TWENTY-ONE
The Habs don’t actually win the Cup this season, but the Bruins don’t either.
Beckett and I are at the sports bar, Dans la Rue, looking up at the TV over the bar, sharing some delicious, and crunchy nachos and a heaping serving of salsa and sour cream, and drowning in melted cheese.
“Holy s**t, did you see that? Oh my God, that was a chance of a lifetime, and he blew it, he blew it!” I say, pointing at the screen with one hand, eating a nacho with the other.
Beckett’s drinking some of his beer, throat working with it when I look over at him. “Yeah, that was a chance of a lifetime. s**t. He’s going to feel s**t about that tomorrow if the Flyers don’t win.”
I nod, crunching on my nacho.
Beckett isn’t wearing anything Bruins-related, and I’m not wearing anything Habs-related,
