Page 11 of Put a Rink on It

Instead of replaying the conversation with Kaitlyn in my head, I pick out clothes for a night out at the bar.

The bar isn’t far from the arena, and I end up finding a spot on a one-way street one street over. I meet up with Bash Novak on the sidewalk, and we walk together.

From the outside, it’s nondescript, with a flashing “OPEN” sign in neon colors on one side of the door and a Nautilus banner on the other.

“The locals are cool and don’t bother us too much. There shouldn’t be too many visitors since it’s not game day,” Novak explains as we walk inside, my eyes adjusting to the darkened lighting.

A wooden bar takes up most of the back wall, with booths along the right and left walls. Tables line the center of the floor, and the support for Hartford’s sports teams decorates the top of the walls. Though the Nautilus team is only a few months old, it’s well represented.

Our teammates occupy the back two booths on the left, and we make our way back there. I slide in next to Shane Mignone, and he pushes a full glass of beer my way.

“The best local beer. If you want something different, go see Zeke. He’ll hook you up. He knows to add it to the tab to be settled later.”

“Cool, thanks.”

Over the next ten minutes, more players drift into the bar. Chairs are dragged over so we’re not stuffed into the space, the conversation centering on hockey.

Much to my dismay, Schurbatski never shows up. It would have been nice to catch up with him outside the arena. We got along well in college, though he’s not the most forthcoming guy, but we would have found something to talk about. It’s been nearly a decade since we played together.

Three beers in, I should call it quits. I won’t be hungover, but there’s a reason I limit my beer intake during the season. Physically, my body can handle the alcohol. It’s my mentality that can’t.

“I should get home to the Mrs.,” a player states, standing up from the bench and stretching his arms above his head. I can’t be sure of his name at the current moment, but he’s a winger. One of the best in the league. I hated him when I played for Minnesota, always trying to mow me down, shove me out of the way, provoke me into a penalty.

And now he’s my teammate. Hockey is indeed weird. Words Marina repeated to me a hundred times throughout our friendship. At the thought of her, I smile.

“I should go see mine, too.”

Nearly every pair of eyes at the bar turns my way. What did I say? I rewind to what came out of my mouth.

I should go see mine, too. My what, I wonder, trying to recall what I was responding to.

The winger mentioned something about going home to his wife.

And I responded with “mine.”

My. Wife.

I shake my head, not quite believing what I said.

Until a round of applause and cheers erupts from the guys, a few “congrats” and “hell, yeahs” added in for good measure. To celebrate my news of having a wife.

My heartbeat kicks up faster, like I’m chasing down an opponent headed for our goal, knowing I need to stop him.

“What’s her name?” another teammate asks. It’s an innocent question, if it wasn’t a lie.

“Marina,” I blurt. “My wife’s name is Marina.”

CHAPTER 4

marina

Aloud pounding jars me from sleep. A peek at my phone tells me it’s a little after six. Who could be at my house at this time of the morning? And why are they knocking so loudly?

The noise doesn’t let up, so I reluctantly push off the covers and climb out of bed, padding my way from my bedroom. Forgetting I slept in a T-shirt and boxer shorts last night, the chilly air hits me immediately. I race to the living room, grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch to wrap around myself before opening the front door.

“Ships, it’s me. Open up. It’s freaking freezing out here. I need to talk to you. Now. Open the door.”

I’m not only confused to learn it’s Nero on the other side, but befuddled by his string of short sentences and yapping.