Chapter 16 Sunday Funday
SUNDAY FUNDAY
CLEO
HAVING A FULL DAY TO SPEND WITH MATS IS GLORIOUS. OUR WEEKENDS ARE USUALLY CRAMMED with games and homework, and since our teams share an arena, when one of us is on the road, the other one is here.
But today, I get to spend as much time as I want with him. We’ve already eaten a delicious waffle brunch, and now we’re exploring downtown St. Viola on a sunny winter day. He still finds small-town Minnesota interesting, since he hasn’t lived here forever.
Too bad we couldn’t have eaten Japanese food today. I’ve been practising my chopstick technique, I say. Woolly has chopsticks for her healthy stir-fries, so I’ve been using them to eat my meals whenever possible. I’m pretty good now.
Mats smiles. You weren’t that bad for your first time. Besides, I’m picky; I don’t eat Japanese food unless I’m back in Vancouver. Or in Japan, of course.
Same, same. I, too, prefer the Japanese food in Japan. Italian food in Italy. I don’t touch Icelandic food unless I’m actually in Iceland, I deadpan. What even is Icelandic food? Ice cream?
Are you mocking me? he asks.
Well, yeah. You sounded pretentious. Plus, you make me feel like a hick who has never been anywhere. Maybe because I am a hick who has never been anywhere. Unless you count hockey tournaments.
Mats takes my hand. Oh, so I can’t talk about things I’ve done because you haven’t?
Ugh. When you put it like that, I feel like a whiny baby. If his hand didn’t feel so warm and safe, I might accompany this by stomping off. It’s our thing.
If the knitted booties fit, Mats jokes, then returns to the original topic. Guess when the first time I used chopsticks was?
Hmm. Eight months old?
I find it hard to imagine Mats as a baby.
I’ve snooped his socials, but he lacks any of those Happy Mother’s Day montages that show him as a kid.
His social media is pretty bleak. The highlights are a championship photo from a kid’s team, a whale sighting, and (my favourite) Mats and his brother shirtless at the beach.
Almost. Eight years old.
I screech. How can that be?
Food culture is passed down through your mother.
My first time was when I went for dinner at a teammate’s place.
He was half-Japanese too, but his mother was Japanese.
She served a chicken teriyaki dish with rice, vegetables, and pickles.
The whole family looked at me like I had an extra head when I confessed that I couldn’t use chopsticks. I felt humiliated.
I laugh. So, you practised too?
Of course. A new skill to master, and an easy one.
Hey, we’re both driven to conquer every physical challenge, I observe. Since we’re so different, I like finding ways we’re similar.
Hey, Nellie; hey, Mats!
Jinx and Cori wave from the other side of the street, and we wave back.
Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do, Jinx hollers after us.
I wish. I flush pink. Sorry about that.
Mats smiles at me. Why are you apologizing?
I don’t know. You’re so private, and my life is so fucking out there, everywhere.
So, everyone on your team knows we’re going out? he asks.
Oh, yeah. Clearly, everyone on his team doesn’t. Although holding hands in downtown St. Viola is one sure way to broadcast our relationship status. And they’ve probably told everyone they know. My teammates think it’s a big deal that I’m dating you—a star of the men’s team.
His expression reads, don’t exaggerate, Cleo. Mats is very modest.
Instead of reassuring me that he doesn’t mind the twenty-six–woman publicity campaign, he lets go of my hand and pulls out his phone. He checks something, and then he smiles.
I pull down the screen. Are you checking your social media? Why? As far as I can tell, you never post anything. Personally, I wouldn’t mind a few more shirtless photos.
Why? You get to see the real thing, he replies absentmindedly as he scrolls.
But I don’t. Not enough, anyway.
No new messages. This is working out great. He gives my shoulder a squeeze.
You know, I don’t actually think I’ve seen you check your social media before.
He lets out an exasperated sigh. I got a lot of DMs once I became single. Strange women asking me out. I was considering deleting my accounts. But then you happened, and it’s all good now.
Women you’ve never met ask you out? I feel competitive with all of them. Also, does he mean that the women are strange, or just strangers?
