Page 4

Four

Jaylen

Once you’ve seen one dive bar, you’ve seen them all. Trolls Bridge is no different: better left dimly lit and best enjoyed slightly buzzed.

“This is Trolls Bridge, huh?” I say, taking in my new surroundings and the questionable smells. My shoes stick in a mystery spill under the wibbly round table.

The bar is poorly lit by glowing neon signs, most of which are beer branded, except for the green troll that glows behind the bartender. We’re tucked behind a broken jukebox covered in a thick layer of dust. “I thought we were going on some hero’s journey, like to Mordor or something,” I add, trying to at least crack the ice. Someone breaks a rack on the pool table nearby, and I startle.

“Those were hobbits,” she says without much laughter, wasting no time plugging her phone into my portable charger.

At least she got the reference. I didn’t break the ice, but there’s a small surface crack on top. By now most professional hockey players would have mentioned the fact that they’re an athlete, finding some excuse to humbly brag about how cool their job is, but I can’t use my usual lines anymore. I doubt they would even work on someone like her. I quickly have to remember what it is like to be a person, and not a professional hockey player. Without an NHL contract at the moment, I’m just a guy who can skate.

Of course, now I’m in my head worrying about what I’m going to do with my life now that I’m out of the NHL. Go play in Russia? Get a job in real estate? Start a podcast? I shudder at the thought and block it out of my mind.

“Right. So, if I ask for your name, are you going to hit me?” I shift around in my seat trying to find a comfortable position.

“Lucy.” She sounds very inconvenienced.

There was no pause before her response, so either she’s telling me the truth or it’s her go-to fake name. Regardless, it doesn’t leave much room for some cutesy nickname. What would she do if I called her Lulu? I know better than to try.

“Hi, Lucy. I’m Jaylen, but most people call me JJ,” I say. I almost reach across the table and shake her hand, but thankfully I catch myself and grab my beer instead. I take a sip.

I intentionally omit my last name from my introduction in case she watches hockey. I used to wear the Jones patch across my back with pride, but it’s since become a target for hate. Fans used to chant my name from the stands, but eventually all I could hear were their boos. I’m fine with just being Jaylen tonight.

“I thought they called you relentless.” Lucy takes a drink of her beer, a two-for-seven-dollars special she reluctantly let me buy her.

“Funny. You come to this place often?”

Now that she’s finally willing to look at me I can see that she has the coolest eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re hazel, and not the type of hazel that people with brown eyes claim to have, a real mixture of greens and browns. I know I’m staring at her again, but it’s so hard to look away when there is so much of her to look at.

“Sometimes.” She folds her arms across her chest and slouches back into her chair.

“Seems like a cool place to meet people,” I say, trying to be nice.

Lucy seems like the type of person who needs a minute or two to warm up to new people. She tried to fight me when we first met; now she’s telling me her name. That’s great progress.

“No one comes to Trolls Bridge to meet someone new; they come here to be left alone.” She peers down to check her phone’s battery life. “This place doesn’t see a lot of tourists like you,” she says, calling me out.

“What makes you assume I’m not a local?” I do my best to hide the fact that her assumption offends me. Even this stranger I just met knows I don’t belong in this city, on this hockey team. I’m out of place sitting across from her, just like I was out of place at that NHL training camp.

“You’re wearing nice shoes in a city known for rain and you’re way too polite. You have Midwest suburbia written all over you.” Lucy adjusts her crossed arms, tightening their lock around her chest.

“A suburb outside of Chicago,” I say. Lucy’s chin tilts toward the ceiling and she cracks the slightest smile as she’s proven right. “What about you? You from around here?”

It’s a strategic question that usually weeds out the hockey fans. If they’re from the Midwest, they likely know my name. If they’re from the East Coast, they know the team that drafted me. And if they’re from Canada, they know my name, team, stats, and blood type.

