Pucked Romance

TWO

TWO

It’s hard to stop looking at him.

I know I should instead keep my eyes pinned to the giant TV sitting atop the bar, nursing my weekly indulgence of a single John Collins (basically sparkling lemonade with whiskey).

I’m wearing my DARE jersey, flashing the number 12, and it’s oversized enough that you can’t really tell that I’m female, since I braided my hair underneath my Habs ball cap, and you can’t really see my face.

Sometimes I do think I look like most of the guys sitting at the bar, representing the team in some sort of gear that has the Habs logo on it, but no one really talks to each other, every single one of us looking at the TV more often than not.

There’s a game on, but I can’t seem to keep my eyes trained on it, or on my boy Liam Dare skating up the ice looking like he was about to go on a breakaway but I’m stuck staring at the i***t sitting a few stools down from me at the bar.

I’ve got my baseball cap pulled on low, so I have to crank my head all the way back to even see what I’m looking at, to disguise the puffiness of my eyes from crying so much last night. The surround system is belting out the hollers from the crowd, the announcers speaking rapidly in French, describing the game so I still know what’s going on, even if I’m not looking at the screen.

It bothers me for some reason that the guy down the bar is sitting alone—absolutely a guy with his taller frame and a really awesome beard—completely alone, looking to be unaware of the s**t’s that’s brewing just behind him.

Because the guy down the bar, this stranger, who I should really care nothing about especially when he’s being so dumb, doesn’t know what’s about to hit him.

I turn my attention back to the TV as the announcer starts speaking in gunfire-quick French, the tension rising in the bar, the yells of the crowd almost deafening, the Habs pelting shot after shot after shot against the Bruins’ goalie, but nothing.

Big fat nothing for all that effort, and now my heart rate can return to normal while I keep stealing glances over at the guy during a quick commercial break.

It’s not the first time I’ve seen this particular stranger here at my favorite sports bar, Dans la Rue¸ where I pretty much know a lot of the regulars—some of them are dads to the kids I teach, which is a whole other level of weird since most of them don’t recognize me when I’m dressed like this, entranced by the game and not giving them any kind of attention.

Except the stranger isn’t the dad of any of the kids in my class. I would have recognized him immediately—the beard, for one, and the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, which sort of does me in. It somehow ends up making him adorable instead of intimidating.

Not like I’m going to approach him and ask to touch his beard or anything, I have standards.

It’s just that I can’t look away when there’s trouble brewing and even though I can hear the puck being passed from stick to stick now, play having resumed, there’s a twist in my belly and a flash of adrenaline spiking in my blood that has me waiting for the inevitable.

The Habs are losing to their long-time (forever) rivals, the Boston Bruins.

Montreal is a hockey town through and through, home to the most prestigious franchise to ever exist. It’s the only franchise that has won twenty-four Stanley Cups since the club’s inception back in 1909 when the team was made up of nothing but locals—French and English—and was home to the one, the only, Maurice ‘The Rocket’ Richard.

As a hockey club, we have a lot of rivals, being part of the original six teams when the NHL was created. Another one of those original six teams being the Boston Bruins.

It’s a rivalry that’s been forever in the making, and it’s still alive today. It hurts even more now, because the Habs and the Bruins have met in more post-season matches than any other team in the NHL’s history, so I really can’t keep my eyes off of the handsome stranger, and it’s not only because he’s attractive.

I don’t know, even if you’re a special snowflake or have a death wish, you wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a Boston Bruins jersey in the middle of downtown Montreal, in a sea of bleu, blanc et rouge.

Especially when the Habs are losing, and you have balls the size of Jupiter to get up and cheer like a maniac while the rest of the bar is swearing and getting steadily more and more drunk when the Bruins score.

Shit.

I’m a quivering mess of nerves, sitting in my usual spot.

The bartender, Lydia, who’s rocking the most beautiful pea-green smoky eye I’ve ever seen in my entire life that makes her look like a caterpillar about to bust out of the cocoon and become a butterfly, gives me a nod and hands me my plate of cheesy nachos.

It’s Saturday night, I’ve got good food, a delicious drink, my beloved Habs playing the game, and even though we’re still in the early days at the beginning of the season, we all know that historical statistics and key performance metrics will all show some indication of where the season is headed if the Habs lose this game.

