Chapter 13 Guaranteed Win Night #2
Oh, fuck. I didn’t mean that you’re the worst. Everyone on the team likes to tease me, that’s all.
Logically, it makes zero sense that first my teammates knew I couldn’t stand him, and now they think we’re going out.
But maybe that’s me: someone so mercurial that nobody can predict my mood swings. But it doesn’t bug you, right?
He scowls. I don’t care what people say about my personal life. This campus is way too gossipy.
Whoa. That seems harsh, especially coming from Zen master Mats. It must be residual damage from his breakup with Lana.
We make our way into the arena lobby.
Where’s Marjorie?
Barb drove her home, he replies.
Wait, did she see my goal? I demand. Because maybe I did point at Mats, if Marjorie wasn’t even there.
Of course. It was the highlight of her evening. In fact, she left right after. She said that things weren’t going to get any better.
I turn towards him. Does this sound insane? I thought that if I dedicated a goal to her, it might help cement the donation.
From the way Mats looks at me, he does think I’m insane. How do you do that?
Do what? I ask.
Have so much confidence that you can dedicate a goal before you score it? Most players would point afterwards.
Well, I’m good, I begin, and he chuckles in his low, appealing way. No, seriously. I love that shit—pressure, big games, attention. Mine was always the first hand up when the coach asked who wanted to do the shootout.
Mats shakes his head. Wish I could mainline your attitude.
I grin. Yeah, but what’s the downside? Even if I screw up, who gives a shit? Sure, my teammates are going to mock me, but they do that anyway. As you saw back there.
Now he’s staring with admiration.
So, how did the game go for you guys? I ask.
Marjorie had a great time. She had a lot of questions, but I answered most of them. Good thing I did some studying last night.
Studying what?
Minks stats. Like who the leading scorer is.
I grin, because that would be me.
I don’t know if your goal is going to seal the deal, but it sure didn’t hurt. He sighs. You set the bar pretty high.
What are you talking about? I demand.
Marjorie wants to see one of my games now. With you. But I can’t guarantee any goals. After all, I’m not the top scorer on my team.
Yeah, but you’re no scrub. You’re third in points now, right? I say.
Why, Cleo, have you been checking out my stats? Mats’s grin is adorable.
I blush, then decide to go for it.
Did you want to go out now? I usually eat after a game.
He chuckles. Of course you do. You and your insane metabolism. As he considers my question, I cross my fingers behind my back.
I’ve already eaten, he begins, and my hopes sag. But if you want some company, I can get a drink or something.
My hopes bounce back up. Okay. Well, we could go to the pub, I guess. That’s where the team goes. But I’d rather go someplace quieter, so I can hear about your night. How about H.O.S.? The House of Sandwich is the only all-night diner in St. Viola. For once, I’d rather not run into my teammates.
Mats jangles his keys. Actually, I drove Marjorie here, so I have my car. There’s a Chinese restaurant that’s open late on the highway to Duluth.
Perfect, let’s go.
We pull up to Lucky Fortune House ten minutes later. I decide that leaving Marjorie’s flowers in the car, but inside my gym bag, will keep them from freezing.
I’ve never gotten flowers before, I confess as I carefully wrap them up in a sweatshirt.
Really? Not even for birthdays? Or prom? Mats asks.
Nah, my family isn’t into flowers. And I went to prom with a bunch of my girlfriends.
The restaurant is almost empty, and the waitress motions for us to sit anywhere we want. We slip into a booth with cracked vinyl seating and a Formica tabletop. She brings us laminated menus and a pot of green tea with two rounded cups.
Mats pours tea into both cups and passes one to me. Now I find his good manners charming, rather than irritating. What a difference a night makes.
Thanks. Are you really not going to eat anything? I ask.
I’ll probably eat something, but not a whole meal. Why don’t we order a couple of dishes and share them?
I agree, and we order right away since I’m starving. Mats tells me more about Marjorie’s reactions to the game and everything that happened in the stands.
It was like sitting with a celebrity. People kept stopping by to say hello. The Athletic Director, the Alumni Association President, even the Dean showed up, he says.
The Dean of Monarch College was at a Minks game? That’s amazing, I crow.
Well, only Roger Gordon stayed for more than ten minutes. But Marjorie is a really big deal.
It’s funny, because she seems more like our friend now, I say.
He nods. Kind of underlines how important our dinners have been. You did make a new fan in Barb. She’s going to bring her son to one of your games.
And now I have to take Marjorie to a Mustangs game? I pull out my phone to figure out when that will work. Looks like it won’t be until the playoffs.
He sighs. Playoffs will be tight. Even harder to score a goal like you did.
I could coach you. I regret the words immediately and cover my face. Sorry. Scratch that.
Mats chuckles. Maybe you could improve my weak slapper?
I grimace. Shit. I can’t believe I said that to you. Can we pretend it didn’t happen? There’s nothing wrong with your slap shot.
Eh, it’s not as good as my wrister. But weak may be an exaggeration. He hides his smile behind his cup of tea.
