“Yeah, okay,” I say with a small nod. “Want some help doing that?”
“If you can spare some change, yeah. It would help thanks,” the guy says, loosening his hold on the lab mix who drops his head on his owner’s thigh.
I pull my wallet out of my back pocket. I wish I carried more cash. I only have a twenty. I bend over and stuff it in his cup. “You gonna be here a while?”
"Why?" the guy asks and immediately takes the twenty, pulls it out of his cup, and stuffs it in the pocket of his dirty coat. Our eyes meet for the first time, and I realize this man is probably only about my age. He just looks older because of the dirt and the creases on his brow.
"I wanted to go get more cash for you," I tell him. He nods hesitantly like he can't believe me. I give him a smile. "Look, I swear I'm being honest here. Do you need anything else?"
"A sandwich or something would be cool," he admits. "Even with money, I get kicked out of places a lot before I can even pay for anything."
Shit. I nod. “Be right back.”
I have no idea where I’m going but I head down a nearby side street with a bunch of colorful awnings. I find a deli and head inside and order a bowl of clam chowder and a bowl of chicken corn chowder and two sandwiches, one roast beef andone stuffed with grilled veggies and goat cheese. As I’m waiting for the order I wander over to the plate glass window and spot an ATM sign sticking off a building kitty-corner to here. It’s across from a pet store, which is fantastic luck.
“I’ll be back for the order in five minutes,” I tell the woman behind the counter who is making my first sandwich. “Is that cool?”
“No problem,” she mutters, not even looking up.
I head outside, pull a hundred out of the cash machine, and then dodge a pick-up truck as I cross the street and head into the pet store. It’s bougie and overpriced, but whatever. I have the money to blow. I grab a couple tins of dog food, knowing more than that will make it a bitch for him to carry, and three bags of organic treats. I also grab a coat I think will fit the dog.
When I get back to the deli I march right over to where I can see my order waiting in a big paper bag on the counter. I’m so focused on getting it and getting back to the dude, I turn and bump into another customer waiting for her order. I smell her before I can focus on her. She smells like decadent, expensive French bubble bath.
“Mac,” I say the name before my eyes fully focus on her pretty face.
She’s staring at me, her blue eyes wide and the pink in her cheeks from the cold outdoors glowing. Or maybe it’s a blush from the shock of coming face-to-face with me unexpectedly. “Con… ner?” She says my name in two different chunks like she’s sure she’s imagining me and is reluctant to voice it.
“Yeah. Hey! I’ve been meaning to text you.” I know the second I say it that it sounds like a line. A terrible, classless line right out of the Man Whore textbook. “I mean, no. I mean, not like that.”
She raises one of her eyebrows and the flicker of asmile that I thought I saw dance on her perfect mouth is definitely not there now. “How are you?”
“Good. You?” I ask.
“Fine. Good.” Her eyes move from mine to the door and back to me.
I notice she's wearing makeup. Just some mascara and maybe something on her face that makes her skin kind of dewy, a bit shimmery, and smooth. I can barely see the beauty mark she has on her left temple but not in a bad way. She looks natural but, like, glossy. Like a good TikTok filter.
“What are you doing here?” we ask each other at the exact same time.
“The arena is just a few blocks away.” I point as if I’m giving her directions. “I just finished practice and was checking out the area for potential housing.”
“How is it going with the new team?” she asks and then grows sheepish. “I haven’t had a chance to watch a game but I’ve Googled scores and you guys seem to be doing okay.”
“Yeah, but obviously we want better than okay,” I reply, and she nods in understanding. I’m sure her dad was the same way. Ultimately all any hockey player wants is their name on that famous silver Cup and an ‘okay’ season isn’t going to get them there. “And look at you Googling! If only you’d picked up that trick before telling Trash Panda you thought I played for Colorado.”
She laughs. The sound warms my insides. “Bonus points for calling him one of my many TP nicknames. But never forget, you could have woken me up that night and explained yourself, in detail, instead of ghosting me like a bad puck bunny.”
Was that a burn or a rib? Feels like a bit of both.
“I’ve never been with a bad puck bunny,” I start and she cuts me off before I can finish the sentence.
"Right, of course. I'm sure they all bring their A-gamefor Conner Garrison. The crown prince of hockey," Mac says, and okay, so that definitely feels like a burn. "Do they curtsey before or after orgasms? I didn't do either. Will I be banned to the dungeon?'
"With that attitude, yeah," I quip back because I'm stung. Her whole attitude is like a bunch of bees swarming my ego, stinging it relentlessly. "And I was going to say I've never been with a bad puck bunny because I've neverbeenwith a puck bunny. Look, maybe not waking you up was the wrong move, but I didn't mean it to be. And I really have been meaning to call you. I don't even have my cell phone on me right now. I swear you've been on my mind."
She stares at me, but thankfully I can see her expression start to soften. Her eyes move from my face to the door. The lady behind the counter calls out her order. A hazelnut hot chocolate. I step aside, holding my giant bag of food so she can grab the cup, which I notice is a real one, not a takeaway cup. When she turns back to me she pauses for a lengthy exhale and then she blinks slowly and locks eyes with me again. “Look, I’m sorry for being so… bitey. I’m actually… I have a lot going on today and I really don’t have time to unpack us.”
“Unpack us?” I repeat.