Hmm. Eight months old?
I find it hard to imagine Mats as a baby. I’ve snooped his socials, but he lacks any of those Happy Mother’s Day montages that show him as a kid. His social media is pretty bleak. The highlights are a championship photo from a kid’s team, a whale sighting, and (my favourite) Mats and his brother shirtless at the beach.
Almost. Eight years old.
I screech. How can that be?
Food culture is passed down through your mother. My first time was when I went for dinner at a teammate’s place. He was half-Japanese too, but his mother was Japanese. She served a chicken teriyaki dish with rice, vegetables, and pickles. The whole family looked at me like I had an extra head when I confessed that I couldn’t use chopsticks. I felt humiliated.
I laugh. So, you practised too?
Of course. A new skill to master, and an easy one.
Hey, we’re both driven to conquer every physical challenge, I observe. Since we’re so different, I like finding ways we’re similar.
Hey, Nellie; hey, Mats!
Jinx and Cori wave from the other side of the street, and we wave back.
Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do, Jinx hollers after us.
I wish. I flush pink. Sorry about that.
Mats smiles at me. Why are you apologizing?
I don’t know. You’re so private, and my life is so fucking out there, everywhere.
So, everyone on your team knows we’re going out? he asks.
Oh, yeah. Clearly, everyone on his team doesn’t. Although holding hands in downtown St. Viola is one sure way to broadcast our relationship status. And they’ve probably told everyone they know. My teammates think it’s a big deal that I’m dating you—a star of the men’s team.
His expression reads, don’t exaggerate, Cleo. Mats is very modest.
Instead of reassuring me that he doesn’t mind the twenty-six–woman publicity campaign, he lets go of my hand and pulls out his phone. He checks something, and then he smiles.
I pull down the screen. Are you checking your social media? Why? As far as I can tell, you never post anything. Personally, I wouldn’t mind a few more shirtless photos.
Why? You get to see the real thing, he replies absentmindedly as he scrolls.
But I don’t. Not enough, anyway.
No new messages. This is working out great. He gives my shoulder a squeeze.
You know, I don’t actually think I’ve seen you check your social media before.
He lets out an exasperated sigh. I got a lot of DMs once I became single. Strange women asking me out. I was considering deleting my accounts. But then you happened, and it’s all good now.
Women you’ve never met ask you out? I feel competitive with all of them. Also, does he mean that the women are strange, or just strangers?
It’s ridiculous. Mats sounds genuinely disgusted.
Being a Mustang means you’re a campus sex symbol, I declare.
I hate all that shit.
Oh, please. Try being a Mink. It’s not like we have puck bunnies. Or whatever male rabbits are called. Brunnies?
But he doesn’t even smile at my joke. Do you really want that? People who date you just because you play hockey? It’s dehumanizing to be a square on the ‘I slept with a Monarch Mustang’ bingo card. I’m just a normal guy.
