aside and nestled carefully in crisp white tissue paper was a set of paints, Bagni Venezia Pigmenti, handmade in a small village in Tuscany. Thejars were weighty in my hands, and the pigments inside were like liquid jewels: deep sapphire blue, rich crimson, and buttery ochre. They shimmered under the light, each one more stunning than the last. Next to them was a set of sleek, wooden-handled brushes, each with delicate bristles that looked almost too fine.
“Fuck,” I muttered and, then, glanced up with an apology on the tip of my tongue.
“Don’t say it’s inappropriate,” Walker said before I could even begin to explain how moved I was and, yeah, how it wasn’t needed.
The rest nodded.
“Tell him… ” Bob said and nudged Chip who was wide-eyed.
“Really?”
“You’re dying to tell him,” Bob encouraged.
“But I don’t have to, I know not everyone?—”
“Tell him,” the other three players chorused, with Walker gesturing for him to carry on as well.
“Well, uhm… ” He clenched and unclenched his fingers. “Bagni Venezia Pigmenti only produces 312 pans of watercolor a year. Handmade, sun-dried, and mulled on marble slabs in a village with a population of 187. They use lake pigments from iron-rich clay deposits that haven’t been commercially mined since the 1600s. Their Ultramarine Light has a particle grind variance of less than 2 microns. There’s a three-year waitlist for their Sap Green and one tube of their discontinued Terra di Notte sold for nearly seven hundred euros last year.” He sat back then as if he could relax now he’d told us what he knew.
“Okay. Let’s meet up after this is all done, maybe every few weeks, okay? Not to paint, but to… get coffee… ”
There was a chorus of agreement.
We planned a date to meet up, and then, one by one, my new friends left, until finally, it was just Walker and me. He walked me to my car, helped me get everything inside, and then waited.
“Aboutourdate?” he asked, his voice hesitant. “Do you still want to?—”
“Yes.” The word shot out faster than I meant, and my heart stuttered. “I mean… sure.” Did I sound too eager? Probably. My stomach twisted with that familiar knot of nerves tightening. Why was I so nervous?
“I’ll probably fuck it up,” Walker muttered, half under his breath, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