Shifting in her seat, Lucy draws a long inhale. “Listen, Jaylen. I’m not going to call you JJ—it feels like a nickname you give a small child and not something you call a grown man. We don’t have to do this, pretend to get to know each other. You ask me about my family, and I ask you about work, and we leave here having presented the best version of ourselves, waiting to see if the other is going to call us back. And for what? To find out months later that Noah, the guy always texting you when we were together, was never really your brother, but your boyfriend the entire time.”

“Who’s Noah?”

“Exactly.” Lucy slaps her palm down on the table. She isn’t derailed in the slightest by my confusion as her passionate spiel continues. “Let’s save each other a couple of wasted months. I simply don’t have the energy tonight. And if I’m being frank, I’m not looking for any type of relationship right now.” An ease falls over Lucy’s body for the first time tonight.

In that moment, I realize she has no clue who I am and for whatever reason, it puts me at ease too. “Okay. Should we get straight to the point and present the worst version of ourselves?” I suggest jokingly.

Now I’m getting a bit of a rise out of the anonymity between us; I knew she looked like fun when I first saw her. Lucy might be incredibly hot and wildly intimidating, but she is also totally clueless about who I am, and I like it.

“Maybe.” She brings her finger to her chin. She looks me up and down, like she’s sizing up her competition. “You go first,” she says.

“Hmm. Let me think. Um, sometimes I talk in my sleep.” I’m caught off guard by her willingness to engage, and struggle to think of anything good off the top of my head.

“Wow! Red flag! Get away! Automatically blocked!” she says with so much emotion that there is no denying it’s sarcasm. Lucy quickly drops the pretend outrage and adds, “Seriously, that’s the worst you got?”

I think about playing it safe again and telling her that I put hot sauce on my eggs, but I don’t want to disappoint her. Plus, I love a challenge. “Fine. My life is a complete mess right now. I’ve never had a serious relationship because work has always come first. I pretty much put work above everything. I’m really hard on myself, to a fault, and it makes it hard to let anyone in. I’m also allergic to peanuts, which is deadly, but mostly embarrassing. I don’t enjoy the fact that I can be taken out by a tiny nut.”

It’s more honest than I’ve been with myself in a long time. My life is a complete mess, but the mess didn’t happen this after-noon when I got cut from the Rainiers. I made that mess back in my second year in the league when I did something so shameful, I don’t think I could ever admit it out loud, no matter how cute the woman in front of me is.

It was January, almost five years ago. I still don’t remember anything from that game. What I do remember is the fact that I missed my best friend Cameron’s funeral to play in it. He must still be pissed at me, because I swear ever since that game I’ve been cursed.

It’s fine; I don’t forgive myself either. So I tell Lucy my life’s a complete mess because it’s the truth, and because I don’t think she would keep talking to me if she knew the whole truth.

“Now we’re talking. Okay, let me try.” She rubs her hands together in excitement. “I’m a serial dater, with a long track record of crappy partners and imploding relationships. In fact, I’ve sworn off dating altogether for the foreseeable future. I’m focusing on work right now. Oh, and I’ve been told I can be a bit cold or hard to read or whatever.”

A loud laugh escapes from my mouth, and she shoots me a death glare. “Sorry.” I bite my lip trying to rein in my grin. Her self-awareness is sexy.

“Tell me more horrible things about you,” Lucy coos mockingly as she leans in toward me.

I’m almost too distracted by her slightly parted glossy lips to answer, but my eyes narrow as I get my head back in the game. “I’m bad with names. I forget everyone’s name the minute they say it. I end up having to call them Boss or Big Dog so they don’t notice that I don’t know their actual name. It’s a great life hack because they end up thinking we’re so tight that I’ve given them a fun little nickname. But don’t worry, I’ll always remember yours, Lacy .” I lean back, pleased with myself at that last joke.

“I’m an impulsive shoplifter of trivial objects,” she says.

Lucy reaches into her purse and pulls out a handful of mints, two shot glasses branded with the Club Purple Haze logo, and a stack of Trolls Bridge bar-branded cardboard coasters. I can’t help but laugh as she scoops everything back into her bag.

“I piss the bed when I drink too much.” I try to one-up her.

