Page 23 of O Goalie Night
“For my arm? Or for laughing at my sweet dance moves?” she jokes, but I can tell she’s hurting.
“Both. May I?”
She offers me her injured arm and I gently slide up the sleeve of her sweater, feeling around her elbow joint to assess if anything is broken. I try not to notice how soft her skin is or that she smells faintly like cinnamon. When I’m certain she’s not seriously hurt, I release her, saying, “Your elbow is likely just bruised and should be fine in a day or two. As for your dance moves, I'm not sureanything can be done. And your taste in music is atrocious.”
She gives me a gentle shove, using her good arm, eyes widening as she gapes at me in mock horror. “I beg your pardon? Taking Care Of Christmas is a Canadian classic.”
“No. Taking Care of Business is a Canadian classic. Taking Care Of Christmas is an embarrassment to our nation.”
“That’s unpatriotic, Foster. Randy Bachman is rolling over in his grave.”
“I don’t think he’s died yet.”
“Well, he will someday and when he does, he’ll be rolling.”
I laugh again at the sheer ridiculousness of this conversation and she joins in, but grimaces when she straightens her arm.
“Do you need ice?” I ask when I see that it’s already starting to develop a dark purple bruise. The sudden urge to lean forward and press my lips to it has me taking a huge step back.
Pull yourself together, man.
“No, I’m fine,” she answers, tugging the sleeve back in place and giving her arm a little shake. “Though if you’re going to maim me again, at least make a useful injury like a sprained ankle or a few broken toes. Coffee?”
Confused by her statement, I answer, “Okay.”
“Okay, you’ll aim for my feet next time? Or okay, you’d like some coffee?” She squints up at me, coffee pot in hand and I notice that her left eye gets the tiniest bit smaller than the other when she smiles.
It’s fucking adorable.
“Yes to coffee. No to injuring you again.”
“Pity,” is her only response as she fills the mug almost to the top and passes it to me.
“Great game last night!” She walks back to the counter and starts to add pre-measured ingredients into a large mixing bowl. “The commentators were practically drooling over how well you were tracking the puck.”
I don’t want to talk about hockey right now. “Can we go back to the part about you wanting to be on the injured list?”
She’s still smiling, but her shoulders sag a bit. “You don’t want to hear about it. It’s silly.”
I join her at the counter and give her my most serious face before answering, “I’m very silly.”
Her laugh might be the most joyful one I’ve ever heard in my life. It brightens the already bright room and floods it with warmth.
“It’s not a big deal, really. There’s a skating field trip for my class on the last day of school.”
“And?”
“And I never learned how to skate.”
I’m not sure what I was expecting her to say, but it wasn’t that. Most of the kids I grew up with learned to skate before they learned how to tie their shoes.
“Oh.” It’s literally all I can think of to say.
“I actually have a big favour to ask of you.” She’s abandoned her mixing and has turned to face me.
“Yeah?” I already know whatever it is, I’m going to say yes.
“I had planned on inviting Ben over to my apartment for a late birthday dinner since we didn’t get to celebrate with him this year. I’ve got all the ingredients to make mymom’s lasagna – it’s his favourite. Would it be OK if I invited him here tonight?”