I can’t believe you still remember that. I was such a bitch to you.
But we’ve come a long way since then, he reassures me. When I look across at Mats, his smile is as warm as a hug. I’m close enough to see those golden glints in his dark brown eyes, and how unfair are those dark eyelashes? He doesn’t need bulletproof mascara.
I smile back. We have come a long way. And I own that it’s my fault that we weren’t friends earlier.
Dinner arrives, and it smells delicious. I help myself to General Tso’s chicken, my favourite dish, as well as rice and the Buddha’s Feast veggies that Mr. Healthy ordered.
What are you doing? Mats demands.
I freeze, with the chicken halfway to my mouth. Um, eating?
Are you really using a fork? He sounds shocked.
Well, I’m hungry, and I’m not really good at chopsticks. My voice is way too whiny. Is this his revenge for the slap shot insult?
You’re a very coordinated person, he points out.
I blow out a loud breath. Fine.
I pick up the smooth, ivory plastic chopsticks and stab at a piece of chicken. Unfortunately, the sauce makes it slippery, and it slides back onto my plate. I try again, with the same results.
Goddammit, I mutter. This is like torture. I’m starving and you’re making me learn a new skill before I can even eat.
Mats holds up one hand. Like this. You keep the lower chopstick stable between the base of your thumb and your ring finger. Then you move the upper one with your pointer and middle finger.
Right now, there’s something else I’d like to do with my middle finger. But I try to do exactly what he says and grab another piece of chicken. This time it slides off and hits the floor.
I’m starving and I hate you, I mutter.
You’re almost there. He reaches across the table and adjusts my thumb. There’s a spark when I feel the sensation of Mats’s warm hand on mine. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to feel heat in your lady parts when someone touches your thumb.
Still, the slight adjustment helps. This time, I grab the morsel of chicken and it actually reaches my mouth. I close my eyes in pleasure as I chew and swallow.
No woman has ever worked harder for a bite of food. But it was delicious.
Mats raises an eyebrow, which I interpret as both encouragement and telling me to chill.
I plow on with the chopsticks, and it doesn’t take long to get better. Soon I can manage everything except the rice, which even Mats admits can be difficult.
With Japanese food, you have the rice in a bowl that you can lift, so you can just shovel it directly into your mouth, he explains.
I’ve only had Japanese food once, on a trip to Minneapolis, I admit. Did you eat a lot of it while you were growing up?
Yes, but only in restaurants. My mother doesn’t cook Japanese food.
Of course, I should have realized that only Mats’s father is Japanese. Maybe I’ve been avoiding talking about race with Mats because of our awkward start, but I should be as straightforward as I am with anyone else.
Is your mom just… Canadian? I ask, and immediately wonder if that sounds dumb.
He answers easily. She’s half Swedish and half Irish. But when she worked, my Swedish grandmother often looked after us. So, I’m more aware of my Scandinavian heritage.
I have Swedish ancestors too, but I hardly know anything about my heritage, I admit.
My grandmother always told me how much more egalitarian things are back in Sweden, he remarks, which explains Mats’s respect for women’s hockey and women in general—not typical of hockey bros.
After supper, where I definitely ate the lion’s share, the waitress brings us the bill and fortune cookies.
A family member has a surprise for you, I read aloud. Knowing my family, that doesn’t sound like good news.
When I look up, Mats’s expression is wary, the way it used to be.
Cleo, I want to get one thing straightened out between us. His voice is suddenly tense. I’ve been assuming that, since you’re being so friendly, that you talked to your brother?
My full stomach suddenly twists. Of course, I’ve spoken to Jordan this week, and messaged him too, but he’s never given me any new details.
It’s too easy for him to ignore me at this distance.
Next time I see him in person, I know I’ll find out more.
And, in the meantime, I’m going full speed ahead with Mats.
But now Mats—so conscientious and principled—wants to know if I’ve done the one thing he asked me to do: find out exactly why my brother got cut.
Because Mats would have done it already.
He’s not going to be happy when I offer up the same excuses again.
It’s taken us so long to get to this good place in our relationship, and I don’t want to mess things up now that they’re going so well.
So, I cross my fingers and answer. Yeah. I talked to him. And we’re all good now.
He smiles at me, and I swallow. Well, it’s not a lie if I just backdate the receipts, right? I’m going to find out soon, there will be a good explanation, and everything will work out.
I crumple up the stupid fortune and eat my cookie.
After dinner, Mats drives me home. It’s probably too soon to ask him if he wants to come in and fuck. Because is this even a date? It’s kind of a Marjorie-related event. But it’s also our first time doing something completely alone together, and he seemed to be having a good time.
Thanks for coming out with me tonight, I begin, once we’re parked in front of my house. It was fun.
Mats nods. Yeah. The game was good too. You played really well.
Without thinking—as usual—I fling my arms around Mats’s neck and hug him.
Hey, I really like you, I mumble. Then I get out before he can say a word.
I’m putting myself out there. I want to be more than just friends, but apparently, I’m not ready to hear what Mats wants. Yet.