Chapter 5
CONNOR
The Sedlec Ossuary was in Kutná Hora, about an hour outside of Prague.
As soon as I left, I was both glad I’d gotten an international driver’s license before this trip and that I’d taken Madars up on the offer.
The drive was gorgeous. The route I chose took me through sprawling, snow-dusted farm country that was dotted with tiny villages and small towns.
After spending most of my time in big cities, I craved this kind of scenery.
I didn’t have to go far from Calgary to see farm country, but I rarely had time during hockey season, and anyway, it was so much prettier out here.
Kutná Hora itself had a bit of a small-town-meets-big-city vibe; I drove past a mall and some very modern apartment buildings, as well as homes that wouldn’t have been out of place in the villages I’d passed.
And there, tucked into a cluster of buildings that were anywhere from modern to what must’ve been centuries old, surrounded by a high stone wall, was the church.
I parked in the small lot and walked in through a tall gate. The church had several black metal spires that looked more like Christmas tree toppers than the spires I’d seen in Prague. The latter were tall and sharp. The ones here were rounder and adorned with gold religious icons.
I thought there’d be a courtyard inside the gate, but instead, it was a snow-covered cemetery with large and ornate gravesites of all shapes and sizes.
Some had wreaths on them. Others had flowers planted next to them, though they were currently cut back for the winter.
I snapped a few photos on my phone of both the cemetery and the church, and I checked the time.
Almost eleven, so the guys should—
“I still think you assholes are lying,” someone with a French accent was saying. “There’s no way they filled a church with bones.”
I turned around to see half a dozen men walking in wearing the jackets of various teams. Four from Team Switzerland, one from Team Norway, and—
Ah. There. Carmine red and white: Team Latvia.
I smiled to myself as I headed in the direction.
“We’re not lying,” one of them said, his Italian accent heavy. “There’s one in Rome too.”
“What? Who the hell is decorating their church with bones? This is bullshit.”
The other guys laughed, talking over each other to get their friend to believe them.
Madars was one of them, and my God, I was a teenager all over again, hypnotized by that gorgeous hockey player’s smile.
If only teenage me could see him now. Jesus.
Right then, Madars turned my way, and his expression lit up impossibly brighter. “You made it!”
I chuckled, sliding my hands into my pockets. “It was a pretty straight shot from Prague.” I shrugged. “GPS got me right to it.”
“Great! Glad you could join us.” He slung an arm around my shoulders and hauled me closer to the group, unaware of what that physical contact did to my ability to think. Fuck, it really was like I was still a kid when I was around him. One touch, and I was completely stupid.
He said something in German that got everyone’s attention, and they all turned.
“This is my friend Connor,” he announced in English. As I shook hands, I was introduced to Mish, Matteo, Jean-Pierre, Erik, and Louis. Not that I had any hope of remembering their names, though I’d sure try.
The one named Mish peered at my jacket. “So you’re here for the Games, but you’re…”
“An official,” I said, then quickly added, “for the women’s division.”
They all nodded.
“Ah,” Erik said. “So bribing you is pointless, then.”
“I mean you can try.” I shrugged. “Give me a hundred euro, and I guarantee I won’t call a single penalty or offside against your team.”
The men laughed, including Madars, who gave my shoulder a squeeze.
It was cold out here and the wind was starting to pick up, so we all headed inside.
As soon as we’d walked in church’s the front door, the bone skeptic—Jean-Pierre—went slack-jawed.
Understandable, since we were greeted by not just bones, but skulls.
On multiple walls, there were columns alternating between skulls and horizontal long bones that must’ve been femurs or something.
On either side of the stairs leading down into the church, there was a large alcove containing what looked like a giant chalice made from bones.
We showed the tickets we’d bought online, then descended the stairs, and…
whoa. Bones. Lots and lots of bones. On every wall, in every imaginable configuration…
bones. Skulls, ribs, pelvises, femurs, jawbones, collarbones, bones I couldn’t identify if I tried.
At the center of the ceiling was an enormous chandelier that, according to a guide talking to a tour group, contained at least one of every bone from the human body.
“Wow,” I murmured to Madars. “This is…” I didn’t even know what the word was. It was eerie and maybe a bit macabre, but it was also… fascinating? Mesmerizing? I couldn’t really describe it.
He nodded slowly. “It looked interesting in photos, but in person?”
