He opens his mouth then closes it.
“Well.” I pat his chest. “Now you know the bare minimum standard it takes to impress me.”
He narrows his eyes. “I’m going to learn to make donuts. Just so you know. Out of spite.”
“I look forward to it.”
“They’re going to be terrible donuts and you’re going to eat them anyway.” He’s already pulling me toward the next display, back in tour guide mode. “Okay, moving on from your elderly hockey boyfriend—that’s Bobby Orr, completely revolutionized the defenseman position. That’s Messier, won six Cups. That’s?—”
He keeps going, rattling off names, and I just watch him. The way his entire face lights up when he talks about hockey. The gestures, the enthusiasm.
This is Rodriguez with all his walls down, existing in a space surrounded by things he loves.
“You’re not even listening,” he says, catching me staring.
“I am listening.”
“You’re smiling at me, not the displays.”
“Maybe I like watching you more than I like learning about hockey.”
He looks at me. Soft and pleased and a little surprised, like he still can’t quite believe I’m here.
“Come on,” he says, taking my hand again. “There’s one more thing you have to see.”
He leads me into another room with dark wood paneling, atmospheric lighting, and in the middle?—
The Stanley Cup.
The actual Stanley Cup, sitting on a platform, lit from above.
Rodriguez stops dead in the doorway.
“Is that—” I start.
“Yeah.” He’s whispering like we’re in a church and he’s approaching a holy relic.
We move closer and I realize he’s being weird. His hands are in his pockets and he’s standing back from the table.
“You can go closer,” I say. “I think you’re even allowed to?—”
“No! You don’t touch it.” He’s staring at the Cup. “Not unless you’ve won it. It’s—there’s a superstition. You don’t touch it until you’ve earned it.”
I look at him, then at the Cup, then back at him. “You’re serious.”
“Completely serious. Every player knows this. You don’t touch it.” He takes a small step back. “It’s bad luck.”
“That seems a little ridiculous.”
“That’s hockey.” But he’s smiling now. “I know it’s stupid. But I’m not risking it. When I touch that Cup, it’s going to be because I earned it.”
The certainty in his voice tells me he’s serious.
“You really think you’re going to win it.”
“I know I’m going to win it.” He finally tears his eyes away to look at me. “Maybe not this year. Maybe not next year. But someday. And when I do, I’m touching the hell out of that thing. I’m drinking champagne out of it. I’m sleeping next to it.”
“You’ve really thought about this.”
