Chapter Four November #4
will probably take two days off to recover but should be in for the game tuesday
just don’t expect any goals haha
It was weird to text while naked, so he stopped there. Leaving the phone to charge on his nightstand, Nick took his time to dry off and put on clothes.
Jensie from Hockey (9:09 p.m.)
congrats
Disappointment bubbled in his chest at the one-word response. He should just let it be and—
Nick (9:15 p.m.)
did you go to that stick and puck this morning?
Well. He’d managed to avoid saying “our stick-and-puck,” so that was something.
Jensie from Hockey (9:16 p.m.)
yeah just did some skating. let some kids talk me into a pick-up
Nick’s fingers hovered over his phone. He didn’t want to put his phone away, not yet.
He should update his family about the run—he’d gotten messages from both his dad and Terry while he’d been getting his clothes on—or log into his work email and get a head start on next week.
That way he could have an excuse to keep his phone in-hand in case more messages came through.
A minute ticked by. Another. He was paralyzed, hoping that he could find the strength to move his thumb and praying he wouldn’t need to.
Jensie from Hockey (9:21 p.m.)
I’m always starving after a tourney
so you’re probably hungry wanna grab food?
He looked down at his clothes—torn sweatpants and a henley he wasn’t sure he’d actually washed in a couple weeks—and resigned himself to having to change out of his comfy outfit into something halfway presentable.
Not that it was hard to convince himself; he wasn’t sure he could think of a better reason to go out than to meet up with Brady.
Nick (9:22 p.m.)
i could eat
where at?
A GPS coordinate appeared a moment later, showing a bar maybe two miles from his place with the colorful name Krazy Dan’s and a three-star rating that left no doubt that this was an establishment of only the highest caliber.
He still didn’t exactly know where Brady lived, only that it was easy walking distance, and this further cemented how damn close they were, yet they’d never have crossed paths if not for hockey. Funny how life worked.
Nick (9:23 p.m.)
you’re totally already there aren’t you
The reply this time took a little longer, but then he was graced with a selfie of Brady, backward cap, Pens jersey, and a hockey game on in the background. It was also a little blurry, making him think maybe Brady didn’t do the selfie thing very often.
Nick (9:26 p.m.)
i’ll be there in a bit. order me some wings? need some protein
*
The bar was definitely a dive at its finest. The decor was a mess: the lopsided shelves in the entryway were decorated with local high-school team gear; the bar was covered with beer-related memorabilia from every big-name brewery in the country; and there was a collection of run-down arcade games in the back room.
The bar was broken into three main spaces, and they didn’t look like they belonged to the same building.
There were no less than four different types of flooring, awkward dividers that were low enough that Nick’d run into them if he wasn’t paying attention, and a stage randomly hiding in a corner by the kitchen entrance.
It was ugly as hell, and Nick was immediately enchanted by it.
“I’ve never been to this place before and it’s amazing,” Nick said without preamble, and he sat down across from Brady.
Brady offered him a fry. “It’s a shithole, but it has cheap beer and there are usually so few people around that they put on Pens games when I ask ’em to.”
“No, no, you’re missing the whole point.
This is a real dive bar. You get these new hipster places opening up that have ‘dive’ in the name, but they’re completely clean and polished and way too thought-out to be a dive.
This place…” Nick gestured around them. He half expected a ceiling tile to fall out with perfect comedic timing and was mildly disappointed when one didn’t.
“You don’t plan out a place like this. This is a dive au naturel. ”
“It’s crap,” Brady said firmly. “I literally wouldn’t come here if it weren’t right by my apartment and the Bohs weren’t a buck.”
“Uh huh. Don’t pretend like you don’t love this place.”
Brady rolled his eyes and noticeably didn’t argue. “Food’s only okay. Burgers are the best, haven’t really ventured too much into the other stuff on the menu.” He pushed a plate of wings across the table to him. “Wings aren’t bad either.”
“Oh gee, thank you for inviting me to this place you say is crap, features Natty Boh as the drink special, and where the food is only okay. After my hard run today, I’m so glad to treat myself to such finery.”
“I’ve seen you eat a protein bar that fell on the ice. Don’t you pretend you’re used to fine dining.”
“Fair,” Nick conceded; he ordered himself a Boh and prepared to dig into his wings. “Can’t be too picky about calories after a race.”
