Chapter 3
CONNOR
Calm down. This isn’t a date. You’re just meeting Madars.
Somehow, that didn’t help, and in the quiet restaurant a couple of streets over from my hotel, I tapped my heel even faster beneath my chair at the small table. I didn’t know why I was this nervous.
Okay, I did. I wasn’t sure how I was going to maintain any sense of dignity in the presence of the Madars I’d seen on social media this morning.
He wasn’t a kid anymore and neither was I, but I sure felt like a teenager with a crush all over again.
Dizzy. Nervous. Twitchy. Sure I was going to say or do something stupid, and then he’d roll his eyes and walk away like that one guy at university had done when I’d approached him years ago.
That was one of those moments that still crept in at three in the morning when I couldn’t sleep. Ugh, the embarrassment.
Madars had never done that, though. He hadn’t been that kind of guy, and anyway, he sure as hell hadn’t rejected me.
But that was teenage Madars who hadn’t yet tasted professional hockey success. I was sure he was still a good guy, but I doubted I could turn his head like I somehow had back then.
And that’s not what this is about anyway, because we’re just friends catching up. Get a grip, Connor. Jesus.
I sipped my wine just to settle my stupid nerves. It didn’t help much, but it gave me something to focus on.
Movement outside pulled my attention to the windows, and I almost choked on said wine.
Hands tucked in the pockets of a blue overcoat, face nestled slightly into the collar as the wind whipped his hair, Madars strode through the falling snow toward the door.
My heart had no right to react the way it did. My stomach had no business twisting into nervous, excited knots.
It’s just Madars. What the fuck?
It’s… Oh God. That’s Madars.
How is a man that gorgeous here to see me?
It didn’t matter how or why or anything, because he was crossing the room now, that brilliant smile on full display.
“Holy shit,” he said, arms wide. “I can’t believe how long it’s been!”
And just like that, I was wrapped up in a tight hug, his coat warm even as snowflakes still melted on his arms and shoulders.
“It’s been ages,” I said. “How have you been?”
Letting me go, he shrugged. “Living and breathing hockey. Same as always.” He undid his coat and started to take it off. “How about you? I saw you’re officiating in the NAL now.”
I was already smiling, and I couldn’t help smiling bigger. “Yeah. That was a long road, but I got there.”
“Not as long for you as the other refs.” He put his coat on the back of his chair, and as we took our seats, he added, “How many of the players hate you now?”
I laughed. “Just the ones who try to get away with stupid penalties.” I rolled my eyes. “You’d think they’d learn by now not to try to get away with embellishment.”
Madars barked a laugh, and I was startled by how fucking beautiful he was.
How have I gone this long without even talking to you?
He thumped the table with his knuckle and met me with a wicked grin. “They still try, don’t they? Have you set a record for calling the most embellishment penalties yet?”
Heat rose in my face, though I wasn’t sure why. “I mean, maybe? I don’t know if they track that.”
“They should.” His eyes danced with mischief, and the tiny candle on our table only added to it. “Maybe you should come ref in Switzerland sometime.”
“Oh yeah? A lot of embellishment there?”
He groaned and rolled his eyes. “Fucking hell. Like it’s probably no worse than it is in North America, but I’ve played against some absolute drama queens.”
I chuckled. “It seems to be cyclical. One season… oh my God. I swear I was calling it every other game. Then the next, there was nothing.”
Madars quirked his lips, then shrugged. “Yeah, it’s like that there, too.
I think this season, everyone’s trying to play hockey like it’s football.
” He put a hand to his face and dramatically added, “That high stick knocked half my teeth out and dislodged my eyeball! Look at all this blood! He needs a major penalty!”
I was almost wheezing by the time he was done. “Okay, so those aren’t isolated to North America, then.” I reached for my wineglass. “No joke, there was this clown last season who wanted to draw a double minor so bad, he scratched the underside of his nose with his own nail.”
Madars blinked. “Seriously?”
I nodded.
“Did he… not realize there’s fifty cameras on him at all times?”
“Not to mention four officials, thousands of fans, and all the other players and staff.” I scoffed as I brought my glass to my lips. “You ain’t that slick, pal. Nice try.”
Madars laughed, and once again, I damn near choked on my wine.
He really was so damn pretty. It was hard to believe this was the same kid who’d lived across the hall from me way back when.
At the same time, it was impossible to look at him and not see that kid.
He was an adult now, just like me, but he was still Madars, and I could still hear him laughing in one of our bedrooms just like I heard him laughing now.
