Chapter 12
chapter twelve
“What the actual fuck, Kyle? That’s not a word.”
Dabbs tallied his points the following evening—fifteen for playing P-H-P-H-T plus a double word score for thirty points total—and scribbled it on the scoresheet.
Did Ryland realize he’d used his first name?
Dabbs couldn’t remember the last person who’d called him Kyle outside of his family.
He wasn’t even sure he’d answer to it if someone called out to him by his first name in a crowd.
But it was . . . nice . . . to hear it come out of Ryland’s mouth. Like Dabbs’ name belonged just to him.
“It’s a word,” Dabbs said. “Look it up.”
Sitting on the floor on the other side of the coffee table from him, Ryland typed phpht into the online Scrabble dictionary.
“Holy shit, it is a word. But what does it mean?” He did a quick Google search, then read the definition aloud.
“An onomatopoeic expression used to signify mild irritation or annoyance.” He gave Dabbs a hard stare. “Seriously?”
“Mild irritation or annoyance,” Dabbs repeated, jabbing a finger in Ryland’s direction. “Just like that.”
“Phpht,” Ryland said.
“A very appropriate use of the word.”
“I’ve never seen that word before ever.”
Dabbs shrugged. “Mostly I see it in comic books. Sometimes in manga. Do you like to read?”
“Not really. I’ve never been great at sitting still.” Before Dabbs could tease him about that, Ryland added, “I listen to a ton of audiobooks, though. I just finished Martin Short’s memoir. Have you read it?”
“I . . . no,” Dabbs stuttered, surprise leaving him temporarily at a loss for words. He hadn’t expected to have books in common between them, and he honestly wasn’t sure what to do about that.
“It’s wonderful,” Ryland said. “Super interesting, plus he narrates it, so it’s hilarious. I listened to it over several days on the drive to and from the arena, then started it over again on the flight here.” He squinted at his tiles and picked one out of his pile.
“Wait,” Dabbs said, scrambling to keep up. “What are you doing?”
Ryland paused. “Um . . . playing my turn?”
“Nope. You miss a turn.”
“What?” Ryland scowled first at Dabbs, then the board, then at Dabbs again. “Why?”
“Because you called me out on my word, but it was in the dictionary. So you miss a turn.”
“Aww. But you’re, like, fifty points ahead of me.”
Dabbs played ablaze and smirked—the z was worth ten points. “Way more than that now.”
“Man. I just can’t catch a break.” Ryland’s eyes held nothing but amusement as he said, “What do you want for breakfast tomorrow?”
That had been the bet when Ryland had pulled the game out of the upstairs linen closet—loser makes breakfast tomorrow.
Why Ryland had taken the bet when he’d once admitted to being more of a trivia guy was beyond Dabbs.
“Pancakes?”
Ryland cocked his head. “Are you allowed pancakes?”
“The doctor said that since I’ve been tolerating liquids, I can slowly add bland, easy-to-digest foods. I figure pancakes falls into those categories.”
“All right. Can’t say I’ve ever made pancakes before.”
“Oh. Never mind, then, I can pick something el—”
Ryland held up a hand. “No, no. If it’s pancakes you want, then pancakes you shall receive. This nursemaid is up for the challenge. Is it my turn finally?”
“Go for it.”
Ryland played ciao, earning himself six points.
“Look at you catching up.”
Chuckling, Ryland threw a tile at him—a G. “Shut up. I’m not a wordsmith. Can we play trivia tomorrow? I’m good at trivia.”
“Sure,” Dabbs said, playing airbag and tallying his points. “Your turn.”
Ryland frowned, creating lines across his forehead. It made him look adorably pissy. “I don’t have any fucking vowels.”
“There are plenty on the board.”
Grimacing, Ryland added a g and a t on either side of an e. Get, the same word he’d played when Dabbs had been at his house in Maplewood.
Swallowing a laugh, Dabbs set the scoresheet aside and said, “Get the trivia game.”
“No, it’s fine. Let’s finish this.”
“Rya.” The nickname slipped out without Dabbs’ consent, but he couldn’t regret it when Ryland’s wide-eyed gaze flew to his in surprise and pleasure. “Get the trivia game.”
Ryland scrambled up with a “Woo-hoo!”
It was late, nearing midnight, and the dogs napped on the couch at Dabbs’ back while the kitten hadn’t been seen in hours—she was probably underneath Bellamy’s bed.
Hell, she was always underneath Bellamy’s bed unless she was eating.
Dabbs and Ryland had watched the Trailblazers trounce Florida on TV—always satisfying—cheering when Bellamy scored the winning goal during the second period.
Florida kicked up their offense, but it wasn’t enough.
The Trailblazers hadn’t won the cup for nothing, and their defense had sent Florida packing.
