23. Scott
CHAPTER 23
Scott
JANUARY 3RD
I ’ve never been out of the country before. Hell, I’ve barely been out of Iowa before. I’ve never flown long-distance, and while it wasn’t my favorite, the knowledge that we were going to Belfast, Northern Ireland kept me going the whole way.
I managed to get some sleep. Turns out, flights from the US to the UK are overnight, but it took a while to get settled with the excitement buzzing through my veins. Mostly about my girlfriend, but partly because of the Emerald Isle.
I’m a bit bleary eyed when we’re given some semblance of “breakfast” on the plane as we start our descent into Belfast International. Is this what Irish people eat for breakfast? If so, I don’t want to be Irish after all.
It’s stupid, but ever since I was a little kid, I’ve always wanted to be Irish. Mom said we’re part Irish, but it’s such a small part that it’s probably not even true. How the hell did the Irish find their way to Iowa?
Anyway, I’m not going to be that American who goes to Ireland and starts telling Irish people that I’m Irish just because my great, great, great grandmother’s sister’s cat was Irish. I read online that they don’t like that.
So instead, I’m just going to go, eat hopefully better food than this hellish hand pie thing, and take it all in.
The Friendship Four is an annual college ice hockey tournament which has been held since 2015 at the SSE Arena Belfast with the winner receiving the Belpot Trophy. Four teams are selected to compete, and usually it’s over Thanksgiving weekend, but due to circumstances above my pay grade, this year it’s being held in January.
Works for me, though. Iowa’s a fucking Tundra in January, and the pilot tells us it’s perfectly tropical on the ground. I’m going to look a little out of place with my heavy, midwestern-ready winter coat.
Hockey. Food. And Fitzmorris’s cousin who got us all tickets to that women’s rugby match. Is it a match? Game? Fuck, I at least need to learn what it’s called. Drives me fucking nutty when someone calls it a hockey match, so I need to respect the sport and actually learn at least a little about it before diving right in.
Nothing worse than disrespecting someone’s sport.
It’s a bumpy landing on the tarmac but we all arrive alive. The longest part of getting off the giant metal bird and to some real food is waiting for the baggage to come off the plane.
Everything’s different here. Every tiny little thing. The air is different. The sounds of accents echoing around baggage claim, the smells of something that doesn’t seem as criminal as that crap they called breakfast… I mean, I knew it would be different, but it’s a little… wow.
Bags take about twenty minutes. I wonder if it’s a staff thing. An entire team of hockey players just arrived with a tremendous amount of luggage. We could have hopped back there and helped them get all our shit out of the hold.
It’s another twenty or so before we get to where we’re staying. We don’t play hockey until tomorrow, so we have the rest of the day to chill, brush up on our rugby, and get a full night’s sleep under our belts.
Even the thought of sleep makes me yawn. Doesn’t bode well for making it through the whole day but I hope excitement carries me through.
There’s a pang in my chest that my girl isn’t here with me to explore. And a further ripple of bitterness passes through my body that unless something major changes for me in my life, I’ll never be able to just randomly go somewhere with her on a whim.
I want to show her the world.
I can’t even afford to show her Iowa.
Damn it. I need to check in with her, tell her I’m here safe and sound, and that I miss her, because I do.
I don’t believe in playing hard to get. I don’t believe in pretending you don’t have feelings for someone. Life’s too short for that shit. We only live once. And having spent two years knowing Athena and keeping her at arm’s length when all I wanted to do was have her in my arms I guess I’m done with the waiting and ready for the happily ever after part.
Scott: Hey pretty girl, we got to the hotel, I’m unpacked, showered, and have eaten two granola bars. Flight was good, slept a little, hated the breakfast. I hope you’re sleeping soundly but check in with me in the morning when you wake up. I miss you already. I love you always.
Hoping I’m not coming on too strongly, I hit send before toweling off my hair and falling onto the bed for a beat to appreciate just how lucky I am. I’ve got the sport, I’ve got the girl, and I’m in fucking Ireland. Ireland .
I must have drifted off because I wake up to the sound of my phone chiming and someone thumping on my door.
I answer my phone, first. If it’s somehow Athena, I want to talk to her before I talk to her brothers on the other side of my door.
Bright Eyes: I love and miss you as well, but you’re in Ireland. Go have fun. No marrying a pretty Irish woman though, or you’ll see my claws.
Something stirs inside me at the inferred jealousy. Apparently, I find Athena claiming her territory sexy as hell. Who knew I was a whore for a possessive, on-the-cusp of violence woman?
I heart her message on my way to the door. The peephole tells me I was right, her brothers are standing there, dressed and ready to explore. Ass naked, I fling the door open, and they walk into my room facing my bare ass walking away from them to get dressed.