“No kidding.”
Even his teammates were stunned into silence. And, all earlier joking aside, I think they were being respectful, too. For all hockey players could be ridiculous and not always well-behaved in public, there was an air about this place that commanded respect and reverence.
That, and there’d been a sign at the front door reminding visitors this was a sacred place, and I had a feeling they wouldn’t hesitate to boot people out if they acted like assholes.
At the very, very least, the men I was with were pro athletes, and they understood how hard it would be to come back from a headline about “hockey player embarrasses his team and home country in Czechia church.”
The group sort of dispersed in the chapel, wandering in different directions to check out the various displays. Mish and Louis were eager to see the famous coat of arms. Jean-Pierre was drawn to glass cases containing skulls with placards beside them. I wasn’t sure where Erik headed off to.
Madars and I made our way over to a caged off corner that housed an enormous collection of bones.
It was mostly long bones, stacked to create a dome-shaped piled with an opening in the middle.
Skulls were placed around the opening and along one side.
Coins were scattered on the floor, between the bones, on top of them, and in the nose and eye sockets of the skulls, as if people had thrown them in like they would a wishing well or a fountain.
Madars leaned closer to me and whispered, “Are we supposed to toss coins in?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea.” I glanced around, trying to gauge what other people were doing. “Is it, like, something just the locals are supposed to do? Or a religious thing?”
“Don’t know. I haven’t heard any coins landing anywhere.”
He made a good point. Though probably twenty or thirty people milled around in here, it was quiet enough that we would’ve heard a coin hitting concrete. Or other coins. Or maybe bones? I hadn’t heard anything like that, though.
“Maybe we shouldn’t until we see what other people are doing,” I whispered.
“Good idea. When in Rome.”
I nodded. “When in Rome.”
We glanced at each other, and… fuck me, that smile was really going to be my undoing, wasn’t it?
Probably.
I couldn’t say I minded.
The church was fairly small, so it didn’t take us long to explore it.
We eavesdropped on an English-speaking guide telling a group some of the history and highlighting some of the bones and skulls kept in glass cases.
It was a little morbid, but mostly fascinating, and I couldn’t resist picking up a book on the way out.
All too soon, we were outside the gate again, our group standing on the sidewalk with our coats pulled tight around us.
There was a small restaurant across the street, and lucky for us, they were empty enough to accommodate a group our size.
They also didn’t seem to mind the banter and chirping that came with a flock of hockey players.
“I fucking told you it was real,” Mish said.
Jean-Pierre rolled his eyes. “Anyone would be skeptical of”—he gestured toward the church—“that.”
“Oh, just admit you were wrong,” Madars laughed.
Mish elbowed him. “Hey, you were skeptical too.”
“But I believed you after you showed me the website.” He gestured at Jean-Pierre. “He was still saying ‘no way’ at the door.”
Jean-Pierre gave him the finger, and the guys laughed.
The banter continued like that as we ate. After a while, Madars turned to me. “What did you think of the church? Did you enjoy it?” There was a subtle crease in his brow, as if he were truly concerned I hadn’t enjoyed the outing.
Why was it so hard to not put a hand on his leg or his forearm? I wouldn’t do that even if we were dating because we were in public and I didn’t know the guys at this table well enough, but also… we weren’t dating. What the hell?
I cleared my throat and smiled. “I did. It was really interesting. The book will give me something to do on the flight home.”
Madars made a face. “Ugh, I hate those transatlantic flights. So fucking long, and then there’s the jetlag at the end.”
Mish snorted. “You didn’t complain about anything being long when we were roommates.”
All the guys roared. Madars laughed, but he also blushed, and when he looked at me, there was a hint of “Sorry about my stupid friends” in his eyes. I just chuckled and nudged his foot beneath the table. He nudged back.
They all kept chirping while we kept eating, and I laughed along with them.
Though playing professional hockey had never been in my future, I’d done my time on youth teams, and I’d always enjoyed the camaraderie and nonsense that came with being around hockey players.
I’d been fortunate in that my dad had made sure I was on teams that weren’t as toxic and homophobic as hockey teams absolutely could be, so it had mostly been fun and lighthearted.
I wouldn’t have traded those experiences for anything, and I enjoyed dipping my toes back into it with these men today.
One man in particular, of course. Every time I stole a glance at Madars, my pulse went haywire.
