Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
If I had told myself at the start of the season that I would end up having dinner with Eric Sinclair after an All-Star Weekend victory, I wouldn’t have believed it.
Yet here I am, seated across from Eric for dinner at our hotel’s rooftop restaurant.
Our table has a view of Los Angeles at night, the city buzzing despite the late hour.
Since it’s late January, the restaurant has a few heaters to combat the brisk evening air.
Bistro lights hang from a lattice structure above us, and a small flickering candle provides soft, warm light.
Low instrumental music plays from speakers, accompanying distant sounds of the city below.
It’s romantic and intimate with so few others around, filling my imagination with the impossible fantasy that this is more than just a celebration, that this is a date with Eric.
“This is nice,” Eric says, eyes peeking out from behind the ornate menu. “Atmospheric.”
A waiter comes by to take our order, and we decide on the house special.
Eric asks if I’d be interested in sharing a bottle of wine, and I agree with a shrug.
I’m completely unfamiliar with anything on the wine menu, so I trust Eric’s choice in the matter.
Tomorrow’s our travel day, so there are no hockey expectations whatsoever.
“Did you enjoy your first All-Star Weekend?” Eric asks once we’re alone again.
My smile splits my face. “It was amazing. I loved it!”
“What was your favorite part?”
How can I choose? This weekend made me feel like a kid again, except instead of imagining myself skating alongside the greats, I actually lived it. I shared ice with my peers and other players I admire.
“I enjoyed the elimination games. Braydan’s a great defenseman. I can see why you enjoy playing with him.” I lean my head into my palm. “What about you?”
“Hard to choose, but probably the games too. We did great. I’m still impressed with your poke checks. Your timing’s perfect!”
I could glow thanks to his praise, brighter than any of the lights around the city, brighter than a star in the sky. How can one compliment fill me with such confidence?
My fingers draw lazy circles atop the smooth tablecloth. There’s so much I want to tell Eric before the fairytale comes to an end. “You know, this weekend, Eric… It’s been…”
But before I can finish my thought, the waiter appears again carrying an aged bottle of cabernet sauvignon. The waiter pops the cork, but Eric stops him before he pours our glasses, asking if he can do it instead. The waiter nods, leaving the bottle in Eric’s hands.
Eric pours a glass for both of us, and I stare down at the dark red liquid unsure of how fast or slow to drink it. Wine isn’t usually my drink of choice at a bar, but tonight’s becoming one of those “when in Rome” kind of experiences.
“Sip it slowly,” Eric suggests, sensing my uncertainty. “Try and savor each of the flavor notes.”
I’m no sommelier, but the wine has a bold taste. Sitting here, sipping dark red wine and swirling it in the glass makes me feel like some kind of haughty prince enjoying splendor.
“What do you think?”
Sophisticated wine deserves a sophisticated response, but I’m not the wordsmith in my family, and I blurt out the first words I can think of.
“It’s different. Good.” My dad would cringe if he heard me talking about wine this way. “What I mean to say is that I like it. Is this your favorite?”
“One of them, yes.”
When Eric says nothing further, the music and low mutter of nearby voices fills the dead air.
I put aside my wine glass and fold my arms atop the table.
There’s so much I want to ask to learn more about Eric before the night’s over, but there’s one question which has been nagging me the entire weekend.
“Why did you pick me to be on your team?”
My sudden question catches Eric by surprise. He sits up straighter, but before he has a chance to answer, I stop him.
“Not that I’m ungrateful! The total opposite. I mean, this has been one of the best experiences of my life, and it’s been incredible to play alongside you.” I shrug. “I’m just curious. I mean there were several other goalies you could’ve picked…”
Eric thumbs the side of his wine glass. “I knew in advance I was going to be one of the team captains for All-Star Weekend, so I did a little research ahead of time. You were my first choice.”
My heart skips. “R-Really?”
“Yes, is that so surprising? I expected Callahan to pick you, considering you’re teammates, so I felt fortunate when he chose Harper first instead.
I was already a little familiar with your playstyle, and I’m of the belief that a strong defense makes for a strong team. I thought we would work well together.”
