Page 12

Andy blows out a frustrated raspberry. Most people love being interviewed. Unless they’re hiding something.

I try to hide my smile—I can’t help it, annoyed Andy is adorable.

Yeah, but put yourself in our shoes. We’re all extremely competitive, and we just lost our game. All we want to do is shower and move on, but then you come in and make us explain why we lost. Maybe that’s your job, but if we knew how we could have won, we would have done that.

She nods slowly, like I’ve said something really important. Is there a point in the game where you know how things will turn out? Whether you’ll win or lose?

I consider her question. Usually there’s no way to tell. Sure, we want it, but so does the other team. But there are also nights when everything’s clicking. We feel really good. Maybe not a guaranteed win, but close.

There are more people around as we near the pub. I step forward to open the door for Andy. It’s always busy here after a game, but there’s a section reserved for us. People I don’t even know holler out to me and wave as we pass.

Andy doesn’t notice and keeps asking me questions. But do losses really bother you that much? It’s just a game. And you have many more to go.

Her questions are basic, but they make me think. Back home, nobody would ever ask why hockey is important. In Canada, hockey rules.

You can’t take a night off. Maybe it’s an exhibition game or whatever, but you can’t make excuses. Bring your best game every night or you’ll lose your edge, your concentration. One of my coaches said that there are two kinds of players: ones who love to win and ones who hate to lose.

She’s watching me, wide-eyed. Hockey is a whole new world for her. Which one are you?

I hate to lose. It’s not that I don’t love winning and the joy in the room afterwards, but I really hate that nagging sensation that I could have done more. That’s why I need to give everything on every shift.

That’s surprising. You seem like a pretty easy-going person, she observes.

I went through a phase of beating myself up after every loss, but then I figured out that it was easier to go hard during the game than to feel guilty after.

Sure, I learn from every game, but I try to leave the losses at the arena.

Besides, meeting my girlfriend after games would be the perfect distraction.

Of course, Andy’s not my girlfriend yet , but she is distracting.

You surprise me, she says.

That has to be a good thing, because she didn’t like me at all before. I take the opportunity to turn the conversation to her.

What about you? What are the things you’re passionate about?

Getting a newspaper job after I graduate. Her answer sounds rehearsed.

Is that really a passion though? I ask.

We slide into a booth by ourselves since she needs to work. I watch her forehead crinkle as she really considers my question.

Maybe travel? I’ve never really gone anywhere, but I have a list of places I want to visit. I’m always bookmarking interesting hotels and restaurants. I have a passport, but I’ve never used it.

Have you never even been to Canada? I ask.

She shakes her head. No offence, but if I leave the country, I’d rather go somewhere more exciting, like Europe. Besides, aren’t the Canadian Prairies a lot like the Midwest?

I imagine taking Andy home to Saskatchewan. Maybe not in the coldest part of winter, but it’s so great—the wide prairie, the endless sky, the friendly people. We could go horseback riding on the ranch or visit my favourite park, Wanuskewin.

I’m pulled out of my reverie as Andy pulls out her notebook and her laptop. Sorry to be antisocial, but I have to finish this story. I don’t want to take up your whole evening.

No, it’s my fault for sidetracking us. I want to understand Andy and what she’s passionate about. Because apparently, I’m pretending that this is a date. While you’re working, I’ll go up and order. Do you want a drink or something to eat? I ask.

Her concentration is so total that she doesn’t even hear my question, so I leave her to it.

I join my teammates at the bar and order my dinner.

We talk about tomorrow night’s game, which is across the border in Wisconsin.

The best thing to do after a loss is to put it behind us and focus on the next game.

Your date is a lot of fun, Schmidty comments. We all turn to see Andy, who is now wearing noise-cancelling headphones and typing on her laptop so fast that it looks like she’s faking.

She has a nice rack, says Bergy, and my jaw clenches. Having seen Andy in a tight T-shirt, she does have a great body, but I don’t like hearing Bergy say so.

She’s not my date. Anyway, it’s my fault that she has to work here.

I’m going to look over her story once it’s done.

To me, Andy looks admirable. She’s the type of person to put her responsibilities first. Plus, how many people could work in a pub and not worry about what other people think? Not me.

Make sure the story doesn’t suck this time, Big Z says, then makes his way across the pub to talk to some people. People meaning attractive women.

How are you supposed to help her with the story? Mats asks. He knows that writing is not one of my strengths.

I can fix the hockey parts. Andy’s a good writer, she just doesn’t understand hockey yet, I explain.

Ethan snorts. How the fuck would you know she’s a good writer? You didn’t even know there was a college newspaper an hour ago.

I’ve read other stuff she’s written, I say defensively.

Yeah? Like what? Ethan is almost as irritating as his cousin, who continues to use my bedroom whenever I’m not in it. He may even be there right now.

Her journal, I say quietly.

What? Is that like her diary? Bergy asks. Was it hot?

I shake my head but I’m already blushing, proving that I’m lying.

The first entry I read was about her breakup—and it was beautiful, full of emotion and poetic observation.

But the one I was reading when Andy returned…

well, that one was about her being a feminist, yet having sexist fantasies—of being more submissive.

I will forever regret not having time to finish that one.

But if she wants to feel a little helpless and out of control while she’s being fucked, I will happily volunteer for that job all night long.

