Chapter 18 The Fame Game #2
Well, that’s great news for fans of the Minks. Do you think you can win the championship this year?
Jesus, Lana, if I say yes, all our opponents will use my quote as motivation. Plus, I don’t want to jinx us. I swallow and reply carefully. There are a lot of good teams out there. But we’ll be working our ass—er, butts off in our playoff drive.
Lana turns to face the camera. Thank you so much, Cleo. The next Monarch Minks home game will be on Saturday against the Saint Bernard Raiders. Tickets are still available.
She and Tim have a brief discussion, then she turns back to me, her on-air persona dropped. We’re all done here. Thanks again.
No problem. Will you feature us again once the playoffs start? I’m not afraid to ask for what the team needs.
Lana looks me over appraisingly.
We’ll have to see. Depends on the schedule and what else is happening.
Then she adds, Hockey players are all so humble.
It’s very admirable, but not so great for video.
Is she criticizing the way I answered? Maybe she heard that I’m a big personality, and instead she got another boring hockey player.
Shit. Have I messed things up for the team?
There’s a noise behind us, and we both turn.
It’s Mats. He’s in his dark practice jersey and black helmet, staring at us in surprise. Because why would the two of us be together? Or maybe the contrast between perfect Lana and sweaty old me is making him question his life choices.
Hi, Roy. Lana’s voice is so sugary that I’ve gained five pounds just hearing her. But doesn’t he hate being called Roy?
Hi, Lana. Hi, Cleo. He’s carrying a bucket of pucks with him, because he’s exactly the type of player who would be the first one on the ice. Maybe Lana already knew this about him?
Ugh, I’m not going to twist myself up in paranoid notions. I turn back to her.
Well, if you want more personality, next time, let’s do two players. We play off each other and it can be quite funny.
She thanks me, but she’s preoccupied watching Mats skate around the rink. He does have a beautiful skating stride.
I head to the dressing room to change, but my post-practice high is gone. I feel tense and worried. I shower, change, and head straight home. I don’t even pause to watch Mats practise, because that feels too needy. I’m in a bit of a daze as I finish an assignment and then make something to eat.
Oh my god, Nellie, you’re famous, Jinx exclaims as I’m finishing my supper.
I groan. It’s up already? Monarch social media must have a gazillion volunteers.
Volunteers? They get paid, plus they get course credits, says Woolly. Students battle to get those jobs.
Figures. While our social media is done in her spare time by a freshman on the team and our games get written up by the hard-working C.J., Lana and Tim flounce around with an expense account.
Do I want to see it? I ask as I pull out my phone.
Of course. You’re the one who’s always complaining that we don’t get enough publicity, replies Jinx.
I watch with Becks peering over my shoulder. I look like anyone who just finished an hour of hockey practice: sweaty and red, with that forehead crease from wearing a helmet. I sound more robotic than normal, and my smile looks as awkward as it felt.
Your lip gloss looks good, Becks declares. She must have hi-def vision, since I can barely see it.
It’s not that I look bad; it’s just the glaring contrast between myself and Lana. She looks poised and glowing, while I look like a lobster. I’m finding it tough to understand what Mats’s taste in women is. Super-Lana and I have nothing in common.
Oh my god! You mentioned me! Becks flings an arm around my neck and kisses the side of my head. Thank you.
Well, whatever I lacked in personality, I made up in teamwork.
Once the video is done, I stand up with a sigh. It’s good for the team, right?
Why are you not more excited? Jinx asks.
I shrug. It’s not a big fucking deal, right? I mean, who even watches that stuff? I take my plate into the kitchen and load it into the dishwasher, then I start washing up the cooking pans.
Who are you, and what have you done with Nellie? Woolly demands. She never does clean-up.
Ugh, am I stress-cleaning? Or is Mats’s anal tidiness rubbing off on me?
There’s a knock on the front door. Jinx runs to answer it.
Oh, hey, Mats. How are you? I hear her say.
I dry my hands and walk to the door. Mats is bundled up in a black down parka, beanie, and scarf, as usual.
He smiles at me. Sorry to barge in like this.
No problem. I’m always happy to see you, I say.
Awwwww, croons Jinx.
Don’t you have something better to do? I ask my nosy roomie.
Nope, she replies sweetly, but leaves.
Look, I won’t stay. I just brought these for you. From inside his jacket, he produces a bouquet wrapped in ribbon and brown paper. It’s three deep pink roses with lush ferns and baby’s breath. They’re so beautiful, and far more artistic than Marjorie’s bouquet.
