Page 26 of Punchline
Probably not.
Right then, the goal horn sounded, signaling that warmups were kicking off, which gave us all something else to focus on. As soon as players started coming out onto the ice, I was glad we’d decided on a hockey game for our first date. My brain was going in a million different directions, and I was a nervous tongue-tied mess… but I could focus on hockey. I couldalwaysfocus on hockey.
Which meant that when Jake leaned in close—oh my God, he was so close—and asked questions, the hockey-trained side of my brain kicked in.
“How come they aren’t all wearing helmets?”
“The older guys aren’t required to,” I explained. “I think it was… ten, twelve years ago that the NAPH started requiring everyone to wear them during warmups.” I gestured with my soda bottle at the players below. “The guys who were already in before that are grandfathered in, so they don’t have to.”
Jake made a face. “I don’t think I’d want to be out there with all those”—he flailed a hand—“pucks flying everywhere and not wear a helmet.”
“I know, right?” I paused to dig another chip out from under the pile. “But I think it’s a superstition for a lot of guys.”
He turned to me, eyebrows up. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah. Hockey players areridiculouslysuperstitious.”
He glanced down at the ice, then back at me, a lopsided grin on his lips. I was so caught up in staring at him, I almost didn’t hear him ask, “What superstitions do you have?”
“Not washing his jock,” Marek called out.
“Oh, fuck you.” I plucked a jalapeno off the pile and flung it at him, hitting him square in the temple.
“Ack!” He jumped, almost dumping their tray of nachoson the floor, and he called me something Czech and undoubtedly obscene.
“You kind of deserved that, baby,” Carson said, steadying the tray.
Marek’s sunglasses did little to hide his glare. “You know I drove tonight, right?”
“And?”
“And I can make you walk home.”
Carson dipped his finger into the nachos and dabbed some sour cream on Marek’s nose, earning him an indignant squawk.
“Aww, look!” Jake cooed. “They’re practicing for their wedding!”
“Oh, fuck that.” Carson shook his head emphatically. “I’m not smashing wedding cake in his face.”
Jake and I exchanged puzzled glances, then peered at Carson. Marek, too, was eyeing him suspiciously.
Carson looked at each of us, then shrugged as he reached for another chip. “Are you kidding? The cake smashing happens right after the cake cutting, which meanshe”—he pointed sharply at Marek—“will have a knife.”
“Ooh,” Jake said with a solemn nod. “Okay, that’s a valid point.” He elbowed Carson. “In fact, maybe you should cut the cake. Just to be safe.”
“You’re supposed to do it together, dumbass,” Carson retorted.
“Right, but like one of you is actually holding the knife, and the other just sort of puts his hand over yours.” Jake nudged Carson again. “Maybe make sure your hand is the one on the knife?”
Carson grunted and nodded.
Marek responded with something I didn’t hear.
Jake chuckled, then turned to me. “Okay, you still didn’t answer my question. What are your superstitions?”
“Oh. Uh.” I ate a topping-laden chip as I thought about it. “Well, I never put my gloves on for warmups until I’m actually on the ice.”
He tilted his head. “Really?”