God, I missed you, and I didn’t even know it until I saw you again.
I was a tongue-tied stupid mess of nostalgia, but mercifully, I was saved from making a fool of myself when our server arrived. She apologized for taking so long.
Madars, effortlessly charming as always, insisted it was no trouble at all. “Gave me a chance to catch up with my old friend.” He glanced at me and winked, unaware of how that liquefied my spine.
Connor. Dude. Get a fucking grip already.
He ordered a glass of wine—“whatever he’s drinking, please”—and she left us to look over the menus. I hadn’t even opened mine yet, not even to distract myself when I’d been coming unraveled waiting for him.
At least opening it now gave me something to focus on.
The restaurant was a mix of Czech cuisine and some more familiar dishes like pastas and steaks.
Everyone had told me I absolutely had to try the Knedlíky, which was a traditional bread dumpling, so I settled on that with a beef goulash.
Madars, ever the indecisive one at restaurants, hemmed and hawed between a similar dish with a tomato-based sauce and ?unkofleky, which consisted of ham and noodles.
Both were tempting me, too, and I second-guessed my own choice a few times.
But then I reminded myself I was here for a little over a week; I’d have time to try more than one dish.
Our server returned with his wine, and we ordered our meals. Madars had finally settled on ?unkofleky, and I stuck with my original choice.
After the server had gone, Madars sipped his wine, and I tried not to think too much about how much I liked his “mmm, that’s good” face.
Oblivious to me being an idiot, he finally said, “So, how are you doing, uh, outside of hockey?” He studied me, his expression unusually shy. “How is the family?”
“Family’s good.” I turned my glass between my hands just to keep my hands busy. “My brother’s—well, that’s hockey, too, I guess.” I laughed with renewed nerves. “He’s doing well, though.”
“Good. And you’re…” There was intense curiosity in Madars’ eyes, but I couldn’t put my finger on what he was searching for.
I tilted my head, not sure how to answer. “Hmm?”
A blush rose in his cheeks. Clearing his throat, he shifted in his chair. “Sounds like your brother is doing well. In the NAL, I mean.”
I hesitated to answer, only because I swore he’d meant to say something else. I ran with it, though. “Yeah, yeah. He’s doing great. He just signed a four-year extension with Denver.”
Madars whistled. “That’s awesome. He’s been there his whole career, hasn’t he?”
Why did it make me warm all over to realize Madars had kept tabs on my brother’s career?
I nodded, though. “He was drafted by New York, but they traded him while he was still a prospect. He went to one New York training camp, and like three weeks later, he was traded.”
“Wow. I wonder if New York is regretting that now.”
I wobbled my hand in the air. “Maybe. Michael was dealt as part of the Harris-Kinsey trade. Harris has done better in New York than he ever did in Denver, and Kinsey has been a rock-solid goaltender for Denver. Denver got Michael, but New York got the draft pick they used to get Cory Cooley. So… I think it shook out pretty evenly in the end.”
“Nice,” he said. “Wouldn’t it be great if every trade worked out like that?” The faintest hint of sadness tinged his words.
I grimaced sympathetically. “It would, yeah.”
“Ah, well.” He waved a hand. “I’ve done all right in Switzerland. I can’t complain too much.” His smile seemed ever so slightly forced. “Except in the winter, maybe.”
“Is it really worse than winter in Canada?”
“Oh, winters in Genève are nothing like the ones in Toronto. But you know me.” He grinned, a little spark of mischief in his eyes. “I hate the cold.”
I laughed, and so did he, and it felt good. Took me back to those days when he lived with us, when he’d bitch about having to walk from his classes to the rink in the rain or the snow.
“You’re complaining about getting wet and cold,” I’d tell him, usually while curled against him beneath the covers. “On your way to get wet and cold.”
“I don’t get cold when I’m skating.” Even now, I could feel the slide of his palm down my back as he added, “But it’s cold out there and it’s warm in here, and I don’t want to leave.”
“You’re such a baby.”
“Fuck you.” Then he’d pulled the covers off me, leaving me exposed to the cool air in the room, and I’d laughed as we’d wrestled for the covers. We’d both ended up warm after that. Very warm.
I missed those days.
I missed that kid who’d grown into this man.
Oh my God, I really missed you.
Heat rushed into my face, and I broke eye contact as I reached for my wine.
I was in the same place as the man I hadn’t realized I was missing. I wasn’t about to waste this regretting all the time that had slipped by.
I just hoped this wouldn’t be the last time we saw each other before another near-decade had passed.