“My Olympic career ended as quickly as it started. Why don’t we call it a night for the skating? I am 100% fine, but also very much in need of a warm blanket and some hot chocolate.”
“I was planning on inviting you over to my place for dinner after. If that sounds alright with you.”
I really was fine, but my wrist was hurting like a motherfucker, and the fall gave me a pounding headache, which is making me feel cranky. I want to be in my bed, nursing mywounds alone. But I can’t leave Mason. Not when he looks like he hates himself right now.
“That sounds perfect.”
Mason continues to watch over me like a hawk, and I try not to be annoyed. I know concussions are a sensitive topic for him. Plus, I can’t remember the last time someone dotted over me like this and honestly, it was pretty nice.
The moment we entered his apartment he guided me over to the couch like an elderly person with a fall risk and insisted I relax while he made dinner. He came back about five minutes later to hand me a hot chocolate. A girl could get used to this.
While he’s in the kitchen, I take in my surroundings. From what I can see, his apartment gives off your classic bachelor pad vibes: a massive couch pressed up against a wall of exposed brick, a large TV to the left with his Xbox close by, and to my right I see his autographed Patrice Bergeron jersey hanging on the wall. I still remember when he got it as a Christmas gift over a decade ago. Mason shed a few tears (he denied it afterward), and his dad looked so happy knowing how much the gift pleased his son. I miss seeing them like that. I wonder if I ever will again.
“I’ll be done in a sec.” I hear the clinking of bowls, and a moment later he heads out of the kitchen, two steaming bowls in hand and a towel thrown over his shoulder. He places his bowl on the coffee table before placing the towel under my bowl and handing it to me. I look down to see what’s for dinner and my heart clenches.
“Is this my mom’s beef stew?”
“Same recipe. Elaine shared it with me when I headed off to college.”
“This takes hours to make.”
“I made it before I came to pick you up. It’s no big deal.” He shrugs.
“You can’t even get some of these ingredients in local grocery stores.”
“There’s an Iranian grocery store that just opened up, like an hour drive outside of the city.” He nods his head toward my bowl. “Why don’t you try it before you give me too much credit, alright?”
I take a bite and I’m brought back to the first time we met in our old elementary school cafeteria. The first time he defended me, and the first time he left a mark on my heart. One that’s never gone away. One that I wanted to hold onto for as long as I could. We scarf down our dinner in silence, leaving our empty bowls on the coffee table.
“So…how was it?”
“Don’t tell my mom, but you make a better Amin than I do. That was amazing.”
“That’s incredibly high praise.” He makes a motion of zipping his lips shut. “Now I know you must be ill.” He lets out a small laugh before scanning my face. “You sure you’re okay? Head’s not hurting at all?”
“My head is perfectly fine.” My heart, however, was filled with cracks and sharp edges, and for the longest time, I thought it would always be that way. I was used to it being broken, but I wanted something different now. I wanted something more. Something better. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“What are we doing?”
His eyebrows come together, “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” I toy with the hair tie around my wrist. “Are we just hanging out as friends? Are we dating? You planned this whole thing where you helped me achieve a childhood dream, overcome my fear, and made me my favorite dish and thatfeelslike a date, but I just…I don’t know what we’re doing.”
“Do you want it to be a date?”
“Depends. Did you plan this as a date? Or is this how friends hang out now?” I can feel the cracks and sharp edges of my heart warm smooth over with hope. For the longest time I thought it would never be hopeful again, always expecting the worst. But at this moment, I am hopeful. Hopeful that this is a date.
“I asked you on a date tonight. Whether or not it ends as one is up to you.”
My words barely come out as a whisper, yet somehow, it feels like they echo against the walls. “It’s a date then.”
“Good.”
I wait for him to continue as he leans back against the cushions and throws an arm over the coach. The epitome of calm to my current state of ‘freaking-the-fuck-out.’ Is this really happening?
“I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to keep things platonic because I thought that’s whatyouwanted.” He laughs, looking anything but amused. He looks sort of tortured actually. Like keeping things platonic has pained him, and he's now realizing it was unnecessary.
