Page 49 of Foster

We chat about the Titans, the excitement of the new season having officially made me into a hockey fan. It’s hard not to be invested when Foster plays for the team and Bowie Jane is officially the cutest and most ardent little fan around. “Penn Navarro’s on fire. The guy’s a machine on the ice.”

“He’s impressive,” Foster agrees, and I glance over at him. Even the way he drives is confident and sexy with his right elbow propped on the console between us, his fingers loosely gripped on the wheel. His left forearm rests casually on his thigh, as if we’re just out taking a Sunday drive through the countryside, not navigating Pittsburgh’s downtown traffic on a Saturday night. “Just wish he’d attempt to gel with the players a bit more.”

“Still standoffish?” I guess, since that’s not the first time Foster’s lamented that.

“Yeah.” His voice is gruff with regret. “He won’t accept anyone’s invitation to go hang out. He’s turned down beers, invitations for dinner, pickle ball, golf. Just no interest in developing personal relationships like the rest of us have.”

“Do you think that has anything to do with the fact that you and your teammates developed stronger than normal bonds when the team was reformed after the crash? I mean… is it natural that all players on a team will be tight?”

“That’s a good question and I do think there is some element to us being the post-crash team that makes our friendships go a little deeper. But even the new guys who joined this season are making efforts to integrate on personal levels.”

“But not Penn.”

“Not Penn,” he agrees. “On the flip side, the first line is killing it. No matter if he’s antisocial, he’s found a rhythm with Stone, Boone, Bain and King that’s working well.” He glances over at me, then back to the road. “You’re really getting into Titans hockey.”

“I have no choice. I learned quickly that your daughter knows the sport very well and is her dad’s biggest fan. I had to get up to speed just so I could understand what she was talking about half the time.”

Foster laughs. It’s deep and rich, and it makes me smile. It’s such a good laugh.

The restaurant Foster takes me to is new and not one I’d have gone to if I had a choice. With my excellent salary and distinct lack of debt, I could afford it, but it’s definitely an establishment that caters to intimate meals and well… I’m not intimate with anyone nor have I been for a long time.

We walk into a vision of elegance, the interior bathed in warm sconces, dimmed chandeliers and soft candlelight. The murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses accentuates the sophisticated atmosphere. Our table is secluded from the rest and the maître d’ seems to have been expecting Foster.

“Please let me know what else we may do to accommodate you this evening, Mr. McInnis,” he says as Foster pulls out the chair for me to sit. Our table is only big enough for two, tucked in a corner, the chairs adjacent to each other for more intimate conversation.

Foster unbuttons his suit jacket and takes the chair next to me.

“Will you be requiring the sommelier?” the maître d’ asks.

“Yes, please,” Foster replies, accepting one of the menus.

I take the other and the maître d’ bows slightly. “Right away, sir.”

Glancing around, I look at some of the other couples, a few tables with four to six people. Everyone’s dressed in suits and elegant dresses, diamonds twinkling on the ladies. I open the menu and I know this place is expensive because there are no prices listed.

At all.

In the past, the type of men I’ve dated have ranged from blue collar to business professionals, but I’ve always worried about the prices on the menu when ordering and usually pick something cheap. That simply isn’t an option tonight.

A woman appears at the table and introduces herself as the sommelier. She hands Foster a wine list, prompting him to ask me, “Do you prefer white or red?”

“Red,” I reply, although I’m not a big drinker at all.

He doesn’t even open the wine list but instead asks, “What is a good red you would recommend and why?”

“The 2020 Trivento Golden Reserve Malbec has an incredibly rich flavor profile. It’s from the Luján de Cuyo region of Argentina known for deep, dark fruit flavors, often with notes of blackberry and plum with subtle earthy or spicy undertones. It’s four hundred dollars for a bottle.”

“We’ll give that a try,” Foster says, handing the thick leather menu back to her. I try not to look alarmed over the cost but when the sommelier leaves, Foster grins at me. “Relax, Mazzy. Enjoy.”

Chuckling, I shake my head. “I don’t think I’ve ever had wine that was more than twenty dollars.”

“The cost isn’t important. Let’s just enjoy some good food and wine.”

It sounds like excellent advice, so I give a sound nod. “Deal. Want to go ahead and pick out what we want to eat? I expect with good food and wine will come intriguing conversation and we won’t want to be interrupted.”

“That’s Mazzy Archer, looking for the most efficient way to do things. I like it.”

We open our menus, discuss the choices and settle on our entrees. Foster is going for the filet mignon with a red wine sauce and it’s the seared sea scallops with risotto for me. A vigilant waiter approaches with a pitcher, fills our water glasses, and because we know what we want, we place our order. With nothing to do but wait for wine and food, Foster gets the jump with the first question.

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