I lower myself onto the blanket beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. Around us, crickets begin their evening symphony.
Oliver opens the basket and begins laying out the spread. Sandwiches wrapped in parchment paper, a container of sliced fruit, cheese cubes, and two bottles of sparkling water.
“This looks amazing.” The sandwiches are neatly assembled, the bread is fresh, and the layers are visible through the parchment. “Did you really make all of this yourself?”
“I did.” Oliver hands me a sandwich—turkey and Swiss, with lettuce and tomato, and what looks like fancy mustard. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised. I’m impressed.” I unwrap the parchment carefully, treating it like the gift it is. “Most of the hockey players I know subsist on protein shakes and whatever Gerard hasn’t eaten first.”
Oliver laughs boisterously. “Fair point. But I actually like cooking. It’s relaxing.”
“Really?” I take a bite of the sandwich, and the flavors hit me all at once—the savory turkey, the sharp cheese, the bright pop of mustard. It’s simple but perfect. “This is delicious, by the way.”
“Thanks.” There’s a pleased flush creeping up his neck again. “I took a cooking class in high school. Elective credit, mostly because I thought it’d be an easy A. But I ended up loving it.”
“What did you love about it?”
Oliver considers the question, chewing thoughtfully on his own sandwich. “The exactness, I think. Following a recipe, measuring ingredients, knowing that if you do everything right,you’ll get something good at the end.” He shrugs, but there’s something vulnerable in the gesture. “Hockey’s like that, too, in a way. Practice, repetition, execution. But cooking has immediate results. You can eat your success.”
“Or your failure.”
“True. I’ve had some spectacular failures. There was a soufflé incident sophomore year that we don’t talk about.”
“Now I need to hear about the soufflé incident.”
“Absolutely not. Some trauma is too fresh.”
I smile, taking another bite of my sandwich. The breeze picks up, carrying pleasing scents, and I let myself sink into the moment. This is nice. No, this is more than nice. This is everything I didn’t know I was missing.
“So if hockey doesn’t work out,” I venture, “do you have a backup plan?”
A shadow crosses Oliver’s face, his smile faltering for a heartbeat before steadying itself again. “Yeah. I mean, sports management is the official plan. But if all else fails, at least I can feed myself. Maybe open a little café somewhere. Nothing fancy. Just good food and good coffee.”
“Oliver’s Eatery,” I suggest. “Or Jacoby’s Joint.”
He chokes on his sandwich. “Please never say ‘Jacoby’s Joint’ again.”
“The Hungry Hockey Player?”
“That’s so much worse.”
“I’m trying to help.”
“You’re really not.”
We finish our sandwiches between bouts of terrible restaurant name suggestions, working our way through the fruit and cheese as the sky deepens from orange to rose to violet. The first fireflies emerge from the grass around us, blinking silent signals in the gathering dusk.
Oliver lies back on the blanket, folding his arms behind his head. After a moment’s hesitation, I do the same, positioningmyself beside him so that our bodies brush with every breath. Soon, the last traces of sunset bleed into the horizon.
“This is nice,” he says softly.
“It is.”
“I could stay here forever.”
“The mosquitoes might have something to say about that.”
“Way to kill the mood, Abrams.”