“Most men do,” she says.

“I pee in the shower.”

“Most people do.” She dismisses me again, this time with a fake yawn.

“I don’t remember birthdays,” I say, but Lucy shakes her head. It’s not good enough. I need something better. “Oh, this one’s good. I’m a crier.”

“Like after sex?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Think sports movies, Super Bowl commercials, regular commercials, sometimes those commercials that pop up before your YouTube video plays. Wow, I guess capitalism really makes me weepy.” I’m really enjoying the banter; like it’s a game and I stand a chance of winning this one.

“If you send me the link to a funny video, nine times out of ten, I’m not watching it. I will just reply ‘lol.’”

“I think the Shrek cinematic universe is overrated,” I say gleefully, getting caught up in our back-and-forth. Lucy gasps. I straighten up and sit taller in my seat.

“Well, I chew with my mouth open.” Lucy bares her teeth at me.

“I listen to my music loudly without headphones in public spaces.” I lean in toward her.

“I clap at the end of movies.” Lucy leans in too.

“When someone is running toward the elevator, I act like I’m hitting the door-open button, but I’m really hitting Door Close.” I don’t hide the beaming smile on my face; I’m proud of that one.

“I’m always late. I’ll say I’m on my way, but I’m not. I’m still in my bed.” Lucy juts out her bottom lip a bit and gives a cute shrug of her shoulders. I don’t for one second believe she feels bad about that one.

“I lie to my dentist about my flossing habits.” It’s a confession I would never make to a cute girl I was hoping to kiss, but I’m too wrapped up in the banter to care. I want to outdo her. I want to make her smile, make her laugh. I’m breaking the damn ice tonight.

“I should be grossed out, but if anything, I’m impressed by your dedication,” she says through visible discomfort.

Right when I think she’s conceding, she settles into an ominous smirk. “One time I told a girl I was seeing that we had to break up because my beloved cat had passed away and I wasn’t going to be emotionally available to her as I grieved. It was a lie—Sailor was fine. About a month later we ran into each other on the street outside my vet’s office. I was bringing Sailor in for her annual checkup,” she says.

I pull away, leaning back in my seat. “That’s really bad.” I don’t have any pets because my hockey schedule was always so chaotic and demanding, yet I realize a confession about a beloved pet is likely something someone would take to their grave.

“Thank you. Sailor’s died like five times already, but I figure cats have nine lives so it’s fine.”

I admire the way her round nose scrunches every time she thinks she’s won. If I was a smart man, I would sit back and enjoy the cute face she’s making at me. But I’m not smart; I’m a winner.

“All right,” I say, and I sit up straight. I interlock my fingers and rest my arms on the table. I’m ready to take one last shot at it. Before I speak, Lucy runs her hand through her hair, and I see it. She has the number thirteen surrounded by a heart tattooed on the inside of her wrist. It hadn’t caught my eye earlier; with all the ink covering her body, it would take me days to notice them all.

While thirteen is a common favorite number, I can’t help but find it funny that she already has my jersey number tattooed on her body. Maybe the hockey gods are trying to tell me something—maybe they haven’t completely forgotten about me. In both love and hockey, a little luck goes a long way.

“One time while visiting Seattle,” I say in a low voice, “I saw this really hot girl at the bar. I couldn’t get a read on her, but there was something about her. I couldn’t get her out of my mind, so I kept trying to talk to her—”

“Because you’re so relentless,” she interrupts me.

“Because I’m so relentless I made an effort to pursue her even though I know I’ll be gone in the morning, and we’ll probably never meet again.”

Lucy’s head tilts and the faintest smile creeps across her face. It seems I have survived her twisted version of small talk, and unlike elevator doors, I am holding her interest.

“Maybe I’m okay with one anonymous fun night together.” She bites her lip and my body tingles.

With my legs angled to the exit, I’m already practically jumping out of my seat as I say, “Let’s get out of here.”

She grabs her phone off the table and slips it into her purse as we abandon our empty beer bottles.