Chapter Five December #2
It wasn’t that they didn’t think their grandma could handle the gritty details of their lives, nor was it some worry that she didn’t want to know about them.
It was more that their time together was limited to a few days a year, and they were happier to gloss over the rough edges and focus on the fun things they wanted to share.
It made the dinner fly by, and they reluctantly got up to leave the table.
It was Nick’s job to keep Grandma Pauline company while she waited for her Uber, mostly because he’d been late and missed the pre-dinner talk.
There was a line of hugs, lots of goodbyes, and assurances that she’d be seeing them plenty over her stay in town.
She used to stay on the farm with Nick’s family back in the day, but she insisted she was too old to deal with “that nonsense.” Instead, she preferred to stay at a nice hotel, have people come to her, and go to shows in the city.
He couldn’t blame her. He liked being on the farm in small doses, but his 24-hour visits a few times a year were enough; more than that and he’d go stir crazy. Personally, he preferred DC, and he’d made his case to his grandma for years now.
“I still haven’t seen everything I want to see in Baltimore. Thank you though, Nick. I’ll think about it for next time.”
She would deny it, but Nick was fairly certain her disenchantment with DC was completely related to her being in the arena to see the Caps get kicked out of the playoffs no less than four times.
His dad had inherited his love of hockey from his mom, and she’d grown bitter with the team’s lack of success long ago.
Sometimes the bad outweighed the good, he supposed. Maybe the Cup coming to DC was too little, too late.
They stood together in the cramped restaurant entryway, barely barricaded from the cold. Nick checked his phone again for the Uber’s arrival time. Five minutes, which would be enough to go back inside, except he knew his grandma didn’t like to rush and wouldn’t want to keep anyone waiting.
“You sure you don’t want me to ride with you to the hotel?”
“That’s sweet of you, hon, but I’ll manage.
It’s late, and I’m sure you plan on going for a run in the morning.
” She pulled her faux-fur shawl up higher and straightened as if to embrace the chill.
She took a deep breath and laughed when it came out as foggy steam.
“I never much cared for snow, but I do think I miss the cold.”
“You’re crazy. The cold needs to stop and immediately become chilly if not lukewarm.”
“Says the hockey player. Don’t you voluntarily go play on ice several times a week?”
“It’s not cold when you’re moving around,” he grumbled with the fake, exaggerated pout that had earned him many cookies and treats as a kid.
Now it only got him a pinch on the cheek.
“Feel free to move around. Don’t stand still on my account. You could do jumping jacks or run in place easily enough.”
“Thanks, Grandma. Totally gonna do a mini-workout at the nicest restaurant in town in my best suit.”
She gave an amused half-shrug. “Then don’t complain.”
Nick huffed a laugh and buried his hands deeper in his pockets.
“So is this hockey player of yours…?”
“Oh my God, did my mom put you up to this?”
“No, but thanks for letting me know I should talk to her about it. Terry tried to be tight-lipped about the whole affair, but I can tell he thinks you’re rather taken with him.”
“He’s just a guy from my hockey team.”
“Let me guess… cute?” She waited for him to nod. “Smart? Funny? Kind? Good at hockey?” Each received reluctant acknowledgment. “Interested in men? Or is that the only hang-up?”
“Unclear, but… dunno, I’ve got this feeling. Gut instinct maybe. Or just wishful thinking.”
“Then ask him out, hon. It’s almost the 2020s; it’s more than allowed.”
“Ehhh… that same gut feeling tells me I can’t spook him by coming on too strong. Like maybe he’s not out yet.”
“Spook him?” Her eyes went wide, and she laughed. “He’s not a horse, hon. If you come on too strong and scare him, he might not be worth the effort of tiptoeing around.”
“Oh, he’s worth the effort. Trust me.” That was the one thing he was certain of. Underneath the layers of dry humor and quiet brooding, Brady was a genuinely good guy that Nick had a lot in common with. He’d seen enough glimpses to know they had the potential for something great…
…if Brady wanted it.
“I’ll take your word for it. Your Grandpa Max was an idiot, too, before I whipped him into shape. If you find a good one that needs some work, they’re usually worth the effort.”
A large sedan pulled up, the driver popping out and opening the door for Grandma Pauline. Guess Nick would have to tip him well.
“I’ll see you soon,” his grandma said as she kissed his cheek and gave him a one-armed hug. “Keep me informed if we should reserve an extra chair the next time we do one of these dinners.”
