Page 12 of Playing for Keeps

“Also, Thanksgiving is in October,” he added. “We like to pregame.”

“October,” I repeated.

“And ketchup chips,” he said, with deep seriousness. “And butter tarts that are basically national treasure. Nanaimo bars which will change your life. Oh, and Hockey Night in Canada. Very capital letters.”

“Ah,” I said. “Here we go.”

“You say that like you’re bracing.”

“I am,” I said. “Because I know you’re going to claim hockey is the beating heart of your people, and then you’ll make me watch twenty lads in helmets fighting over a puck.”

He was about to argue when the bar erupted. It wasn’t just a cheer, but a collective roar that came from the television over the bar. The screen exploded with white ice and a blue line, and hockey players were flying across it like meteors. People stood, clapped, and whistled. Someone was even banging his pint glass on the bar in a rhythm like a train starting.

“Case in point,” he said, pointing to the TV with his glass. “Hockey is VERY popular. Capitals. Italics. Underline. It’s in our water. You won’t be able to avoid it.”

I took another sip and listened to the commentators talking at an unbelievable speed. “I don’t know anything about it,” I admitted, watching a player slide across the goal line. The bar went crazy again, a wave of sound washing over us.

“I don’t know enough about the rules to explain them to you,” he said, and shrugged. “I mean, there are rules like offside and icing, but honestly? Sometimes the whistle blows and I just cheer along with everyone else.”

“That seems dangerous,” I said. “What if you’re cheering for a penalty?”

“It’s still community,” he said, and grinned. “Plus the players are very nice to look at.”

“Ah,” I said. “The truth emerges.”

“I’m not blind, Em,” he said, spreading his hands. “Those broad shoulders, the easy smiles – half of them could walk a runway if they weren’t skating.”

I tried not to laugh into my drink, but failed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I am extremely believable,” he said. “Anyway, I’ll acclimatize you. You’ll start saying forecheck in your sleep.”

“That sounds like a medical procedure.”

“Only for the opponents.”

On screen, the camera swooped down and a goalie dropped to his knees in a butterfly of pads.

“Okay,” Simon said, finishing his margarita with a heroic slurp. “Enough hockey for tonight. It’s nearly time.”

“For?”

“Salsa,” he said, eyes bright. “The Candela awaits.”

“I’m not sure if I remember the steps,” I said. “It’s been ages.”

“No worries. We’ll warm up. We’ll keep it easy. And if everything goes wrong, we’ll fake it with confidence.”

“Is that a Canadian tradition too?” I asked.

“It’s a human tradition,” he said. “But we do excel.”

We put on our coats and stepped back into the light rain. The Candela was just a few streets away. As we walked, Simon held his umbrella over us again, like a tiny personal greenhouse.

The club’s sign was glowing warm white above two black doors that vibrated with the bass from inside. When we stepped inside, the sound became a living thing, with congas shaking, horns cutting through the night, and Spanish voices I didn’t understand but could feel down my spine. Simon’s grin became even bigger.

The place was already buzzing with energy: couples twirling across the floor, skirts flaring and heels clattering. Conversations drifted around us, but the music dominated, pulsing through the speakers and into the crowd until the whole room was beating as one. The atmosphere swept me up so quickly that I didn’t even feel nervous.

Simon leaned in close enough that I could hear him over the band. “See? No pressure. Only us and the music.”