“Oh, yeah?”

  Sophie nods. “It took longer because of it, and there’s only so much I can do when he’s squirming all over the place like a dying fish.”

  “Thanks for the image, friend,” I say, putting away my coat and boots and coming to sit down beside her.

  “You betcha. Anything for you, Elena,” she says around a yawn, barely covering her mouth. “So? Anything new and exciting going on with you?”

  “You know first graders. I got proposed to three times today, two boys and one girl.”

  “You didn’t say no, did you? Even if that makes it illegal to be married to all of them at once?”

  I snort. “You’re a little loopy, huh?”

  She nods, her eyes sliding closed. “Yeah. Every muscle in my body kills. I went to the gym and did some yoga and tried to do some weights, but I wasn’t paying attention and now I just feel more wrung out than before, like all my energy has dissipated into the ether.” She waves a hand at all the empty space around us.

  “The Habs are playing tonight,” she says, trying hard to be nonchalant. She glances over at me with her blue eyes, blinking.

  “Is this code for you wanting me out of the house?” I ask, tilting my head at her, my stomach howling with hunger. “Are you inviting someone over?”

  “Look at you, being gender neutral. I love it!” Sophie says, fist pumping in the air.

  “So, is that a yes to wanting me out of the house? I can go watch the game at the bar if you really want me out of here.”

  “I was going to have a guy over, but I just don’t feel up to it anymore. I’m bored of all the sleepovers—I’m tired of always putting in the work. Would it be so hard for a guy to pursue me for once? Would that be so freaking hard? Ugh, I’m over it, he can go choke for all I care. I don’t actually want him to choke, just the overall sentiment is there.” She sighs, running a hand through her hair.

  “I want to just know, you know? Like, that would be so much easier. Like your brain just goes ‘that one, we want that one, he’s a most excellent choice’. That’s all I want.”

  “We want it to work that way, but it doesn’t, not in real life. I don’t think it works that way, not ever. Never.”

  Sophie points a finger at me, nearly spearing my nostril. “Never say never. You’re tempting fate at that point.”

  “Was this the same guy from last time? Because when I come back from watching the game, please keep your exploration of kinks in your bedroom, yeah?”

  Sophie sighs, rolling her eyes hard enough that all I see are the whites for a few seconds.

  “Honestly, that was like one time, and I was tying him up, and it was a lot of fun, and I’m not going to be ashamed of doing something that two consenting adults enjoyed. Oh, you’re just playing with me. Jesus, Elena, I can never tell with you.”

  I snicker, trying to hide it behind my hands.

  I think about the bar, about maybe Beckett being there, actually sitting next to me this time around. It’s not really a hardship going to Dans la Rue—I can watch the game by myself, like I’ve been doing since forever.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m so deep, dark and mysterious. Yeah, all right. Let me change into something warmer; it was freezing at school today,” I say, heading into my bedroom. Sophie trails along behind, sliding along the floor with her hot pink fuzzy socks.

  I pull out my thicker, winter jeans, the ones without any rips, just pure black denim, and pull on a black turtleneck, because outside of the classroom, I like dressing like a wannabe goth girl, forever in love with Halloween and spooky season, but I have to be mindful of the kids, so I keep it down to wearing one black piece a day.

  Sophie flops down onto my bed, making a duvet angel, staring up at the ceiling and giving a whistle when I drop my pants and pull on my jeans. “Going to see a hot date?” she asks, then laughs, then sobers like she realized she was being hurtful. “Oh my God, are you?”

  I squint at her, wondering what she’s on.

  Shit, is it that obvious, wanting to see Beckett again, to have him look at me the way he did again?

  Maybe he does that to every female he passes by. Beckett could be that kind of guy that thrives on flirting, like he’ll die without it.

  And that’s fine, really, it’s fiiiinnneeeee.

  It’s not like I fell head over heels after one encounter. Nope, not me, mind your business.

  I MAKE IT TO THE BAR for the pre-game show, finding a parking spot in the underground lot.

