Page 20 of Hard to Get

He cants his head. “Your brother played?”

“Yeah. For the Kelowna Charge.”

His eyes pop open. “Really? I grew up in Kelowna.”

“That’s where you’re from?”

“Yeah. I idolized those Charge players when I was a kid. When did he play there?”

I name the years Harrison played in Kelowna. “The last year Harrison played there was ten years ago.”

“I watched him! Harrison Brooks. Holy shit, you’re his sister?”

“Yep.” This is an uncomfortable reminder that I’m five years older than Jayden.

“He was a fucking tank. Just an absolute unit in front of the net. What’s he doing now?” His forehead creases. “He didn’t get drafted, did he?”

“No. He didn’t want to. He decided university was a better plan. He’s an engineer.”

“No shit. Wow.”

“Small world, right?”

“No kidding.”

I check on our dogs, who now have another playmate: a brown poodle. They’re all fine. “Did you play for the Charge?”

“No. Got drafted by the Monarchs. In Saskatoon. But I only played one season there and then I moved to Brandon.”

“Ah. That’s far from home.”

“It was.” He makes a face that has an unexpected tinge of bitterness. “It was hard. Although I wasn’t supposed to admit that.”

“I remember Harrison having a hard time, too.”

“Really?” His face goes serious.

“Yeah. But that fucking hockey culture wouldn’t let any of you idiots admit it.”

“It’s true.” He lets out a long breath. “We are idiots.”

I have to say I like that he’s admitting this. That he’s not playing tough guy and pretending leaving his family when he was a teenager and moving halfway across the country to live and play with strangers wasn’t hard.

“Room for growth,” I say with a half-smile.

“Yeah.” One corner of his mouth lifts. “Should we go?”

“Okay.”

“Frank! Come!”

Frank comes like a good boy and Betty follows him. Their poodle friend comes, too.

“I’m sorry, baby,” I say to the poodle. She’s wearing a pink sweater so I think she’s a girl. “We can’t take you to the restaurant, too.”

We clip up our pups and head out. It’s only a couple of blocks and around the corner to the Pygmy Goat. I’ve been here before; the food is great. But I’ve never brought Betty.

There’s a small, covered sidewalk patio. Most tables are full but we’re in luck. Betty and Frank say hi to the cutest dachshund as we make our way to one of the empty tables the hostess points out, then flake out at our feet beneath the table. The heater near us gives off delicious warmth.