Page 34 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
His expression shifts slightly, becoming more thoughtful. “It’s... consuming. Early mornings that start before the sun comes up, ice time that never feels like enough, injuries that you playthrough because sitting out means letting your team down. The pressure never really lets up, even in the off-season.”
He pauses, considering his words. “People see the games and think it’s all glory and adrenaline, but most of it is just work. Really hard, really repetitive work that you have to love enough to keep showing up for even when your body’s screaming at you to quit.”
“Do you love it enough?”
“Most days.” He takes a sip of his wine, eyes meeting mine over the glass. “The days I don’t, I remember that it won’t last forever, and that I’ll miss it when it’s gone.”
There’s something refreshingly honest about the way he talks—no false modesty or inflated ego, just the reality of someone who’s found something he’s good at and is willing to work harder than most people can imagine to keep doing it. He’s not selling me an image, he’s letting me see the work beneath the surface.
And I find myself wanting to know more.
Our appetizer arrives—something with burrata and roasted tomatoes that we end up sharing without really discussing it. The conversation flows easily from hockey to my classes to travel to books we’ve read recently. He listens like he’s actually interested in my answers, asks follow-up questions that show he’s been paying attention.
By the time our main courses arrive, I’ve almost forgotten this is technically a date. It feels more like hanging out with someone I’ve known much longer than a few days.
“Okay, confession time,” I say, twirling linguine around my fork. “I was nervous about tonight.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Because you seem...” I pause, trying to find the right words. “Put together. Like you have your life figured out in a way that makes the rest of us look like we’re just winging it.”
He laughs, nearly choking on his bite of steak. “Trust me, I’m winging it as much as anyone else. I just happen to be very good at making lists and pretending I know what I’m doing.”
“The lists thing explains a lot, actually.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing bad. It’s just very... you. Organized.”
“You say that like it’s a character flaw.”
“It’s not. It’s actually kind of nice. Refreshing.” I take another sip of wine, feeling more relaxed than I have all week. “Most guys our age can barely remember to do laundry, let alone plan anything more complicated than what to have for dinner.”
“Low bar,” he observes.
“Devastatingly low. You’d be amazed how impressive basic competence can be.”
Dessert arrives—tiramisu that we decide to split without much discussion. When I reach for my fork at the same time he does, our hands brush briefly. It’s nothing, barely a touch, but my pulse jumps anyway.
His eyes lift to mine at the exact same moment, and the air between us shifts, tightening just enough to notice. Neither of us comments on it, but neither of us looks away immediately either. The moment stretches, filled with possibility and the kind of awareness that makes me suddenly conscious of my breathing.
He let’s me grab the fork, so I do and take a bite.
“Mmm. Good tiramisu,” I say finally, my voice slightly rougher than intended.
He grabs another fork and takes a bite.
“Yeah,” he agrees, but his eyes are still on mine. “Really good.”
When the check comes, he handles it smoothly, without making a production out of paying or arguing when I offer to split it. Just a quick, decisive gesture that suggests this was never a question for him.
As we walk toward the door, he opens it for me without breaking our conversation about whether Die Hard counts as a Christmas movie. Outside, the night air feels cooler and sharper than when I arrived, but I’m warm all over from wine and good conversation and the way he’s looking at me like he’s already planning when he can see me again.
“Thank you for dinner,” I say as we reach the spot where our cars are parked in opposite directions. “This was really nice.”
“It was.” He pauses, hands in his pockets, looking like he wants to say something else. “Can I call you?”
The question is simple, straightforward, but something about the way he asks it—like the answer actually matters to him—makes my heart skip.
