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“No actually, the opposite of cool. How about you?”

“I’m from Minnesota, now that’s the opposite of cool.”

She laughs. Pawlowski isn’t doing a terrible job at this date thing after all.

“Really? You don’t have an accent.”

“Thank you.”

She laughs again. “Mischa, what’s that name? Russian?”

“My mom’s got Ukrainian heritage and my dad’s family are Polish, that’s where the Pawlowski comes from.”

“Do you speak any other languages?”

“Little bit of Ukrainian, but I grew up speaking Polish at home with my mom. How about you?”

“I learned Korean while I was learning English and it’s what I speak with my parents when we’re at home.”

“Cool.”

While they do the whole first date getting to know each other thing over our heads, my eyes meet Stef’s in the rear-view and he smiles. Unfortunately, we don’t have that same familiarity he and Alice have and I have no idea what that smile is supposed to mean.

They actually start getting on like a house on fire before we’re even on the freeway into Brooklyn. Bonding over having parents who are torn between you fitting in and not forgetting your cultural roots. I could join in on this conversation, as I’m sure Stef could, but we leave them to it.

We hit traffic on the Staten Island expressway and we’ve already been in the car for at least an hour. But then we’re crossing into Brooklyn and for a second, I’m hit with a wave of claustrophobia.

The plan has always been to come back. I’m not gonna live in a college town in New Jersey for the rest of my life.

I need to get back to my family, they need me.

I might have to move somewhere affordable while I work my way up in a bank.

But I’ll be coming home a lot. And crossing the bridge just reminds me of how close graduation is.

And how everything else is about to come to an end with it.

Like hockey and the friendships I have with my teammates.

And sitting in the backseat of some girl’s car while she blasts metal and drives us to a bar in Williamsburg.

All this student shit will be over and I’ll only have time for work and suits and boardrooms.

When I raise my eyes to the rear-view, Stef’s looking at me with a little frown. He raises an eyebrow and I actually think I get this signal. I nod to let him know I’m fine and he nods back.

There’s a load of biker-looking guys hanging around outside the bar when Alice pulls the car up. She gets out, all five-foot-nothing of her in her little strappy heels, and just walks right on past them.

Pawlowski squares his shoulders and doesn’t make eye-contact, but no one pays us the slightest bit of attention until we reach the door and get carded by the bouncers. Obviously, we all brought ID and they let us in.

There aren’t many times where I’m made to feel out of my element. Since I started college, I’ve stayed pretty firmly in my lane. Classes, hockey arenas and locker rooms. These are my wheelhouse. Along with the occasional student sport’s bar on a Friday or Saturday night. But this is different.

It’s like one of those dive bars you see in movies. All black paint on the walls, with about a million different decorations. Old records, parts of cars and motorcycles, beer brands, whiskey bottles and framed photographs of rock bands.

The big tattooed men around the bar with beards down to their chests make a path for Alice to get through and she stands on her tip toes at the bar so she can be seen amidst all the giants.

Pawlowski stands beside her and pays for her drink.

“They seem to be getting along okay,” Stef says in my ear.

The sudden sound of his voice and the smell of his shampoo and aftershave catch me off guard and I just grunt a response. He smiles like he wasn’t expecting anything else and I kick myself for being such a caveman.

“Does Alice drink and drive?” I ask Stef, watching her sipping coke from a plastic cup.

“Of course not, she’s drinking soda. But we can have a beer if you want?”

“No, I’ve got classes tomorrow.”

He rolls his eyes and weaves his way to the bar, coming back with two beers.

“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want, I’ll have it.”

“Sure you can handle two beers?”

He laughs and I feel my lips automatically tug upwards.

“I can handle at least two and a half.”

“Oh okay, well just in case.” I take one of the bottles from him and take a swig.

“Woah, golden boy does know how to let his hair down.”

“Pssht,” golden boy, yeah right, I wish. “Mine’s not as long as yours.” For some reason I touch his hair. I don’t know why I do it, but I do. It’s just as soft as it looks. He smiles shyly and drops his eyes and heat pools in my stomach.

In this light, anyone would look good, but under those red twinkle lights, Stef’s eyes look so fucking pretty it hurts.

Luckily, the band choose that moment to send an ungodly screech out into the bar and we’re both distracted from whatever weirdness was just going on here.

“Hello Brooklyn!” The singer says before crashing into a very loud, unmusical song. Fuck me, this is gonna be a long night.