I flip them off over my shoulder. “Don’t give me any shit. I fell asleep. Plane was uncomfortable as shit. Gimme five.”
It’s not even five minutes later when we leave our digs and head into the city. Our first stop is a giant-ass blue fish. The only reason we’re here is because someone was walking past with a giant portion of fries with something on top, and Ares asked where they got it.
“Why’s there a massive mosaic fish in the middle of Belfast?” Apollo looks at me like I should know.
I shrug but pull out my phone to search. My phone says it’s 26F, there’s a light dusting of snow around, but people are bundled up like Armageddon is coming. I’m not sure whether or not to laugh, there’s barely any snow around and drivers are crawling at snail’s pace on the roads as well. When I step on a patch of ice and almost end up on my ass, the universe flips me off for being arrogant about living in Iowa.
“To point at the poutine food truck, duh.” Ares strides up to the truck and orders brunch… lunch? Is it brunch if it’s noon? Either way, he orders the le diable, poutine with diced chorizo and hot sauce—crazy bastard—while I look up more information about this random fucking fish.
“The fish, or the Salmon of Knowledge, is called Pat, and you’re supposed to pat him for good luck. He was a celebration for the regeneration project of the river.” I gesture over the fish to the water.
Apollo walks toward the fish to study it, while Artemis orders the Québécoise which is poutine with bacon, mushrooms and extra cheese curds. It all sounds delicious and not in the least bit Irish, so I feel a little guilty, but not so guilty that I’m going to ignore my gurgling stomach.
Apollo and I order the traditional poutine, and we all read the tiles on the fish as we wait.
“Do you think the poutine’s going to be any good? Do Irish people eat poutine? Are there Canadians in Ireland?” Ares’s voice is panicked, like he’s afraid his lunch will suck, and he’ll need to wait even longer to find food.
Hangry Ares is an asshole. Well, more of an asshole than usual.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine, hermano.” Apollo pats his back, but there’s a look in his eye that says the people of Belfast need to beware, if his brother doesn’t get fed soon.
We get our food and set off to walk around the city. Our first stop is St. George’s market. It’s a large, red brick building with huge dark green gates on the way in. One of the signs tells us there are over two hundred stalls selling “fruit, vegetables, antiques, books, clothes, hot food, cakes and buns, crafts and a large selection of fresh fish.”
It’s the sweet smell lingering on the air that makes my freshly full-of-poutine stomach grumble.
By the time we’ve done a loop of the market, we have crepes from La Crêperie, croissants and cake from Piece of Cake, and the guys have picked up a couple pieces of jewelry from Sugar Island Crafts for their mom, abuelita, and sister.
I’m a little jealous that I can’t shop freely for Athena, but I pick up a small, framed picture of the giant Harland and Wolff cranes we could see from the fish, and a handcrafted, beaded bracelet pretending it’s for Mom. If she wears it, they'll then know it was a lie, so she’ll have to keep it hidden until she’s ready to announce our love to the world. I almost snort. She’s making me all poetic and shit.
We walk for hours, passing beautiful buildings like City Hall, St. Anne’s Cathedral, and a crooked clock built as a memorial to Queen Victoria’s late husband Albert—the internet tells me it’s lopsided because it’s built on marshy land. I kind of like it, it’s a reminder that even imperfect things can be cool.
“It’s a shame we didn’t get here a day earlier.” Artemis takes a bite of his fried fish, his eyes rolling back in his head like he’s having a spiritual experience. “Fuck, this is good.” He takes another bite while we wait for him to complete his thought.
All we’ve done today is eat. We’ll probably be sluggish on the ice over the weekend, simply because of the amount of carbs we’ve eaten in an eight-hour period.
Artemis turns his phone to face us. “There was a comedy show last night at the arena.”
“Neil Delamere,” Apollo reads from his brother’s screen. “Have you seen his stuff?”
Artemis shakes his head, popping a French fry—or chip, as people here in Northern Ireland call them. “Could have been my Irish comedian debut.”
For a guy who’s so straightlaced and dry, he loves watching comedy shows.
“Maybe next time.” I cram a mouthful of crispy on the outside, flaky on the inside fish into my mouth.
“I’ve bookmarked him to check him out.” Artemis polishes his fish off with one last bite then uses a napkin to mop up the aftermath. He turns to me, levelling me with an intense stare usually reserved for the ice. “I have a question, hermano.”
I know I haven’t done anything wrong, but already my mouth’s going dry. In my peripheral, Ares smirks as though he knows where Artemis is going with this.
“We all do,” Apollo crunches on an onion ring as big as his face.
Artemis nods, his face solemn. “How are we going to win this fucking trophy this weekend?” “What are your intentions with our sister?”