Basically, if the team doesn’t start off with a bang, we’re not going to make the playoffs, and therefore there’ll be no chance at that highly coveted twenty-fifth Stanley Cup that we’ve all been waiting for since the 1992-1993 season.

It’s enough to make anyone nervous with the energy in the bar, knowing what I know, but I’m practically vibrating. The delicious nachos topped with jalapeños and black olives sit there on the plate and nowhere near my stomach, satisfying my hunger and taking down my tipsiness back to a sober level.

I just can’t stop looking at him, the (yeah, attractive) Bruins fan, wearing the black and yellow away white jersey. His hair’s slicked back off his forehead, hair wavy enough that I can make out some curls at the base of his neck, almost falling down to his shoulders, his eyes stuck to the screen and not paying attention to the situation going on around him.

Situational awareness, this guy does not have.

I try to look away, to mind my own business, to keep my ears hyper-attuned to the hockey game going on, to the French commentators whose voices are practically booming over the conversations and moans and groans of despair now that the Habs are trailing behind by a single goal (which can literally change at any time).

My heart is practically beating at the back of my throat. I don’t know if I’m going to upchuck or if my heart’s trying to leave my body entirely.

Shit!

It’s not my fault that the Bruins guy isn’t looking around himself, isn’t paying attention to the bunch of guys that look around my age, ready to start throwing punches, crowding around the bar in a way that spells out trouble.

There’s five minutes left until the end of the third period. Things could get ugly real fast.

I glance over at Lydia, who’s also watching the scene in front of us, my nachos forgotten, my drink held tightly in my hand and close to my body, like I might use it as some kind of weapon if a fight breaks out.

Although at this point, I’m pretty sure it’s a question of when and not if.

What are you going to do? You can’t save the day.

It’s not your fault the guy’s an i***t, begging to get beat up acting like he doesn’t know what’s going to happen, flaunting that jersey around and being obnoxious about it.

Jesus Christ, it’s just a hockey game, a hockey team!

It’s not though…it never really is.

I bite at my bottom lip, my heart beating hard against the confines of my ribs, blood pounding at my pulse points, keeping time, counting down until one thing or another sets the pack off and the stranger’s going to get his a*s beat.

I can practically smell the tension as it grows and expands when the Bruins, out of my peripheral vision, take another shot from the blue line, keeping the puck in the Habs’ side while trying to take the extra man advantage of the power play.

There’s a lot of circling, a lot of passing going around, the Habs challenging when they can, but being one man down changes a lot in the dynamics of the game.

Shot after shot is being blocked by our goalie, the kid doing literal acrobatics and pirouettes and it gets loud, almost hysterical with the high-pitched voices of men and women going up an octave as the puck gets launched again and again at our goalie, the rest of us praying for the referee’s whistle to end the play and give our boys some rest and to change shift.

The whistle finally goes off and play ends, but now I’ve lost sight of the Bruins guy sitting at the bar.

I look around for him, trying to see him through the mass of bodies, heart leaping up my throat, my body electrified with the fear of being caught in the chaos of a bar brawl.

I logically know that my elbows, although strong, don’t pack the same punch as a guy’s might, and as I frantically search for the stranger, trying to peek through the people surrounding the middle of the bar, I let out the breath I was holding when I spot him.

Those guys from before have tightened their circle around him, like some sort of high school after-school fight as other people order consolation drinks and return to their tables in groups of friends or colleagues.

Whew. He’s alive. That’s good.

I’d been in a bar brawl once when I was eighteen, the first time I was legally allowed to enter a bar and flash my ID without getting kicked out. While it made me more vigilant of going to sports bars in general with a bunch of ride-or-die fans whose moods are swayed heavily by victory or loss, I just need to get out of the condo sometimes, to immerse myself in the game-watching experience with a bunch of strangers.

I like it, too, most of the time, being connected to strangers through our collective love for the game, for our team, knowing that we’re all united in this one thing despite what anyone looks like, job they have, or tax bracket.

It makes me feel like I’m not so alone.

Most of my work friends don’t really understand my die-hard love for the game, and they don’t really understand my intensity when it comes to them. Sophie doesn’t get it, but she lets me have this time alone, even if she likes to check in and make sure that I’m alive.

