It was like sitting with a celebrity. People kept stopping by to say hello. The Athletic Director, the Alumni Association President, even the Dean showed up, he says.
The Dean of Monarch College was at a Minks game? That’s amazing, I crow.
Well, only Roger Gordon stayed for more than ten minutes. But Marjorie is a really big deal.
It’s funny, because she seems more like our friend now, I say.
He nods. Kind of underlines how important our dinners have been. You did make a new fan in Barb. She’s going to bring her son to one of your games.
And now I have to take Marjorie to a Mustangs game? I pull out my phone to figure out when that will work. Looks like it won’t be until the playoffs.
He sighs. Playoffs will be tight. Even harder to score a goal like you did.
I could coach you. I regret the words immediately and cover my face. Sorry. Scratch that.
Mats chuckles. Maybe you could improve my weak slapper?
I grimace. Shit. I can’t believe I said that to you. Can we pretend it didn’t happen? There’s nothing wrong with your slap shot.
Eh, it’s not as good as my wrister. But weak may be an exaggeration. He hides his smile behind his cup of tea.
I can’t believe you still remember that. I was such a bitch to you.
But we’ve come a long way since then, he reassures me. When I look across at Mats, his smile is as warm as a hug. I’m close enough to see those golden glints in his dark brown eyes, and how unfair are those dark eyelashes? He doesn’t need bulletproof mascara.
I smile back. We have come a long way. And I own that it’s my fault that we weren’t friends earlier.
Dinner arrives, and it smells delicious. I help myself to General Tso’s chicken, my favourite dish, as well as rice and the Buddha’s Feast veggies that Mr. Healthy ordered.
What are you doing? Mats demands.
I freeze, with the chicken halfway to my mouth. Um, eating?
Are you really using a fork? He sounds shocked.
Well, I’m hungry, and I’m not really good at chopsticks. My voice is way too whiny. Is this his revenge for the slap shot insult?
You’re a very coordinated person, he points out.
I blow out a loud breath. Fine.
I pick up the smooth, ivory plastic chopsticks and stab at a piece of chicken. Unfortunately, the sauce makes it slippery, and it slides back onto my plate. I try again, with the same results.
Goddammit, I mutter. This is like torture. I’m starving and you’re making me learn a new skill before I can even eat.
Mats holds up one hand. Like this. You keep the lower chopstick stable between the base of your thumb and your ring finger. Then you move the upper one with your pointer and middle finger.
Right now, there’s something else I’d like to do with my middle finger. But I try to do exactly what he says and grab another piece of chicken. This time it slides off and hits the floor.
I’m starving and I hate you, I mutter.
You’re almost there. He reaches across the table and adjusts my thumb. There’s a spark when I feel the sensation of Mats’s warm hand on mine. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to feel heat in your lady parts when someone touches your thumb.
Still, the slight adjustment helps. This time, I grab the morsel of chicken and it actually reaches my mouth. I close my eyes in pleasure as I chew and swallow.
No woman has ever worked harder for a bite of food. But it was delicious.
Mats raises an eyebrow, which I interpret as both encouragement and telling me to chill.
