Page 59 of Crossing the Top Line

“Ready?” he asks, taking a step closer.

His stare is heavy as he runs it down my body and back up to my face, and I don’t miss the way his eyes linger on my lips. I clear my throat and give myself a firm mental shake before I forget why he’s here in the first place. Lunch. Right. Have to keep up the tradition. I step out from the room with a nod, leading the way toward the elevators to give myself a few seconds to get it together and control the color of my cheeks. Oliver falls into step beside me, and we’re quiet as we make our way through the lobby and out onto the street.

I let him lead as we walk along the sidewalk, passing shops and boutiques on the way, their front window displays full of reds, oranges, yellows, and browns in celebration of the season. The trees planted in the center median of the street are beginning to turn, the light breeze crisp enough to complete the picturesque autumn afternoon around us.

“There’s this place I remember going to with my dad when we came to watch games,” Oliver says in the comfortable silence as we wait at a corner for the light to change.

I look up at him, smiling. “Did you go a lot?” I ask.

Oliver nods, looking down to meet my eyes. “We always had season tickets. He’s going to be there tomorrow night, but he declined the invitation to sit in a box.”

“Who will he be cheering for?” I ask with a little giggle.

Oliver smirks. “I’d hope the Mystic, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he cheered for the Habs. Hard to teach an old dog new tricks.”

We share a laugh, and the light changes. But as I go to step off the curb, Oliver grabs my hand and pulls me back with a shout, reacting just in time to save me from being splattered against the front of a car that flies through the intersection at the last minute. My heart races, adrenaline flooding my system from the near-death encounter, but Oliver is hurling a string of colorful insults in both English and French after the reckless driver, most of which I don’t understand but can infer their meanings based on his tone.

I look down after a moment, realizing with a flush that Oliver still has his fingers threaded through mine, and as we cross the road and continue toward our destination, he makes no move to drop my hand. And even if I know I should, I find I don’t want to end the contact. His fingers are warm and rough with callouses, but they fit perfectly into the spaces between mine. The ink of his tattoos is stark against his skin, but I can’t deny the artistry.

We don’t have to walk much farther before Oliver stops and grins at me for a moment. The restaurant he chose is strikingly similar to our po’ boy shop. The sign above the door is the only reason I know it’s an eating establishment, as there’s no window display or decoration to the brick walls. Inside, though, the atmosphere is cozy and warm, with low lights and multiple televisions all tuned to a replay of a vintage hockey game. Tables are scattered around the floor in a haphazard way, like they don’t stay in their assigned places for long, so the staff has given up on trying to correct it.

There’s no one else here at the moment, but we linger on the threshold, looking around for some sort of sign as to what we should do.

“I’ll be with you in just a moment. Go ahead and have a seat, if you can find one in this rush,” the bartender calls, laughing at her own joke.

Oliver and I chuckle lightly before choosing a table for two near the back. The menus are tucked behind a napkin dispenser, with a simple selection of pub food. I look around now that my eyes have adjusted to the dim light and can’t help but grin. Montreal Canadiens memorabilia covers almost every inch of the walls. Signed jerseys, hockey sticks, framed photographs of the many highlight moments in the club’s long history are on proud display. And now that I’m paying attention, the game on the television is a Habs game from the 80s.

“Bit dangerous, don’t you think? To come to a homer pub?” I ask, voice low and a little mischievous.

Oliver looks up, amber eyes bright under the brim of his hat despite the low light. He smirks at me and shrugs.

“We’re not associated with any of the rival teams. And it’s not game day. We should be fine,” he says, turning his attention back to the menu.

I give him a skeptical look, not that he notices. It takes a little while for the bartender to make her way over to us, during which time a group of three guys comes in and sits at a table nearby, not even hesitating. Regulars, I’d wager, confirmed as the bartender brings them three pints of beer even though none of them have so much as glanced at a menu. She makes her way to our table, taking our order without needing to write it down. I stick with a simple burger and fries, and Oliver orders a chicken sandwich.

“You could be less of a cliché, you know,” I tease once we’re alone again.

Oliver rolls his eyes, taking my hand over the table. “You and I both know Coach would have my head if he learned I was eating fried food the day before a game,” he says emphatically.

I laugh outright. “I don’t know why y’all are so scared of him. Logan isn’t that bad.”

“Well, he can’t make you do bag skates if you step out of line. And…Logan?” Oliver asks back, tilting his head as he gives my hand a little squeeze.

I flush as I realize my mistake. I try to remember to call Logan “Coach” whenever I’m around players in an effort to not undermine his authority. I try to think of the right way to respond that won’t lead to Oliver reading into the situation any more than he already has. Thankfully, I’m saved from having to answer that inquiry as the bartender comes back with our drinks, and another group comes in the door. As she scurries off, the group of guys lets out a cry of delight as a goal is scored on the television.

“I’m telling you, boys. If we had a team like that, we’d never miss a Stanley Cup,” one of them crows, loud enough for us to hear clearly.

I roll my eyes, and Oliver chuckles. Unfortunately, one of the more astute members of their party catches it and turns his glare on us.

“What are you laughing at, bud?” he fires at us.

Oliver sits back, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Nothing, man. Just hard to compare hockey today to hockey back then. It’s a different game,” he says.

All three guys turn their attention to us now, and I sit back, crossing one of my legs over the other and folding my arms over my chest as I get a good look at them. They’re all older than us, probably pushing forty if the grays and thinning hairlines are any indication.

“They’re still skating on ice and pushing a puck around with a stick. Not so different,” the antagonizer fires off, pushing back his strawberry blonde hair with one hand before taking a drink of his beer.

I roll my eyes, biting my tongue. Unfortunately, the loudmouth’s watery blue eyes are sharper than I’d anticipated, and he narrows a glare at me.

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