Dabbs would’ve loved to be there—and his teammates would’ve loved it too judging by the many it’s not the same without you messages he’d received before the game.
“Your teammates sure do text you a lot,” Ryland had commented earlier.
“It’s the younger players,” Dabbs had told him. “I think they just want some reassurance.”
The expression on Ryland’s face had been very you can’t possibly be that stupid. “They don’t want reassurance. They’re trying to impress you. You’re team captain. You’re, like, the cool big brother they never had.”
Dabbs had laughed, but . . . really? Could that be true? He’d never been cool in his life. He was just . . . Dabbs.
Ryland returned with two trivia games. One called Canadian Trivia, which he set aside.
“You can play that with your Canadian friends.” And one called I Should Have Known That!
A Trivia Game About Things You Oughta Know.
The premise was simple enough: they each started with a certain amount of points, and each question had a point value that was deducted with each wrong answer.
Whoever got to zero first lost the game.
Ryland pulled out the first card. “Does the Statue of Liberty hold the torch in her right hand or her left?”
“Uh . . . ” Dabbs tried to picture Lady Liberty in his head. “Left hand? No, wait. Right?”
“Right is correct.”
“You know, I’ve never actually seen the Statue of Liberty up close.”
“Wait, for real? But you’ve been to New York.”
“Yeah, to play hockey. Don’t take away my visa and send me back to Canada, but it always seemed like a really boring tourist attraction.”
Ryland gasped dramatically and pretended to clutch his pearls. “That’s like saying the CN Tower is a boring tourist attraction.”
“It is.”
Ryland planted his elbows on the coffee table and propped his chin in his hands. “What’s the best tourist attraction you’ve ever been to?”
“Probably the Iguazu Falls in Brazil and Argentina. The fjords of Norway too, although I’m not sure if those are technically considered a tourist attraction or just a landscape.”
“You’ve traveled a lot.”
“I’ve been taking a trip every summer ever since the NHL started giving me big, fat paychecks.”
“Yeah?” Ryland’s face lit up, and Dabbs had the inane thought that he wanted to take him somewhere.
Rome or Brussels or Lima or Victoria. Dabbs could show him all of his favorite spots and treat him to his favorite local foods, and they could wander off the beaten path and discover local shops and cafés the tourists didn’t know about.
“Where’d you go this year?” Ryland asked, jolting Dabbs out of his thoughts.
“Nowhere. Bellamy and I moved in here right after the playoffs, then I was in North Bay for most of the summer.”
Ryland straightened and chose another card from the pack. “I usually head to California with my teammates at the end of the season, but I skipped it this year.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know. I guess playing volleyball on the beach and baking under a blazing sun doesn’t appeal anymore.
I actually wanted to do a road trip up to Quebec City from Columbus, with stops in Niagara Falls, Toronto, Kingston, and Montreal on the way.
But I got vetoed for sandy beaches and scantily clad women. ”
“So you didn’t go.”
Ryland shrugged his left shoulder—the one not in a sling.
“Have you been to any of those places before?” Dabbs asked.
“Sure, for hockey—except for Quebec City; never been there—and as I’m sure you know, when you travel for hockey, it’s for hockey.
Sightseeing wasn’t so much an afterthought as a non-thought.
I tried to convince Jason to do the road trip with me this past summer, but he was buried in his thesis research. ”
I’ll take you, Dabbs almost said. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.
“Ready for the next card?” Ryland asked.
Dabbs held out a hand. “It’s my turn to ask the question.” When Ryland handed the cards over, Dabbs pulled one out and read, “How do you say ‘hi’ in French?”
“Bonjour,” Ryland said, pronouncing it like someone whose first language was English—bohn-joor.
“Bonjour,” Dabbs corrected.
Ryland gaped at him. “Wait, you speak French?”
“Bien s?r.”
“Is it because you’re Canadian?”
Dabbs had to laugh. “Trust me, there are plenty of Canadians who don’t speak a lick of French. But there’s a pretty significant Francophone population in North Bay. I was in the French immersion stream at school, plus it was one of my majors in university.”
Ryland leaned forward eagerly. “Say something in French.”
Dabbs chuckled. Why was that always the first thing people said when they found out he was bilingual? He thought of Ryland’s pink-and-turquoise sunglasses and about calling Ryland colorful at Frozen Fest and said, “T’es comme un arc-en-ciel, captivant et surprenant.”
Unblinking, Ryland stared at him for a long moment. “I didn’t catch a single word of that. What’s it mean?”
“Ask Google Translate.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Ryland grumbled. “I couldn’t make out individual words. Tell me what it means. Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell meeeee.”
“Nah. I think I’m enjoying being mysterious.”
“Mysterious?” Ryland held up a finger. “Or a mysteriously annoying turd?”