It’s ridiculous. Mats sounds genuinely disgusted.
Being a Mustang means you’re a campus sex symbol, I declare.
I hate all that shit.
Oh, please. Try being a Mink. It’s not like we have puck bunnies. Or whatever male rabbits are called. Brunnies?
But he doesn’t even smile at my joke. Do you really want that? People who date you just because you play hockey? It’s dehumanizing to be a square on the ‘I slept with a Monarch Mustang’ bingo card. I’m just a normal guy.
Hey, stop messing with my ego, I say in mock protest. I’m finally dating someone my friends admire, and he keeps insisting that he’s not that great.
He finally chuckles. I believe I’m reasonably attractive and interesting. But I’m not some paragon of a boyfriend. He turns to me. Which you’re finding out right now. But you still have a chance to bail.
While it’s true that going out with Mats isn’t quite what I expected, it’s still fascinating. Our conversations go all over the place, and we certainly argue a lot. But I enjoy the way he challenges me.
I take his hand again and squeeze it. I’ll hang in there.
At least until we have sex. If it sucks, I’m out.
Who am I kidding? It will not suck. He’s an elite athlete.
For the forty billionth time, I recall how good his undressed body looks.
But then I feel a stab of guilt for sexualizing him like all those strange women.
Like when I asked for more shirtless photos.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to objectify you earlier, I say.
He chuckles. You’re allowed, Cleo. You’re my girlfriend.
That’s the first time he’s called me that, and I’m beyond thrilled. Turns out I like putting labels on things.
Okay, Mr. Reasonably Attractive, I need to buy a birthday gift for my mom.
When’s her birthday? he asks.
Beginning of March. The big five-oh. My aunts are throwing her a party. It’s been on my calendar for weeks. Even though I’m only an hour from Hillsboro, I’m too busy to visit during the hockey season. But I have to go to this one, since they arranged to hold it on a day when I’m available.
Shit. Will Mats expect me to invite him along? Because even though I told him everything with my brother was fine, it’s not really. There’s no way I could bring Mats home without starting World War III.
Mats is busy window shopping, oblivious to my anxiety attack. St. Viola has a lot of gift shops. I’m sure we can find something.
Phew. Everything’s fine. Step away from the panic button, Cleo.
Wait. Do you enjoy shopping? I ask in surprise.
Sure.
Wow. I’ve never known any guys who actually like to go shopping. My dad and my brother complain if I want to spend even five minutes in a store that doesn’t sell hockey gear.
I think that’s a cultural thing. Lots of Asian countries treat shopping as a date activity. You see it all the time in Vancouver.
There are lots of different Asian groups there, right? I’ve done some research into Vancouver in my desire to learn more about Mats.
Yeah. Chinese are the biggest group, then South Asians. Japanese are the fourth- or fifth-largest population. It was a bit of a shock to move here, where there are so few Asians, and I stick out, he admits.
I consider this perspective for the first time. To me, Mats stands out because of his good looks and hockey talent, but maybe some people categorize him by race. Sure, I’ve felt discrimination as a woman in hockey, but it’s not the same as being judged by your appearance.
I squeeze his hand. I definitely want to visit Vancouver someday. You make it sound so interesting.
I miss it. Not sure where I’ll end up working once I graduate, but that’s where Adrian and I want to live when we set up our own business.
We wander into a funky little shop with local artisan crafts, and Mats helps me pick out some jewelry for my mom.
That was fast, I say. And she’s going to be really impressed that I didn’t get her a garden shop gift card again. I suck at shopping, unless it’s for someone who likes hockey.
Then I spot a sandwich board down a side street.
Look, a thrift shop. I’ve heard about this place, but I’ve never been around when it’s open. Can we go? My wardrobe is almost completely thrifted.
Mats agrees good-naturedly. The thrift store is a large room in a warehouse.
A woman with bright red hair greets us, then goes back to sorting through a large plastic bin of clothes.
To my surprise, instead of sitting and scrolling on his phone, Mats starts going through the men’s racks beside me.
He pulls out a few things and heads to the tiny, curtained-off changerooms. I take the pair of Carhartt pants I’ve found and follow him.
