THIRTEEN
Beckett takes me to another hockey game the week after, and then the week after that, and more games after that, the days passing us by from one week to the next, depending on the Habs’ home game schedule.
The dark circles under Beckett’s eyes get bigger, deeper, until I finally ask him about it. He shakes his head sheepishly, his eyes that beautiful whiskey, all warm and sweet when he looks at me.
“I, uh, had to promise some of the senior staff that I’d take over some of their work if they’d let me have these game tickets…” he admits, and my heart flip-flops at least ten times in a row.
“I…you know I could spend time outside of a game with you, right?” The words come out tightly, as if I’m still trying to hold them back. “I don’t want you to get sick, and I want you to know t
