Page 73 of Hockey Halloween

Ligaya

I can’t believe I’m sitting here with a half plate of lasagna, talking about my tits and holding back a smile. But nothing was ever normal between me and Tristan.

“How would you know?”

“I felt you in my arms last week, Ligaya.”

He puts his utensils down and wipes his mouth. The motion makes me look at his lips while he speaks, slow and steady, as if relishing every word. “And since I haven’t thought about much else since, I know for a fact your tits are magnificent.”

Damn. I don’t know if I should be insulted by a man audaciously commenting on my breasts or exhilarated that the man is Tristan.

“I’m not sure if I should be pissed or flattered.”

“No need to choose just yet.”

“Smooth. Does this usually work with your dates?”

“Aha, you agree this is a date,” he declares smugly.

“Don’t twist my words.”

“You make it too easy.”

I shake my head in a gesture of exasperation, but I can’t stop smiling. Flirting with Tristan is like a moth flying into a flame and thinking, but I’m built differently !

Delusional.

“Wiggling your way into the rehearsal was sneaky, even for you. What did you think it would accomplish?”

“Maybe I wanted to buy you dinner to make up for how badly I behaved.”

“A gift card would have accomplished the same thing.”

“I’m more a man of action.”

“Sure you?—”

My rebuttal is interrupted by spine-chilling screeches emerging from the table across our booth.

“Chloe!”

“Oh my god!”

“Help! She’s choking!”

Women’s voices rise, drawing focus to their friend whose long blonde curls fall into the marinara sauce. The woman’s jerky head movements are erratic and unnatural.

Before my brain fully comprehends the situation, Tristan has leapt off the booth, hooked his arms under the woman’s armpits, and lifted her up with a heaving tug. He proceeds to administer the Heimlich maneuver multiple times.

When she doesn’t respond, dread floods my veins.

Her face is nearly purple and her limbs are as limp as a ragdoll’s.

What if he’s too late?

Tristan’s face speaks volumes even as he seems determined to keep going. There’s an unmistakable anxiety in his eyes.

Ambient terror fills the room as panic descends.

Oh shit, what if he’s too late?

Then, a lump of gray meat shoots out of her mouth.

I’m standing between the booth and the table so I see the blob before the trajectory delivers its slimy wetness on my chest. Disgust and relief clamor inside me. The injured woman coughs while her friends wail in relief.

Meanwhile, Tristan is stoic. He guides the woman back into her seat and throws me a look of someone ready to bolt. I grab my sweater and jog to the hostess stand, Tristan close behind. He reaches for his wallet with shaky hands.

“Run my card,” I tell the server and turn to Tristan. “Go. I’ve got this.”

Tristan rushes out the door. By the time I sign the bill, the first responders have burst in. Chaos raises the noise to unbearable levels. I exit. As I’m looking down at my phone to order a Lyft, I hear a horn from the side of the restaurant.

A black SUV runs idly, Tristan’s arm out the window as he waves me over.

“I’m good! I’ll order a ride.”

“Get in, Ligaya. For fuck’s sake, I said I’d take you home.” Something about his tone allows zero argument.

I slip into the passenger seat. The seatbelt hasn’t even clicked before Tristan pulls out of the parking lot. We drive in silence for a few minutes.

“That was quick thinking. You saved her life.”

He makes a gruff sound between a harrumph and a growl.

“Why are you mad?”

“I’m not mad. I’m...” He pauses. Tristan is driving to my parent’s house instead of my townhouse, but I don’t correct him. “I had a moment when I thought I wasn’t doing it right. Her body went completely limp. Like, actual dead weight. Fuck, what if she died ?”

“She didn’t.”

He visibly shivers. Tristan continues to stare into space when the light turns green.

“You shouldn’t drive back to Columbus in this state. Come in for a breather,” I offer.

“Your parents wouldn’t mind?”

“I might not be a fancy hockey player, but I make enough to move out,” I state and immediately regret my haughty tone.

“Turn left up the road, please,” I say contritely.

He parks in my driveway and is eerily quiet while following me onto the tiny porch of my townhouse .

“Nice place,” he says when we enter.

Some might call my home eclectic. That’s a short way of saying my style is comprised of colorful thrift store finds and unique restored antiques. The only matching elements are the plants stuffed into every free corner or surface. I love the warm, quirky home I’ve created for myself.

“Have a seat.”

I point to my plush maroon sectional made of velvet so soft it could be butter. This was my big splurge. The fabric, not the sofa. Being a theater junkie exposes you to all kinds of skills, like reupholstering furniture.

Tristan sits down and rubs his hands over the luxurious fabric. I’m momentarily distracted by the movement.

“Do you want a drink? Tea or coffee?”

“Water’s fine. Thank you.”

Clipped and tense, Tristan is not himself.

“How about something stronger?”

My offer surprises both of us. I head over to what was once a dining room hutch, fully repurposed to suit my particular needs. Tristan steps closer.

“I did not expect this.” He gestures at the shelves stocked with wine bottles featuring weird labels. “Is this a liquor store or a cry for help?”

“This,” I answer, waving at my collection of PTA-sponsored booze, “is my real teacher’s pension.”

He reaches for a bottle of Merlot, turning it in his hands. “Wait. Is your face on the label?”

I squint in semi-embarrassment. “Yup.”

He reads the label out loud. “ Miss T’s Emotional Support Juice—Pairs Well with Standardized Testing. ” Tristan snorts. “Ligaya, how did this happen?”

“One of the very involved moms is a wine distributor. All three of her kids went through the drama club after I took over six years ago. Another PTA member started the label swapping as a joke. It’s gotten out of hand, with parents outdoing each other.

I don’t actually drink much, as you can tell, but I appreciate their support of the arts. ”

I point to another bottle, a chardonnay with an unflattering picture of me wincing. “That one is called Sip Happens. ”

Tristan grins. “Jesus, that picture.”

“Oh, we’re not done.” I grab another bottle and place it in his hands. “Feast your eyes on this one.”

He turns it and reads the label pasted over the vodka bottle. Tristan practically chokes at the ridiculousness of the label: 99% Proof That You’re Underpaid.

He holds the bottle to his chest. “I don’t know if I should laugh or cry at the truth of that statement.”

“Definitely cry.”

Tristan puts the vodka back on the shelf. “Thanks, I needed a laugh.”

“Glad my PTA-funded revelry is entertaining.”

We’re standing too close. Tristan’s hazel eyes lower to my lips while his clenched jaw turns to granite. Looking away, I grab a bottle along with two wine glasses.

“Let’s toast to the life you saved today.”

Tristan puts his hand over mine to stop the motion.

“Don’t open it for me. I, um, I don’t need a drink,” he says, fingers lingering over mine.

Before I can stop myself, I ask, mesmerized by his darkened eyes, “What do you need, Tristan?”