The pants turn out to be too tight on the thighs, which happens a lot.
I come out to wait, but Mats doesn’t emerge.
Can I see? I ask.
He pulls aside the curtain. Now he’s wearing a heavy navy shirt that looks super stylish on him.
Wow. Is that a designer shirt?
Not any brand I recognize. He pivots in front of the mirror and checks the price.
You look great. I think you should get it, I urge.
The next two things he comes out in, a soft grey sweater and a vintage band T-shirt, each look like he should be on the cover of an indie fashion magazine.
It’s irritating that everything looks so good on you, I complain. Is this your first time shopping vintage?
He scoffs. Of course not. I like a high-low mix. You can’t be well-dressed unless you have some unique pieces.
Again, Mats surprises me. I assumed all his clothes were by expensive designers. He’s also more into fashion than any guy I’ve ever known.
He puts back everything except the navy shirt.
Can I ask what you think of the way I dress? Guys I’ve dated have criticized me for not dressing normally. Even my roommates mock my casual wardrobe. What does someone with genuine style think?
He eyes me suspiciously, like this might be a trick question.
I reassure him, I’m not going to be insulted. I just want to know.
Mats shrugs, then states, You have a strong sense of self.
That feels like a non-answer. I tilt my head. If self means I thrift because that’s what I can afford, then sure.
He motions to the racks. Yeah, but thrifting doesn’t dictate your style. You could choose anything, even this. He pulls out a black lace top that I would never wear in a million years. But you gravitate to the same things. That’s your look.
What would you call my style?
The corner of his mouth tilts up. Sixties garage mechanic.
I giggle, and he smiles back.
Okay, fair. Then I get inspired. Choose something for me.
Like what? he asks, but he’s already looking around.
Something that fits my sixties garage mechanic vibe, but pushes the limits. Something that would look good but still look like me. I raise my palm. And I’ll buy it, no matter what.
Challenge accepted. Mats moves down the racks quickly, pulling out a hanger here and there. He looks like a pro; the kind of savvy thrifter who can pick out one perfect piece in a pile of crap. Finally, he returns with two tops.
Try them on first. Let’s see how they look.
The first top looks like a shirt I’d normally wear, with a flat collar and lapels, but the fabric is a sheer navy. Fuck, Mats, no way I’d wear something see-through. Still, I try it on and look in the mirror.
It looks amazing. It’s not that revealing, but you can see my upper arms and the definition in my triceps and biceps. I twirl to see it from all angles.
I throw open the curtain. I love it.
Mats is leaning against a rack. He just smiles. Smugly.
C’mon, tell me how you did it, I demand. Maybe shopping is a skill I can master too.
He strokes the sleeve of my shirt, and just his finger brushing against my arm makes me shiver. You’re already comfortable with this style of shirt, but here it’s in a completely different fabric, something a little sexy. It changes things up. You don’t want to keep buying exactly the same thing.
And the word sexy coming from Mats’s lips makes me blush. Sad.
Okay, going back in for round two. The second top is a lot more suspect. It’s a weird burgundy colour and has no collar. I button it up the front and look in the mirror.
Once again, I look so good. The rich colour makes me look like I’ve applied blush and lip gloss; my skin is glowing. The top nips in at the waist and makes my baggy work pants look fashionable. But the fabric is the same sturdy cotton as workwear.
I burst out of the room. Can you choose all my clothes from now on?
He shakes his head. You could do it too. You just need to open up your mind to new possibilities.
I stand in front of the mirror and spin around. Okay, I think I’ve figured it out. You found the utility fabric I’m used to, but in a different style, right?
He does a mock bow. The student has surpassed the teacher. My work here is done.
I throw my arms around Mats and hug him. I’m really enjoying all our time together. The Mats boyfriend experience is almost everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
Almost? he asks, his dark eyes twinkling.
Well, it’s not complete without… sex, right?
Aww, am I making you wait? Something you hate. Then he bends me back a little and nips the base of my throat, like a movie vampire. I melt a little. He whispers into my ear, Well, why don’t we head over to my place right now?
I swallow. Fucking finally.