“Not likely, Grandma, but thanks. Night.”
“Night, hon.” The Uber driver helped her climb into the car and was ready to close the door for her, except she shooed him away. “Think positive, Nick. If he’s a good one, be patient. And if he’s not… chuck him and move on.”
She closed the door and waved through the tinted windows, then she was off to her warm hotel, leaving Nick alone with his thoughts.
With his grandma’s blessing, Nick resolved to put Mission: Flirt with Brady into action.
Step One: Get the fuck to my car and warm up. Can’t text to flirt if my fingers get frostbite and fall off.
Right. Put the flirting on hold until he a.) was not in literal freezing weather and b.) had time to actually think through a plan.
Hockey, Nick decided as he speed-walked to the parking garage. He loves hockey. I love hockey. We’ve bonded over that already. He literally put himself in my phone as “Jensie from Hockey.” We see each other several times a week to play, practice, and/or watch hockey.
The way to Brady Derek Jensen’s heart was through hockey. That was Nick’s “in,” his way to show Brady that he could have more from Nick if he wanted it.
Nick laughed to himself, sure he had a few exes who would say the same about him.
They really were a good match.
Now he just needed to convince Brady.
*
Krazy Dan’s was more crowded than the last few times he’d been here, but it was Thursday night and the Redskins were playing; football games always drew in a crowd.
A group huddled around the bar, dressed in jerseys or other burgundy gear, shouting a mix of profanity and inarticulate complaints at the TV as the quarterback was sacked. Again, from the sound of it.
Nick gave a silent “thanks” to the sports gods that he wasn’t much of a football fan (and certainly not a Redskins fan, because yikes), and made a beeline for the little high top in the corner.
It had its own TV tuned to a random hockey game—Bruins and Flyers—and there, with his back turned to the football fans’ ruckus, Brady was nursing a beer.
What a view… and one notably devoid of a Pens jersey. Looked like Brady had taken his advice to heart.
Or it’s a coincidence. You could totally be reading too much into it and it has nothing to do with you.
Nah, a growing spark of confidence said. It was me.
Nick grabbed the empty seat, stole a nacho, and said, “Winning the Stanley Cup, underrated or overrated?”
Brady squinted at him. “What?”
“Winning the Cup. Do you think that’s underrated or overrated?”
“By whom?”
He made a mental note of that whom and kept going. “People in general. If you looked at the general population, do you think they would think it’s underrated or overrated? I swear, you are overthinking this. Just answer, gut reaction, go.”
Brady crossed his hands over his chest. He chewed it over for a minute before saying, “Underrated.”
“Okay, why?” Nick prompted.
Brady eyed him skeptically.
“There’s no right or wrong answer here—”
“It’s underrated because hockey is underrated as a sport in this country.
They emphasize football way too much.” He pointedly did not look at the crowd behind him, but they did a fine job of pointing themselves out by clapping for a fair catch.
“Even baseball is more established in some places, so they don’t appreciate how fucking awesome the Cup is.
It’s a thirty-five-pound metal trophy that can only be lifted by the very best. You can fucking drink beer out of it in celebration.
It’s just as hard to win as any of the other sports trophies.
Definitely harder to win than the Lombardi Trophy since we do best of seven.
Anybody having a hot streak can win the Superbowl; only a team with the right grit and talent can get the Cup. ”
Nick nodded approvingly.
“Winning gold: underrated or overrated?”
Brady chewed the inside of his lip for this one, a thumb rubbing absentmindedly over the rim of his beer. “Overrated,” he finally said.
This time he nudged Brady with his leg under the table. And didn’t pull it away after. “Why?”
“It’s the friggin’ Olympics. It’s an honor, yeah, and it’s hard, harder than winning the Cup, but for stupidly contrived reasons.
Only one opportunity every four years, for starters.
You have to have a good team built from your countrymen, and for teams like Russia, it’s very…
micromanaged. Even if they’ve got good players, they use ’em badly.
In the US, it’s hard to get a good coach.
Torts? Really? No Kessel? Fucking BS, man.
Plus, there’s the league always wobbling back and forth on if the NHL players are allowed to play.
What fucking good is a gold medal if the actual best players aren’t there? It’s a fucking lie, that’s what it is.”
A man after his own heart… not that Nick wasn’t already aware of this.
Actually, maybe time to test that. Put a real strain on the relationship, so to speak.
“Crosby?” he asked innocently.
Brady made a noise deep in his throat, a mix of aggravation and reluctance.