Chapter 32 #2
Indeed, when we walk inside I see it’s easily one of the swankiest places I’ve been in Toronto.
The hostess walks us through an elegant bar and down a set of stairs.
We’re in an honest-to-god wine cellar, with row upon row of triangular “shelves” built across the stone-clad walls to hold wine bottles.
In the center of the cellar there’s a glassed-in private room with a table set for two dozen men I don’t really know.
And most of them are already there, sipping the first cocktail of the evening.
“Heyyy!” several voices shout at once as we approach. It occurs to me that whoever picked this spot is a (wealthy) genius. A hockey team meal can be pretty loud. So why not hold it in a sound-proof chamber in the nicest basement in Toronto?
I’m in the lead, so I enter the room first, but then pause to let Wes catch up. He’s right behind me, his hand on my shoulder blade. “Evening, ladies,” he says to the room. “Where do you want us?”
“Put ’er there!” Blake yells, pointing at two seats together in the middle of the long table. “Let the games begin.”
We sit down, and a waiter in a suit that’s nicer than any of mine sweeps in to take our drink orders. I consider ordering something fruity just to fuck with people, but then I’d actually have to drink it. So I order a Griffon Ale instead.
“I’ll have a Manhattan. Make it on the dry side. No fruit.”
“Really?” Wes never orders a mixed drink.
My fiancé shrugs. “It’s my dad’s drink, and when I walk into a place like this, I always think of him.” Wes leans back in his chair and sniffs the air. “You smell that? Old leather and money.”
Eriksson chuckles. “Have I met your father?”
“Nope.” Wes shakes out his napkin. “And you never will. I only heard from him three or four times a year before my Big Gay Interview. Now he’s out of my hair for good.”
There’s a slightly shocked silence.
“And your mom?” Blake asks.
“She wouldn’t dare step out of line. Her loss.” He claps his hands together. “What’s good here?”
We order vast quantities of rich food. I choose a steak, along with more than half the table. Blake orders the rack of lamb, and I can’t help but be surprised. “You know that’s a sheep, right?”
He looks at me like I have an IQ of fifty. “Dude. The best defense is a great offense.”
Right.
A slew of appetizers arrive. Someone ordered three of everything for the table. We talk about how the playoffs are shaping up while devouring a mountain of shrimp cocktail, an ocean’s worth of oysters on the half shell and a whole lot of tuna tartare.
It’s good living. It really is.
WES
The alcohol has just begun to do its work on me when Hewitt gets up and tosses his napkin on his chair. “Excuse me for a moment, boys.” He leaves the room. The men’s must be upstairs. They can’t possibly have one down here.
I forget he’s gone until he returns a few minutes later. And I do a giant double-take.
He’s wearing my shirt—the bright green checked one that I bought in Vancouver.
“That’s…where’d you get that?” I sputter. I actually look down at my chest just to double-check that I’ve still got mine.
Hewitt shrugs. “I told you my wife liked to shop. She musta seen yours and liked it.”
Now, I could swear he wasn’t wearing that earlier.
But the whole team is here, so maybe I just didn’t notice.
I take another sip of my Manhattan and feel the burn as the alcohol goes down my throat.
My gaze travels around the room, taking in the players’ faces lit up by candlelight and the excellent food and drink.
The thing is, my dad would love this dinner.
He really would. And if he weren’t such an asshole, he could probably be here right now.
His loss, as I said before. And it really is.
The sommelier enters with four different bottles of red under his arm. “Nobody chose a white, is that right?” he asks.
“Fuck no,” I say too loudly. But it’s my party. “Even your local homosexual needs a hearty red with his steak.”
The wine guy looks taken aback, but my teammates all laugh like they’re going to piss themselves.
Eriksson raises his hand. “But I ordered the fish.”
“That’s your own fault,” someone says, and then Eriksson is pelted with wadded-up cocktail napkins.
Just another night with Toronto’s finest.
