“Where are all your buddies?”
I shrug. “Some were hanging back, not in a rush to leave.”
“It’s late. Hopefully they don’t miss their ride back.”
A few more people join us before the bus arrives, and we ride back to the Village. The ride makes me a little more relaxed, a little more tired. The exertion from the game is catching up to me, and though I would love to go to bed, I don’t want to say good night to Nico so soon.
We get off the bus and walk toward the buildings.
“Are you heading up to bed?” I ask.
“I was hoping you’d want to walk with me a little.”
I smile. “I’d love to.”
We take the same path we took yesterday, not that we have many to choose from or anything. We stop at the same bench, both of us sitting without having to say a word. Just being next to him is nice. We don’t have to talk or do anything; I just like his company.
“So, tell me about hockey,” he says.
“What about it?” I ask.
“Hmm, well… what do you actually do as a defenseman, other than hit people?”
“My job isn’t to hit people,” I say with a laugh. “I read plays. Break up entries. Move the puck out and make it harder for the other team to breathe.”
“But hitting people is fun?” he pushes.
“It’s… just part of the game. I don’t really think about it when it’s happening. You just go. And it’s definitely not fun when someone gets hurt.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You want to know about hockey. It’s my life. I’ll tell you how it is.”
“How do you always know where the puck is?” he asks, turning so he’s facing me a little more.
Under the streetlight, his eyes are crystal clear—blue like the ocean.
“Well, when you sign a contract you agree to let them put these little magnets in your eyes and—”
He shoves me again, chuckling. “You’re a funny guy.”
I laugh harder, loving the way his eyes shine when he laughs.
“Sometimes.”
He huffs a cute little sound. “But really?” he asks. “I want to know. Because I barely know where it is when I’m watching you play.”
“That’s your problem.” His face scrunches up in confusion. “You don’t watch the puck; you watch the play. Body positions. Stick angles. You figure out where the puck is going before the guys are moving.”
“That’s… impressive.”
“Just like anything else with the game, it just comes on instinct. Kind of like you.”
“Me?” he asks, sounding confused. “How is it like me?”
“With your jumps and spins. You do what feels right, letting your body take the lead. That’s why it’s so easy for you—why you look so good doing it.”
His grin forms slowly. “You think I look good on the ice?”