Oh, now I get it. You like her because she’s kinky. What kind of shit is she into? A threesome? I’d be up for that if you need someone, Bergy offers.

Luckily, before I have to answer that unwelcome offer, our waitress arrives with our meals. Here you go, Jack. Enjoy. She sets a plate in front of me with a wink and a smile.

Thanks. I turn to Mats. You want to go sit with Andy?

Sure, as long as we’re not disturbing her, he says.

If you could read the story too, that would be a big help.

We get settled in the booth. Andy pulls off her headphones and smiles at us.

How’s it going? I ask.

Almost done. She seems less stressed about the article.

Andy, this is Roy Matsumoto. He’s going to help us too. We’ll eat now, and you can show us the story once it’s done. Oh, I brought you a drink. I push the ginger ale towards her. Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?

No, thanks. I ate dinner before the game. Although I might steal a fry. She looks over our plates. Oh. No fries. You guys must be serious athletes.

Mats smiles. We eat clean when we’re out with the team. But we mainline Pop-Tarts in the privacy of our homes.

Andy laughs and pulls her headphones back on. I eat and chat with Mats, but I’m keenly aware of her presence. I can’t stop fantasizing about her, and now she’s right beside me.

Almost as soon as we finish eating, Andy finishes her typing with a flourish. All done.

She turns her laptop towards us. Don’t worry about my feelings, be as harsh as you can. I’d rather fix things now than hear about them later.

Mats and I read through the piece without saying much. While she’s covered the main points of the game, it’s very awkward. Like that game where you translate song lyrics into another language and then back into English—everything’s just a bit off.

Um, ‘light the lamp’? Nobody uses that term except eighty-eight-year-olds, I say.

Darn. I read this glossary of hockey slang and I’ve been trying to sprinkle phrases in. Andy makes a note. Thanks. Keep going. I’ll change everything at the end.

Mats is a faster reader than I am, and he’s already done. It’s better than your last story, but skip the hockey slang altogether. It sounds weird. Andy nods.

He continues, Look, most people who are going to read this have actually been to the game. So, while it’s important to have all the facts, like who scored and assisted, you also want to give fans something positive. Like capture the highs and give them reason to feel hopeful about the team.

Andy absently touches her pen to her lips as she mulls over Mats’s suggestion. Okay, sure. So, a high would be the goal you scored in the second period? Could you give me another example?

I jump in. Well, after we scored, we really started dominating the play. It felt like we were going to tie things up, until Unger took that tripping penalty.

She adds, And then Portage scored while Unger was in the sin bin—er, I mean, the penalty jail thingy.

Mats rubs his forehead. Is it true that you’re the sports editor?

Andy straightens and squares her laptop on the table. Yes. I understand that I’m not qualified, but I learn fast. I’ve been on the newspaper staff since my freshman year.

He holds up a hand. It’s okay, Sinc tells me you’re a good writer. Hopefully you’re a good editor too?

She nods.

I know someone who would be a good game reporter for you. He does video and stats for our team. But he would definitely need a good editor. I’ll have to check with him first, though.

Andy’s mouth is set in a straight line. For some reason, she really wants to write, even though her hockey knowledge sucks. Okay, that could work. Although I don’t even know why an editor is needed from what I’ve read in our archives.

Have you ever read any real sports journalism? Mats asks.

I’ve read last season’s game stories, if that’s what you mean, she says.

No, I mean really good stuff. Like in Sports Illustrated or The Athletic .

I nod. My dad’s a big soccer fan. Some of the UK outlets do football stories that are interesting and hilarious—even for non-fans.

Andy takes notes. Okay, I’ll check all those out. Thanks so much.

I’ll send you some links, I offer. I already have her number, and this gives me an excellent excuse to message her.

Then Schmidty and Swanny slide into the booth, bringing their own dinners.

Got your homework done now? Swanny asks Andy.

All finished. She shuts her laptop and slides out of the booth. I’ll do the rest back in my room. You guys have been stellar, and I really appreciate all your help.

Wait, don’t you need me to read over the final final story? I plead.

She shakes her head. I’m good now. It’s not going to be perfect, but it will be significantly better than the last one. Roy, let’s exchange numbers and you can let me know about that stats guy.

He takes her phone. Sure. But call me Mats.

Once she’s pocketed her phone, I stand up. It’s late. I’ll walk you home. Andy opens her mouth to respond as our waitress swoops in with a tray of drinks.

Whoa, cowboy, you can’t leave now. Someone has sent you guys a round of drinks here, She motions behind her. It’s from the ladies across the bar.

Bergy raises a beer in salute and there’s laughter from across the pub. Andy waves me off. Stay and enjoy yourself. And relax, you’ve more than repaid your debt to me.

All I can do is watch as she winds her way out of the pub. Once she disappears into the night, I sigh. I don’t want my debt to be repaid. I want her to call me whenever she needs help with hockey stuff.

Desperation isn’t a good look on you, Swanny taunts.

Fuck off. I pick at the lettuce on my plate and try to brainstorm more ways to help Andy.

Then it strikes me—this is my big chance.

If I can spend time teaching Andy about hockey, we’ll be able to connect in an authentic way.

She’ll find out that I’m not just some one-dimensional jock.

And once we get to know each other better, I’ll be able to ask her out again.