Oh, wow. What’s the occasion? Because I’m not the kind of person who gets random flowers. Or any flowers at all, except from octogenarians.
Can’t you guess? He winks.
Is this for my hat trick?
He nods. Yeah. I should have had them here yesterday, right after the Saturday game.
But you also had a Saturday game, and you volunteer on Sundays, I protest as a whoosh of happiness rolls over me.
My first flowers from a guy, and they’re so much more special for waiting.
I’m definitely going to press them in a book, or whatever the fuck you do to keep flowers forever.
I wrap my arms around his puffy exterior and squeeze tightly.
Thank you, Mats. You’re the best.
You’re very welcome.
I feel warm and fuzzy inside as I tilt my face up and kiss him. As usual, his kiss feels both sweetly tender and molten hot. How does he do that? We break apart.
Hey, do you have time to take a walk? I ask.
Sure.
First, I put the flowers into a vase, then I get dressed and we head out. At first, we walk in silence, which is a normal state for Mats and completely abnormal for me.
Is everything okay? he asks.
I don’t want to sound like a jealous girlfriend, but at the same time, Mats is always praising the honesty in our relationship.
Do you have a type? I ask.
His quizzical eyebrow goes up. A type of what?
Girlfriend? Or a type of woman that you’re attracted to?
Oh.
We walk along farther while he considers the question. He takes my hand in his, which makes me feel a bit better. At least he’s not fleeing.
Even under his knit cap, I can see his forehead wrinkle. I don’t think so. I change and hopefully grow, so the kind of person I’m attracted to probably evolves too.
Wait, so does this mean that in the Pokémon universe of girlfriends, I’m the more evolved version of Lana? That doesn’t seem believable. Ugh, maybe I’ll have to be more specific. That’s what Mats likes anyway.
He watches my mental gymnastics with concern. Actually, I do like blondes, he offers.
This tiny fact cheers me up. Really? Because I’m a natural blonde, you know? I hold up one of my pigtails as proof.
He chuckles. I’m aware. Do you think guys are so clueless that they don’t notice when their girlfriend goes to a salon for hours and comes back with a new hair colour?
By salon, do you mean when Woolly trims my hair in the kitchen?
Mats’s deep laugh echoes in the cool evening air. Making him laugh is one of my favourite things. I wrap my arms around his middle and squeeze. He hugs me back, and being enveloped by his strong arms feels like safety.
When we resume walking, I apologize for acting so weird. I’m so sorry, that interview with Lana today threw me off balance.
Ah. Mats’s expression tightens, and I worry that I’ve offended him.
Really, I’m not normally the jealous girlfriend type. You don’t have to worry.
Cleo, I don’t like to speak badly of about ex-girlfriends, he begins cautiously.
It’s fine with me, I joke.
But he remains serious. I’m just going to say one thing: I feel like I can be myself with you. That you like me exactly as I am.
How very Mats of him. Diplomatically, he doesn’t say one bad thing about Lana, but I can read between the lines. She wanted him to be different. Maybe a super-polished Roy to partner with her glossy self? Well, her loss, because authentic Mats is the very best boyfriend.
I hug him again, and this time we kiss. Just a gentle brush of our lips that reminds me of our very first kiss. Then we head back to my place.
I loop my arm through his. Did you know that those roses are the first flowers I’ve gotten from a guy?
Mats nods proudly. Of course. You told me that night we went for Chinese food.
Well, I love them. Roses are so romantic.
I’m glad you like them. I went to the florist to pick them out. Even in the dim light, I can tell that he’s blushing.
What is it? Oh, shit, do they have some special flower meaning? I don’t know any of that stuff. But I’m sure that pink isn’t the hat trick rose.
He bites his bottom lip and, for a moment, I wonder if he’s going to tell. Then he whispers into my ear, They’re the exact colour of your nipples.
I laugh loudly and shove him. Mats, you pervert.
But his fixation on with my nipples is a turn-on. I give him a little hip check. Maybe we should double-check. You know, match them up in real life.
He grins. Maybe we should.
But by the time we get home, my roommates have organized a shooting accuracy contest in our long hallway.
Woolly has set up targets, and Becks has a leaderboard on the wall.
We get sucked into playing. Soon, Mats is in the midst of my crazy friends, all of us cheering on great shots and groaning at near-misses.
He’s laughing and joking and enjoying himself.
He fits so perfectly into my life.