Eric says it so casually, completely unaware of how big of a deal that statement is to me.
“I can actually still remember the first time I caught one of your games.”
“You do?”
“Sandoval’s injury with the Comets was a big shock across the league. What happened to him was terrible.”
Nolan Sandoval, my current backup with the Comets, used to be the starter until I took over.
Three years ago, he was injured during the height of the regular season.
Sandoval’s resulting injuries were season ending.
He spent several months recovering, and when he was cleared to play hockey again, he had to spend time down in the AHL with the Comets’ affiliate team.
Sandoval eventually returned to the NHL, but he replaced our previous backup on the roster—not me.
In the seasons since, he hasn’t been able to reclaim the title of starting goaltender because of how healthy I’ve remained and my consistent performance.
“You had big shoes to fill but you handled it.”
“Thanks, I wish I could’ve made my debut under better circumstances, but I was grateful for the chance.”
“Honestly I’m jealous of your flexibility. I wish I could do the splits, but I can’t. My body refuses.”
“Who needs the splits when you can always be in the best position?”
“Not always,” Eric says with a wry grin.
“Even if you can’t do the splits, you still make amazing saves.” Trying to reign in my inner fanboy around Eric is becoming a hopeless endeavor. “I’ve actually got this poster of you—”
I cut myself off, mortified over what I was about to admit to Eric. It’s damning enough he saw how much I wanted his bobblehead.
“No, no, go on. Finish. What’s the poster?”
I swallow hard. “It’s, uh… It’s well…”
It’s a poster which has seen a lot over the years since college. As ashamed as I am to admit, I’ve practically treated it like an altar. The way I used to look up at it, as if I could somehow worship Eric from afar. The way my eyes would roll into the back of my head right as I was about to…
“Is it the game winning save against New York?”
“Y-Yeah it is,” I mumble into my wine glass before taking a drink. “That’s the one. You looked really cool.”
More than just cool. I’d say Eric’s never looked sexier in the picture, even in all his goalie gear, but that’s not true. Seated across from me, the man’s more handsome in person. Just being in his presence leaves me flustered.
“Just cool?” Eric teases.
“Well, you’ve always…”
Thankfully our waiter returns with dinner, saving me from having to explain further. Two delicious steaks serve as the perfect distraction from wherever that sharp detour was taking our conversation.
Just like lunch, we share more stories about goaltending, everything from crazy saves, to funny interactions from other players who don’t “get goalies”.
Eric doesn’t circle back to the poster, thank God.
Instead, he shares kernels of wisdom he’s collected over the years.
I’ve never spent this much time talking to another player about my career and the art of goaltending.
I’ve never felt more seen and understood, and this is all I’ve ever wanted from another goalie.
This is what I hoped would happen when I first asked Eric to dinner yesterday: to learn more about him and our craft on a deeper level.
To cap off our late dinner, I order a piece of cheesecake and Eric orders chocolate mousse cake.
When the waiter returns with our two desserts, I catch myself salivating over both plates.
I end up inhaling my small slice. Eric, on the other hand, paces himself with his own dessert.
Maybe I should have splurged and ordered another if my sweet tooth’s this horrendous tonight.
“Do you want to try a bite of this?” he asks. “It’s delicious.”
Eric offers a piece of mousse cake using his own fork, and I freeze. I expected him to nudge his plate towards me rather than make such a bold move. If this is supposed to be my perfect night, my one chance to be this close with Eric, then…
I lean forward and take his offering, my heart thudding in my ears. I ignore the fact Eric's feeding me, that his lips, his tongue have been around this same exact utensil. For a few blissful moments, I can pretend this night is more than just dinner with a friend.
Yet when I pull away and settle back into my chair, my pulse refuses to calm down.
This is fine. It has to be. Stop misconstruing this, I tell myself over and over.
Eric’s just being friendly. His teammates love him because he’s fun to be around.
He and Braydan are both foodies. They probably sample food off each others’ plates all the time.
For him, this is just a normal night out with a friend who happens to be another guy.