I mean, I am that person that will bawl her eyes out when we lose an important game—I’ll admit it, no problem. I’m the person staring at the screen, following every move, lamenting the loss of the puck more than I can say.

I love watching the game, even if I don’t know how to skate, even if I used to watch the game with my dad, back in the day, before I became a disappointment. And it’s stupid to think about it, but maybe one day soon, we’ll be able to talk again, and even when there’s nothing to say, we can talk about the Habs.

It’s just a game, a sport to watch, yeah, but it’s so, so much more.

And now this stranger is starting to ruin it for me because I’m getting scared and worried, and I’m never going to be able to come here again and it’s my favorite.

How can he be so freaking oblivious? Was he literally born yesterday? Is he new to this planet, this area?

I’ve seen him before in that way when you recognize faces you’ve seen over and over, but I don’t remember the Bruins jersey. He doesn’t seem to be one of those people who likes to watch the game from home; he prefers the crowd, like me.

Couldn’t he just have gone to one of those overpriced restaurants around the Bell Center and left this place alone?

Couldn’t he have gone to the Bell Center and not made me all nervous and s**t that he’s going to get killed in the middle of a bar fight?

Maybe he’s like you and never been to a real game at the arena.

It’s a tragedy having never been to an actual game, much like this i***t not paying attention to what’s going on around him and toasting the screen when the Bruins blitz the power play and finally score again.

He’s going to get killed.

What are you going to do about it?

Lydia races over to his side of the bar, a whole four or five bar stools away from me where that moron is celebrating and clapping his hands for his team, and the murderous glares around him are turned up to an eleven.

I keep looking around, waiting for the first himbo to lumber over and start something that he won’t be able to finish, but he brought along all his himbo friends, and it’s going to get crazy real quick.

Oh my God, is the stranger even paying attention? Does he want to die?

What is this guy doing, oh my god!

I stuff nachos into my mouth, watching like it’s some sort of action movie, watching it all unfold like clockwork, guys jostling closer to the bar, invading Bruins Guy’s personal space, calling out to Lydia, demanding drinks with slaps to the bar like we’re back in medieval times and not in the twenty-first century.

I mean, healthcare has changed and general scientific knowledge, but a lot hasn’t changed, either especially himbos taking offense to their favorite team losing, and they’ve got to take the only—admittedly—i***t in the place wearing the away team’s jersey down a few pegs by kicking in his teeth.

I can practically see it coming.

Bruins Guy will get up from his stool, something dangerous glinting in his eyes, his beer left discarded on the bar as the guys eventually go chest to chest, and you don’t know if they’re going to kill each other or start making out.

At this point, it can go in any direction, but the glares are more murderous than s****l.

I think.

I hold my breath as Bruins Guy actually gets up from his seat, unfolding his large (s**t, large) body and coming to his full height, over six feet, for sure, and pushing back his shoulders, a human blowfish making himself appear bigger to predators even when he clearly didn’t need help in that area.

I stuff more nachos into my mouth, chewing around the noise in the room, all conversations gone quiet now as we’re all riveted by the scene before us, and the game goes to a commercial break before the after-show analysis starts.

Holy s**t, Bruins Guy is huge! Like Viking tall!

Are we going to get a throwdown? Is that what’s going to happen?

I chew around my nacho, trying not to draw attention to myself, but I have to eat something or else I’m going to have a hard time finding my bus stop at the end of the night.

The guy looks like he could play for the Bruins, broad and large, a goon through and through, his face interesting with his raggedy beard, his nose leaning just off center, a scar running horizontally through his left (maybe it’s the right, I’m not sure) eyebrow, a few degrees under being a copycat of Jason Momoa.

My breath rattles in my throat as the air in the room gets sucked into their small circle, Bruins Guy turning his head to the side, clocking the guys behind him for the very first time.

Maybe it’s a blessing that only one of the himbos is around his height, although they all look three sheets to the wind (I still don’t understand where that phrase comes from, but whatever), and for some odd reason, Bruins Guy looks over at me, making direct eye contact, making me freeze in the spot, like a little bunny would when catching the scent of a looming predator.