And every time he burst out laughing at something a teammate had said—God help me.
It was hard to believe this man had once been the cute, kind of shy kid who’d been my first kiss, but then there were moments when I was absolutely sure this was him.
When one of the guys ribbed him just right to make him blush.
When he got that wicked grin just before delivering the perfect chirp to one of his teammates.
When he’d turn to me and silently ask if I was having a good time, and—when I confirmed I was—he’d smile that soft little smile that had been my undoing a decade ago.
How did I ever let you slip through my fingers?
I kept asking myself that over and over, and I couldn’t come up with an answer.
Well, beyond the fact that we’d been young, focused on our futures, and we’d drifted apart.
It happened. I could name at least a dozen close friends from high school and even university who I hadn’t spoken to in years for the same reasons.
But sitting here with Madars, those years felt criminal. Like I’d been a complete dumbass to not do everything I could to stay in contact with him.
Nothing I could do about it now. I wasn’t making the same mistake twice, though. I vowed to myself at least a dozen times during lunch that I wouldn’t lose touch with Madars after we both left Prague.
Eventually, Mish checked his phone, and he sighed. “We should get back to the city.” Eyeing Madars, he added, “Some of us have to practice today.”
Madars shrugged. “You probably need it more than we do.”
That got him another elbow while a chorus started up of “oh, fuck off” and “eat a dick, Mads” along with some comments in German and French. Madars just chuckled.
As he turned to me, though, his expression was sad and apologetic. “I guess I should go. I, uh…” He swallowed. “I don’t want to make them late.”
“No, no, I get it.” I shifted in my seat. “Or, um, I could give you a lift back.” I gestured over my shoulder toward the door. “I drove in.”
Madars raised his eyebrows, the obvious interest making my pulse jump. “You don’t mind?”
“Of course not.” I shrugged. “My hotel is, what, two blocks away from yours? Something like that?”
“It’s not far at all.”
I nodded sharply. “Okay. No problem, then.”
None of the guys seemed bothered by the arrangement, and before long, they’d paid their part of the bill and were putting on their coats. They all said their goodbyes and headed out, leaving Madars and me to finish at our leisure.
“You don’t have practice today like they do?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Two of our coaches don’t get in until tonight, so we have practice tomorrow morning.” He groaned. “Early tomorrow morning.”
I laughed. “Still don’t like getting up early, do you?”
“Not early enough for a seven am practice, no.”
Grimacing, I said, “Okay, that’s fair.” To be on the ice by seven, he’d need to be up by at least five just so he could eat enough to skate but not make himself sick. Given how much he’d loathed being conscious before eight when we were kids, he must’ve been thrilled.
“Well, it could be worse,” I said.
He arched an eyebrow. “How’s that?”
“You could be jetlagged.”
He pursed his lips, then conceded with a nod. “That’s true. I think that’s my favorite part about playing in Europe instead of North America. I’m not jetlagged all the fucking time.”
“Ugh. Tell me about it. At least I usually stay in one region for most of the year, but sometimes I end up going to the other coast, and…” I made a face.
Madars chuckled. “The gods favor no one, eh?”
“Not in this sport, they don’t.”
We both laughed.
“Anyway, well… Sorry about…” He gestured at the empty seats where his teammates had been sitting. “We can get a bit rowdy.”
I smiled. “You’re hockey players. I wouldn’t expect any less.”
Oh, hell, that shy little laugh was going to end me.
“I guess we’re all like that, aren’t we?” he asked.
“Every last one of you.”
He shrugged as if to say eh, yeah, what can you do?
“Well, it’s just us now.” I picked up my drink. “Anything you want to do while we’re out here?”
I had to be imagining the sudden heat in his eyes when he met my gaze. I had to be. Just like I was imagining the matching flare of desire in my chest.
I quickly tamped down that imaginary flare in the same moment Madars cleared his throat, broke eye contact, and picked up his own drink.
“We, uh…” He took a quick swallow. “We could just go see the scenery. I have no idea what’s out here.”
“There’s a cathedral somewhere nearby,” I said. “And I thought I saw something about a chocolate museum.”
Madars’ eyebrows flicked up. “A chocolate museum?”
“It was on TripAdvisor.” I shrugged. “Could be fun to check out.”
Fuck me. Cathedral, chocolate museum, another bone church—I’d have gone anywhere that made him smile like that.