“Friends. Hmmm.”
I ignore the speculative look on her face and change the subject.
10
Owen
I feel like I can’t show up empty-handed, so I pick up a big bag of popcorn and some root beer on my way over to Emerie’s place. I grab a bottle of water for myself, since root beer has so much sugar.
I prepare myself to see Mr. D’Agostino. I’ve been lucky I haven’t run into him at the arena. He doesn’t come to the practice facility very often, which is where we usually are other than game days.
The doorman sends me up and Emerie lets me into the apartment.
“Hi!” Her gaze falls to the popcorn. “Oh, yum! I love popcorn.”
“Good. I brought it for you and Cat.” I hold it out.
“Thank you!” She sounds surprised. “We’re going to watch in the den, this way.” Instead of the French doors to the living room, she turns the other way and leads me to another set of doors.
This room is a lot more casual and comfortable, thankfully, with a soft-looking patterned carpet, built-in bookshelves overflowing with books, and cozy lighting.
Cat’s already curled up on a big gray sectional in front of large windows. “Hi, Owen!”
“Hey, Cat. How’s it going?”
“Good! Come on, the game’s starting soon.”
“Owen brought popcorn.” Emerie holds it up. “I’ll go get bowls.”
“I brought drinks too.” I set the root beer down on a square table.
“There are glasses in the bar there.” Emerie points to a small nook.
I find what we need and take a seat on the sectional too. The TV on the wall opposite us is massive. Perfect for watching hockey.
Emerie hesitates before sitting, then lowers her butt to the cushion right next to me. We exchange a glance and she does a tiny shrug, her arm pressed against mine.
Once again, I breathe in her scent. It’s distinctive and recognizable and dammit, erotic. She’s dressed in ripped-up jeans and a well-worn sweatshirt, which is not erotic but even so, something stirs in my southern region.
Great. Her little sister is sitting right here with us.
“Is your stepdad home?” I ask her.
“No. I think he’s out for dinner. But he’ll probably be home in a while.”
I nod.
“You’re not having root beer?” She eyes my bottle of water.
“Nope.”
“Are you going to eat popcorn?”
“Yeah. I like popcorn.”
“I thought maybe it’s not healthy enough for you.”
“Popcorn’s a healthy snack.”
“What kinds of things do you eat?”
“Smoothies with protein powder. Lots of lean protein and fresh veggies and fruit. I’ve been trying new grains—quinoa, millet.”
“That’s weird.” She wrinkles her nose.
“It’s not that weird. Just healthy.”
“I guess.”
“What do you eat?” I ask with amusement.
“We eat healthy,” Cat says. “Emerie makes us.”
I smirk. “Oh yeah?”
“Well mostly,” she says. “But sometimes we have ice cream or cookies.”
“Not very often,” Cat protests.
“Not often enough for you,” Emerie retorts. “You’d eat ice cream every day if I let you.”
Cat makes a face.
“I don’t make you eat millet,” Emerie says. “I don’t even know what that is.”
She bugs me about how I eat, but makes her sister eat healthy, too. Ha.
“Okay, a penalty!” Emerie says. “It’s a four-five.”
“A what now?” I frown.
“A four-five. No, wait. A five-four. That’s what it’s called, right?”
“No. That is not what it’s called. It’s called a power play.”
She wrinkles her cute nose. “Roman was sure it’s called a five-four.”
“Roman is a pinhead.”
She bursts out laughing.
“Seriously. What the f—” I stop myself with side eye toward Cat. “It’s called a power play for the team with the man advantage. And a penalty kill for the team who’s short a man.”
“Because they’re killing off a penalty,” Cat says.
“Exactly.”
“Roman also said that you get a penalty for delay of game when you…what’s it called…icing.”
“When you ice the puck. A penalty?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Jesus.” I shake my head. “Don’t listen to him anymore. Icing isn’t a penalty, like two minutes in the box, but the team does get penalized in that the puck is brought back for a faceoff in their own end.”
“Why?”
“If teams could shoot the puck all the way to the other end, that’s all the game would be. It would be boring.”
“Ohhhhh. Right. Okay.” She nods.
Holy shit. I don’t know if I’ve ever met someone who knows so little about hockey. I mean, it doesn’t make me think less of her. It’s just…surprising. My whole life is hockey, and it pretty much always has been.
Maybe that’s not a good thing?
I push that thought aside and explain offside. Then a delay of game penalty when the puck goes over the glass.
“It was an accident,” Emerie protests. “Maybe there should be a rule that if they shoot the puck over the glass, they have to go get it.”
“Uh…” I have to laugh at that.
A while later, she screeches. “Oh no! What is he doing?”
The Blue Jackets’ goalie is leaving the ice. “It’s okay. The other team’s getting a penalty.”
“But they’ll score on the Blue Jackets!”
“Nah. As soon as they touch the puck, the whistle blows. The only way they could get a goal is if the Blue Jackets shoot the puck into their own net.”
“I don’t understand that,” she says. “Is there anything you can’t explain?”
“Yeah. Goaltender interference.” My tone is dry. “Nobody can explain that.”
She gives me a look.
“Really. Basically, the rule is simple—don’t interfere with the goalie. But there are so many other rules around it and they’re applied so inconsistently, nobody really knows what that is. The goalies don’t know. The players don’t know. The coaches don’t know. And the referees don’t know.”
She laughs. “Okay then.”
I have to say, she learns quickly. By the third period, she’s calling offside and even a tripping penalty. And Cat is really into it, too. I feel kind of proud. Seeing the game through their virgin eyes, hockey virgin that is, opens my eyes to things too. And I’ve actually had fun teaching them about hockey.
Then Emeries tries to make Cat go to bed.
“What?” Cat whines. “The game’s not over. And it’s Friday night.”
“This isn’t even our team. We don’t care who wins.”
“Actually, we do,” I put in. “Those teams are in our division. Washington has fewer points, so we want them to win.”