My heart drums hard in my chest, chasing a rhythm of fear and adrenaline while I watch him watch me, hardly daring to blink, my eyes starting to itch and smart and water. I end up winning the impromptu staring contest, not knowing we were in one but taking the victory in any case.

I need wins.

I gulp audibly, sure enough to be heard in Australia, but Bruins Guy has released me from his stare (by looking away first), and he brings his attention back to the jerkface who was jostling him, looking down the half-head that he’s got on the guy, a sardonic grin on his face, giving me the insane urge to giggle.

Which would be bad.

I don’t want to bring attention to myself.

I swallow down the nachos and bring both of my hands up to my mouth, pressing my fingers against my lips lest any sound come out, pulling in deep, rapid breaths through my nose, trying to calm myself down.

Bruins Guy did something to me when he looked at me, some sort of weird paranormal s**t—there has to be an actual, logical, scientific reason why I can’t seem to look away, as to why he’s grabbing all of my attention right now when there’s food and there’s hockey talk coming up and I’ve never been the biggest fan of bar brawls.

This? This is dumb, but I can’t look away.

Again, Bruins Guy’s gaze flickers to mine, something like a private joke in them, begging me to join in on the laughter.

I do no such thing, even if I feel my own mouth betray me under the cover of my fingers and twitch into something like a smile.

What the hell? What the hell!?

“I’m talking to you!” Confronting Himbo shouts, voice booming in front of the bar, all that glass making the perfect echo and the sound claps back.

I hold my breath now, unable to tear my eyes away, feeling like we’re all moving syrup-slow as the himbo moves his arms up slowly, planting them on Bruins Guy’s chest and giving a shove, but he’s planted his back foot on the ground and doesn’t really move.

Confronting Himbo doesn’t know what to do.

Is this a high school movie? Am I living inside a high school movie?

Am I the main character? Please let me be the main character! I’d rather not be the comedic relief, thanks.

“Hey, Carl, relax, man. I don’t want to have to throw you out,” Lydia says, voice sharp and cutting, the kind that stings no matter what’s actually being said. But Carl, aka Confronting Himbo, does not hear her tone or pay attention to her and just keeps brushing his chest against Bruins Guy, like he’s going to intimidate him with chest bumps, or else it’s some sort of weird mating dance that I’ve never seen before.

I don’t know why I do it, it just ends up coming out, my brain clicking onto the fact that this does look like some sort of mating dance, and my hands drop away from my traitor mouth.

I holler loud enough for the entire island of Montreal at large to hear me yell, “KISS, YOU COWARDS!”

Oh, s**t. Oh, Jesus Christ.

I didn’t. I did not just do that.

Oh, Lord, I did.

Oh my god, oh my god!

Himbo (excuse me, Carl) turns around to look at me, utterly horrified.

I mean, this could have gone one of two ways—I’d have Carl’s horrified expression, or they’d be kissing, and I’d have brought a potential couple together, or at least a definite one-night stand, which would make me like Cupid, which would be cool.

I drop the cupped hands from my mouth, even though I’ve been caught red-handed, and blink at the pair of them while Carl turns around slowly, unsure of his footing while the rest of his bros mumble to each other, stepping and fidgeting, glancing around to catch how many people are actually looking at them.

The consensus is that everyone is.

And while assholes come in all shapes and sizes, I’ve seen a few people here in the bar wearing tiny pride flags on their coats, on their jerseys, on the straps of bag and purses, so one wrong word and the dudebros have more than they bargained for.

Carl turns back around to Bruins Guy, mumbles something that could be an apology, but also couldn’t be. I’m too busy shaking from the adrenaline crash, yelling at myself internally at what the hell possessed me to get involved. Me, the quietest person on the planet, winner of the gold medal in the Olympic sport of Mind Your Business 101.

Shit.

Oh, s**t on a stick, Bruins Guy is coming over here, lumbering closer, a hand dragging along the sticky bar, one of the empty stools near me suddenly becoming occupied by his massive presence, his beer long forgotten. I have to crank my neck all the way back to look at him with his superior height (what a jerk) and grin nervously, my life flashing before my eyes.

I had a feeling that Bruins Guy was the more dangerous of the two and now he’s sitting right in front of me, expecting something.

Yeah, but what?

But what?