  I practically sprint through it and head up the stairs, running like a scared little rabbit since underground parking lots might be some of the scariest places in the world—the echoing, you can’t really tell where the sound is coming from, and that’s terrifying on all levels.

  I head inside, nodding to the bouncers Terry and Larry (yup, not making that up), and head to the bar, “my” bar stool occupied by some dude...some guy wearing a Boston Bruins jersey, for Elliot Pueller, number 28, even though the Habs aren’t playing the Bruins tonight.

  I freeze right behind him, my eyes wide, the fire already burning in my cheeks at seeing him again. I mean, I knew it was a possibility, but I didn’t expect to see him within a single week.

  I had half-convinced myself that meeting him was a fever dream. In what cracked reality would I ever shout ‘kiss, you cowards!’?

  I shake myself out of it, taking the stool two over from him, keeping that customary stool between us, leaving it as breathable space, and when I lean onto the bar and look over at him, it’s to find him already looking back at me.

  I practically gurgle, practically choke on my saliva, just by having his attention on me.

  His hair is a wild mess of waves and curls, his beard now more neatly trimmed since the last time I saw him and looking less like he’d been out in the wilderness before making his way into the city on his own two feet.

  Beckett looks amazing, truly. With the briefest flicker of my eyes, I look him up and down, only to train my eyes back on his face, his handsome face that has a smile just for me.

  Wow, wow, wow.

  My palms get clammy, and my fingers go cold and numb just by looking at him. Why does my response to his attractiveness make me feel like I’m going to catch the flu?

  Is it because you’re love-sick?

  Oh, Jesus, shut up. Just, shut up.

  I don’t know what to say. I thought I would see him later on in the night, closer to game time, and I’d be knee deep in my food and John Collins, and I’d wave hello and that would be it.

  I didn’t expect him to take my stool, the one I’ve been sitting in for almost a whole year—pretty sure my ass has grooved itself in there, and basically, it’s like we’ve touched butts before doing nothing else other than shaking hands.

  Really, Brain, you’re gonna go there?

  Really, really?

  Beckett keeps smiling at me, the kind of lazy, happy smile that reminds me of what a boyfriend should look like, lazily delighted to see you, even if the rest of his brain and body has been turned off.

  “Hi,” he says, his voice deep enough to swim in, and I find myself leaning closer. “I’m Beckett.”

  WHAT?

  Did he...just?

  I cough into my hands, trying not to continuously choke on the very oxygen I need to survive, and struggle to stay alive while embarrassment scalds my skin, exposed or not. I burn with shame and want to sink down into the floor and force my cells to dissolve so that I never have to experience this again.

  Really...did he just re-introduce himself to me? When I’ve been thinking about him all week long?

  Is he high?

  Am I high?

  Did I imagine meeting him last week? Does he have a twin?

  He just introduced himself as Beckett, idiot.

  Right. Right, right, right...

  “What?!” I blurt, finding my voice, but I just sound confused and angry, and really, I should be feeling none of these things.

  How many times have I been told that I’m not at all memorable, that people in my life didn’t see me there? Beckett grins, sitting upright now, turning his whole body to angle towards me, and I have to stop reading into things.

  “Remember? Remember me?” he says, and I want to die.

  Way to go, Elena, jumping to conclusions.

  But it’s what I’m good at.

  “Yeah,” I murmur, holding my hand out again for a shake, and he obliges me, a business-like pump of our clasped hands before letting me go.

  “I was hoping you’d show up today. I’m going to need you around to defend my honor.” He grins at me, and I find my mouth doing the same thing, a perfect mirror. “Although Carl introduced me to his boyfriend last week and apologized for being a dick, so there’s that.” Beckett shrugs and takes a pull from his beer.

  “I was really just hoping to see you again.”

  Well, shit, I wasn’t expecting this at all.

  SIX

  Beckett? Hoping to see me again? What?