“Nope,” Brady agreed and ate a fry. “Turkey Trot, huh? Haven’t done one of those since elementary school, I think. Was always disappointed there wasn’t a real turkey.”
Nick laughed. “My track team ran one for my high school every November. The prize was a turkey, but it’s easy to find turkeys when your school is surrounded by rural backcountry. I think the birds came from the coach’s brother-in-law’s farm or something.”
Brady abandoned a fry to stare at him. “You grew up around farms?”
“I grew up on a farm. My parents and my grandparents and my uncle’s family still live there. Sold the farm part but kept a few acres for the houses and all that. Never kept turkeys, though. Lots of pigs and corn.”
“You’re a farmboy.” There was a growing smile on Brady’s face. “That’s kind of hilarious.”
“No farms around Pittsburgh, I take it,” he mumbled into his drink. It was easier staring at the slightly skunked beer than seeing Brady so openly amused about him.
Brady waved a hand dismissively. “ ’Course there are, but I grew up in the city. Didn’t know anyone who grew up on anything bigger than a quarter-acre lot. You said your parents are still there?”
“Yep. I’m heading up in a few weeks for Thanksgiving. We have a big family dinner on the farm every year, pass around hosting between the three houses. You gonna drive up to Pittsburgh?”
“ ’Course.” And then Brady abruptly broke out into a cheer.
Nick groaned even before turning to look at the TV.
Pens goal.
“Boo!” Nick said loudly over Brady’s cheer. When Brady started thumping the table to drown him out, Nick cupped his hands over his mouth and continued to boo. “Boo, Pens. Boooo!”
Brady threw a fry at him. Nick picked it up off the table and ate it in defiance; Brady laughed and threw another one.
All in all, it was a good night.
Even if Nick spent the days afterward wondering if he could count it as a date… and if a date with Brady Derek Jensen would actually be all that much different.
*
“Put your bags in your room!” Nick’s mom called from the general direction of the kitchen. It was bold of her to assume he’d come home for Thanksgiving with the intention of staying the night. He had, partly because he knew he’d be tricked into staying anyway, but still.
Nick kicked the front door shut behind him and dumped his bags by the front closet. He would get them to his old bedroom eventually, maybe even before his mom had to nag him about it. Right now, though, he had more important things to do.
On the front table there were three jars, each with a label taped on.
Air Hockey.
Foosball.
Egyptian Ratscrew.
It was a Duffy-Porter family tradition to have games at any family gathering, and Thanksgiving was no exception. What better way to show your love and support of family than by tearing them apart in not-so-friendly competition?
His parents were hosting dinner, which meant they’d see a return of the battered air hockey and foosball tables in the basement, ones that had been well-loved during Nick’s childhood but largely abandoned after he’d gone to college.
It also meant Nick stood a chance of winning those games, since they were his tables.
He knew the weird dents and grooves on the surfaces better than anyone.
It was also family tradition to include a card game; when either of his uncles hosted, that usually meant poker or gin rummy.
No such luck for his “adult” family members this year.
His mother lived for trolling her older brothers, so she only picked childish, offbeat games that would piss them off.
The last time they’d hosted (or was it the time before that?), there’d been a two-hour long Go Fish tournament.
Nick hadn’t won, not by a long shot, but he’d stayed to heckle and cheer on the rest of his family until Grandma Pauline was finally declared winner.
He looked forward to the same shitshow this year for Egyptian Ratscrew. He wondered if there was a pool for who’d walk away with a broken hand after that one.
There were an assortment of pens and colored flashcards for people to write their names and enter themselves into one (or all three) of the tournaments.
There were a few folded-up papers in each jar already, even though he was fairly certain only his parents were here. Nick added his own to all three.
“Mom?” he called. “Dad? Anything I can help with?”
“Keep me company while I make the stuffing?” his mom suggested as he came into the kitchen.
“I can’t peel potatoes or something?” Without waiting for permission, he grabbed the pile of potatoes and set to work.
“No offense, Nick, but you’re terrible at cooking.”
“It’s peeling, Mom. I can peel. I would also like to think of myself as a mediocre cook. I’ll have you know I’ve only set off my smoke detector five times.”
“Well, I’ll be impressed if you can do it while peeling.”