Chapter 13 Mueller
Asher is a self-proclaimed “foodie” and therefore the restaurant choice was his.
Plus, he sort of organized it. So we are at an Italian place in Midtown, which he says is a local favorite.
I'm not sure how he's already identified local favorites when he's been here for less than a month. The man has a gift.
There are twelve of us. Asher organized it through the group chat, casual invite, no pressure, and somehow that means everyone who's available shows up.
The four of us rookies. Lundy and Soucy.
Jensen. Marchetti, Thompson, Kowalski. Ikonen.
The table is long and loud and the bread basket is gone before we've ordered drinks.
I end up between Davis and Hájek, which is where I always end up.
I like it. It’s comfortable. Across the table, Lundy is studying the menu with the quiet focus of a man who takes restaurant decisions seriously.
Soucy is next to him, and when the server comes around, Soucy orders plain pasta with olive oil, nothing else, very specific.
Lundy leans close to the server, his mouth moving, and the server nods and makes a note.
When the food arrives later, Soucy's pasta is exactly what he asked for.
Nothing extra, no garnish, no surprise herbs.
Lundy checks the plate before Soucy sees it, a quick glance, and then goes back to his own meal.
It's a small thing. You'd miss it if you weren't paying attention.
I notice it because the food is right in front of me. It seems like a good teammate move.
Asher is everywhere. He starts at one end of the table and somehow migrates to the other over the course of an hour, pulling up a chair, leaning into conversations, remembering what everyone ordered last time they went out, which was four days ago at a barbecue place.
He asks Hájek about the food in Brno. Novák tells him about the Czech league.
He gets Jensen going on a story about a fishing trip in Manitoba that involves a canoe, a cooler of beer, and a deeply unfortunate encounter with a goose.
The table is in tears by the time Jensen gets to the part about the park ranger.
At some point Asher lands in the open seat next to Ikonen, saying something that makes Ikonen look at him with an expression I'd describe as tolerant. They talk for a while, with Asher gesturing with a fork in his hand the entire time. Ikonen doesn't gesture at all.
Midway through the main course, Marchetti pulls out his phone and leans across the table toward Thompson. "Dude." He turns the screen so Thompson can see it. "The hockey in this is SO bad. You have to read it."
Thompson grabs the phone. His eyes go wide. "No way. Is this the one you were telling me about where the guy scores from center ice?"
"IN THE PLAYOFFS," Marchetti says, louder than necessary. "A slapshot. From center ice. In the Stanley Cup Finals."
"That's not how hockey works," I say, because it isn't. That doesn’t make any sense. Not in the playoffs.
"Exactly," Marchetti says, pointing at me with his fork. "That's the whole point. We're documenting the inaccuracies."
Kowalski leans in from Marchetti's other side, completely straight-faced. "It's research. We're compiling data."
"On bad hockey in books?" I ask.
"On bad hockey in fiction. Specifically romance," Kowalski says. "There's a difference. The scope is broader than you'd think."
Thompson is scrolling through Marchetti's phone with the intensity of someone reviewing game film. "Oh, there's a sequel. March. There's a SEQUEL."
"I know," Marchetti says, a smile blooming on his face. "I already bought it."
They huddle over the phone. I turn back to my food.
I don't understand why three grown men are this excited about hockey being wrong in a book, but the pasta is good and Jensen's goose story has started a second round of animal encounter stories at the other end of the table, and the restaurant is warm and full of noise.
And I am here, with friends and the captains of the team and I want to remember this moment.
After dinner, we stand outside on the sidewalk in the Atlanta heat, which hasn't let up even at nine-thirty at night.
Asher is making sure everyone has a ride.
Jensen is still telling the goose story to Hájek, who is listening with the wide-eyed focus of someone experiencing a new dialect of English.
Ikonen stands a few feet apart from the group, hands in his pockets, watching the street.
Not disconnected. Just at his usual distance.
Asher drifts over to him. Ikonen nods once. They stand there for a moment, side by side, not talking.
I pull out my phone and text my mom.
Team dinner tonight. Italian place. Food was great. I think this team is going to be good.
She responds in thirty seconds, because she always responds in thirty seconds.
I'm so proud of you, Samuel. Are you eating enough vegetables?
I look at the twelve guys on the sidewalk, the ones still laughing and the ones saying goodbye and the captain and the alternate captain standing together in a pocket of quiet, and this is the first time since I got here that the team has felt like a team and not just a collection of guys who happen to share a locker room.
I don't know what changed. Maybe the dinner.
Maybe making friends with the other rookies. Maybe just time.
I text back.
Yes, Mom. I'm eating vegetables.
This is a lie. I had pasta and bread and more pasta. But she doesn't need to know that.