  I sputter. “What did you say?” For one, it would be really nice to hear it again, and second, I love compliments, can’t seem to live without them. Like a shark needs water to breathe, I need compliments to keep myself afloat on the daily.

  Beckett just smiles, leaning into the space over the vacant stool between us, and I find myself being reeled in, like that sucker of a fish that decided to take the bait.

  Is it going to be worth it?

  Time will tell.

  “I was hoping to see you again,” Beckett says, like he can just say that with no kind of consequences. He’s saying everything I want to hear, and it’s dangerous.

  “Was kinda hoping you’d just show up in the middle of some guy chatting me up about how much he wants to take me out back to kill me because I’ve got this jersey on, and we’re not even in the playoff season yet. I guess I know what to expect if the Bruins make it and the Habs don’t, huh?”

  He really has a death wish. Really, really.

  I want to lean over and slap my hand over his mouth, not even wanting him to say such a thing out loud, tempting fate to make a future where the Habs don’t make the playoffs come true, but I don’t.

  I keep my hands to myself, fisting in my own giant jersey, shaking my head at him. I glance around to see who’s looking at us and who I’m going to have to clock and make a joke about if I want to defuse a potentially tense situation again.

  “You’re lucky the Bruins aren’t playing tonight,” I say, looking around once again, spotting Lydia manning the bar at the far end and waving hello. I get a chin lift that speaks volumes: acknowledging my presence but also telling me to wait my turn.

  “Who says they aren’t playing? The game’s going on there, against Toronto.” Beckett points to another TV on the far end of the bar, where a couple of guys are sipping their beers, taking up space at the bar, and keeping their gazes riveted to the screens. They move side to side in some sort of coordinated dance, ants in their pants as Boston gets a power play and they cheer like the team’s already scored, when it’s really not a guarantee.

  Honestly, though, their power play is no joke, and might definitely end up in a goal for Boston, taking the man advantage. I don’t want to look.

  Instead, I look over to Beckett, whose eyes never seem to have left me, and he doesn’t shy away from me catching him looking at me, either. I think I like that; I like that a lot.

  The intro music to Hockey Night Across Canada comes on, the program covering all the hockey games being played across the country tonight, the Western Conference games to follow the Eastern Conference games.

  I glance up, giving Lydia my order without once glancing at her, watching the Habs and the Ottawa Senators line up on their respective blue lines to listen to the Canadian anthem before play starts.

  Some people are already drunk enough at the bar to sing along, and it’s funny, syllables getting stretched where they shouldn’t be.

  Lydia’s already placing my John Collins in front of me, cold against my hands, before whisking off to take more orders.

  The game starts soon after that, the Habs whipping down the ice after winning control of the face-off, rushing into the Senators’ zone, and cracking a shot off from the blue line off the glass, whipping it around the goalie to the other side.

  There are more times than I can count where I’ve lost sight of the puck—it’s a tiny disk-shaped object that gets launched around by hockey sticks all over the ice, and from this distance, it’s hard to track more often than not.

  There have even been a few times where it hits the back of the net, and I didn’t even notice how it got there in the first place.

  “I’ve tried talking to you a few times, actually,” Beckett says, pulling my attention away from the game to let his words sink in, and when they do, I can’t do anything but gape at him.

  This is news to me!

  I feel my eyebrows try to high-five the ceiling while simultaneously being stuck to my forehead, which is as uncomfortable as it sounds.

  “Uh, what?” I’ve fallen for his trap; I’ve leaned in closer, over that empty stool between us, placing my hand down on the back of it to keep my balance. Shit. Look at him, weaving his Beckett-magic on me.

  Beckett nods, almost lazily, doing everything slow and calm when I’m the one that’s already amped up and the game hasn’t even really gotten started yet.

  “Yeah, I’ve been here before. Been here a lot actually.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “No, you haven’t.”

  He hasn’t, no way. I would have noticed. A guy looking like him, looking at me? I can’t be completely oblivious that I don’t notice a guy like Beckett watching me. Which is troubling—do I really have zero situational awareness?

