I grin. “Not the worst idea you’ve had.”
Étienne and I are both open about our sexuality—at least in our personal lives. I don’t talk about it when it comes to skating because I don’t want it to be a thing. It could go either way in the media. I wouldn’t lie if someone asked, but I’m not going around and announcing that I’m a gay figure skater.
“Anyone in particular you want to see?” I ask, giving him the side eye. I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows exactly who is here and who he wants toaccidentallyrun into.
Étienne is a big hockey fan, as is most of our family—as Canadians, we sort of have to be. I appreciate the sport, but I’ve never found it all that interesting. It feels like a caveman sport. There’s so much fighting and hitting… it’s so violent. I don’t see beauty in it the way I do with other ice sports. But I will not deny my eyes a handsome, rugged player, which a lot of them tend to be.
“None of my crushes made the teams.” He sighs disappointedly. “But I’m sure we’ll find some good ones.”
“What team is playing right now?”
“By the time we get there, it’ll be Italy versus Sweden.”
“Sounds like you’ve planned this.”
“It’s the only way we’d get tickets.” He grins, hooking his arm in mine once again.
The bus to the games is full of athletes chattering excitedly about… a lot of things I don’t know, because they’re speakingother languages and I only speak English—and a little bit of French. I enjoy listening though. I can tell by the inflection and tone that they’re excited to be here. The energy on the bus is buzzing. Plenty of people have been here before, but there are also a ton of young people, like me, who are experiencing their first time.
It’s the middle of the first period when we make it to our seats.
“Italy has better players, so they’ll probably win, but I can’t wait to see USA and Canada compete. The US has the best goalies, but Canada has the best scorers. It’s going to be an exciting match.”
“If the USA has better goalies, does it matter that Canada has better scorers?” I ask.
“Of course it matters. Someone is still better, and I’m sure they both have tricks up their sleeves. I can’t wait for that game.”
Étienne is completely into the match, and though I watch, I don’t jump up and down when certain things happen because I don’t understand what is going on.
“Why do they keep stopping?” I ask.
Étienne gives me a dirty look. “How many times do I have to explain this game to you, Nico? What kind of Canadian are you?”
“The kind that figure skates and makes it to the Olympics.”
He huffs. “Just watch the game.”
Italy scores, and the crowd goes wild, including my cousin.
“So, we’re voting for them?”
“I’m just excited to be here. You should be too.”
“Woohoo,” I say flatly.
“How are we related?” he mutters, putting his attention back on the ice.
I don’t hate the game—I just don’t understand what’s going on, and maybe that’s because it’s all so fast-paced. I hardly know where the puck is, and when the buzzer goes off for a goal, I don’t even see it in the net.
Italy wins 4-1. Étienne is thrilled, like they’re his favorite team or something. He’s talking about me being a bad Canadian because I don’t understand hockey, but if that’s the case, according to his logic, he shouldn’t be rooting for anyonebutCanada.
“We should hang around and see if we can catch the bus back with them.”
“That’s creepy,” I say.
“Rabat-joie!” he shouts, throwing his arms up.
I laugh as we make our way outside, into the cold night air.