Eriksson stands up. “I’ll go order something from the bar, then.” He strides out of the room.
Jamie is talking defensive strategy with Lemming, and I sure don’t want to interrupt the conversation. Maybe Lemming can get over his discomfort with the gay thing so long as he’s speaking to another D-man. So I take the empty beer bottle out of Jamie’s hand and trade it for a glass of red.
“Okay, I’ll get a husband too if they put drinks in your hand,” Forsberg quips.
“And that’s exactly why he’s marrying me,” I say with an obnoxious wink.
Midsentence, Jamie reaches over to give my head a playful shove and then finishes his thought about the neutral zone trap.
“So,” Hewitt asks, looking smashing in my shirt. “How do two dudes get married, anyway? Like…who walks down the aisle?”
Jamie and I exchange a freaked-out glance. Because we haven’t had this conversation. This will all be left to Jess. “Uh,” I say. “Canning? Thoughts?”
He gives a shrug. “Who needs an aisle? I think we’ll just have a judge or something, and do this on my parents’ deck. And then we’re going to eat a whole lot of ribs. My mom is a genius with the smoker.”
Hewitt’s eyes open slightly wider. I can almost see the lightbulb go off over his head. “So, if it’s men getting married, the food is better than at an ordinary wedding.”
“And the beer,” someone adds.
“There still has to be cake,” Blake argues. “I think it’s not legal without cake. I read that somewhere.”
That’s when Eriksson returns to the room. Without a drink. But he’s wearing—wait for it—the shirt. The bright green “gay” shirt.
“Fuuuuuuuck,” I say slowly. I poke Jamie to get his attention. “Babe, do you see this shit? I’m being pranked.”
He turns his handsome face. Eriksson is standing at the end of the table flexing like a bodybuilder directing traffic.
“Oh my fucking God!” Jamie cackles. “I need a picture.” He pulls out his phone. “Get over there. All three of you.”
Jamie gets his picture. But a few minutes later Blake slips out of the room and returns wearing the shirt in size twenty or whatever that beast wears.
And it dawns on me that my teammates dropped a couple hundred plus express shipping—each—to pull this off.
Is it stupid that I’m really touched by this madness?
Hell. I’m turning into a sap.
“Blake,” I croak. “How the hell did you pull this off?”
He takes a slug of wine. “Used my key. Searched your apartment so I could figure out who makes the damn thing. Took me a half hour to find it because I had to dig. Dude—you should learn to unpack your suitcase.”
Jamie punches me on the biceps. “See?”
“…got the brand and started Googling. Piece of cake, really.”
Forsberg stands up. “I’m next. Gotta take a leak, anyway.” He bolts out of the room, returning a few minutes later wearing green.
And Christ—when you get a bunch of these shirts together in one small room? It’s a little loud, this color. But only under this restaurant lighting.
One by one, even after the main courses arrive, every single player leaves the room, returning in The Shirt. I keep drinking, getting happier and sloppier with every sip of wine.
They even got one for Jamie. He’s the last to leave and return wearing citrusy green and a big smile. “Now we need the picture,” he says. “I’ve asked the waiter to take it.”
And that’s how Canning and I came to have a big framed photo on our living room wall featuring the entire Toronto team dressed in very loud gingham.
I swear the color rendered a little bolder in print than it looks in real life, because this photo is kind of blinding.
But Jamie snickers whenever I suggest that.
But there we are, two dozen grins stained red from the wine, waving at the camera like idiots. Blake is in the back row, his napkin tied around his head like a bandana. I have a hand on Jamie’s shoulder right in the center of the shot. His smile is just as relaxed and genuine as the day I met him.
And I look…centered. It’s not a word I’ve ever used to describe myself before. But everything I ever wanted is in that photo—the man of my dreams, and my teammates. I’ve left my smug smile behind in favor of one that’s so shiny I hardly recognize myself.
But it’s me up there for sure. It’s us. And it’s perfect.
T h e E n d
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