  Beckett nods, a lazy dip of his chin, reminding me of the Sloth character in Zootopia.

  “I promise you, I have. Came up to talk to you a few times, but the game ended up being more interesting.”

  I hold up a hand, confused, bringing the conversation to a stop.

  “I don’t know what you’re telling me. I ignored you when you came up to talk to me? Me?” I point at myself, making sure we’re talking about the same person. “Me? I did that?”

  Beckett nods again, a grin spreading across his mouth, making his cheeks bunch up and his eyes almost close, the sides of his eyes crinkling in would-be wrinkles. My belly swoops like I’ve gone on a questionable roller coaster ride on a roadside carnival.

  You’ve done this before, Elena. Fall head over heels right away because you’re getting some kind of attention.

  We need to be better.

  It’s not like I had a hard childhood or anything, but I’ve always kept myself small, contained, letting my other family members take the spotlight at family gatherings, especially my older cousin Katie, who takes up all the space in any room she walks into.

  I live inside of my head most of the time, when I’m not teaching, because obviously, not paying attention in a class of first graders is asking for trouble, but most of the time I’m inside my head.

  It’s safer there, quieter, where I’m the queen of my castle.

  But to have that obliviousness shoved right in front of my salad? I can’t believe this. I can’t believe this.

  How many opportunities have I missed in my life because I was caught inside my head—a smile from a stranger that could have bloomed into a friendship by a twist of fate, when I’ve been too afraid to step outside my comfort zone?

  “I’m sorry, that must’ve been incredibly rude,” I find myself saying, trying to placate him, turning my gaze back to the TV screen, hoping that something’s going to be done on the ice that’s going to make me watch and stay watching.

  Anything to forget that Beckett Donoghue, Zoe’s uncle, is looking at me like he wouldn’t mind taking me home.

  And I’ve been there, done that, and it’s not for me. But the ghost of Frankie keeps on haunting me even if that asshole is alive and kicking.

  I look over to find Beckett still looking at me, and even though my cheeks are on fire, a wildfire of embarrassment, I can’t help but feel shy and nervous.

  I’m not looking extremely attractive, just because I’m going to watch a game and it’s more important to represent the team than dress nicely (in my mind, anyway).

  Except Beckett’s looking at me like I’m wearing a ball gown, making my grand entrance, a queen among the rest of the mere mortals gathered here at Dans la Rue today. And I’m charmed, already falling under his spell.

  “I mean, it was, and I usually at least get a no, and I know where I stand obviously, but you just didn’t even answer. It was as if I didn’t merit any of your attention, so I left you alone. I minded my own business, even though I noticed that you come here for most games.” He clears his throat.

  “And I noticed that you hardly look away from the screen unless you’re ordering something from Lydia over there.” Beckett tilts his head to the side as Lydia breezes past us, giving me a wave as if we’re all on a stage and she was just cued in.

  “I...I really get into the game,” I say, stumbling over my words so I don’t apologize. It was a goal I had this year, to stop apologizing so much, to stop saying sorry unless I really, really feel it. I’ve had a lifetime of saying sorry that I shouldn’t have had to apologize for. “I didn’t mean to be rude or impolite. I come here to watch the game,” I say unnecessarily.

  Beckett smiles again, his eyes are warm and fond, and I wonder how many times he’s been around while I’ve been around at the bar.

  “So, watch the game, and I’ll watch the game, and next time, maybe we’ll watch the game together,” Beckett says, and he pats the empty stool between us, a promise of things to come.

  I turn away and start watching the game as per his instructions, conscious of his gaze on me for a few more seconds, seconds that don’t feel like seconds and more like a physical touch, awakening my skin hunger so that everything starts to ache.

  It’s been a long time since I let myself want to be around a guy, not an asshole, but a genuine guy that’s honest with me, to let down my guard like that. It’s been a long time since I wanted to be in a relationship, to feel connected to a guy in that way, wanting the romance, wanting to be romanced.