Pride and Pucks and Prejudice - 21. Chapter 21

Jackson

I deliberately took my time packing. Not enough for anyone to notice. Just... A little. Helmet into the bag. Gloves. Tape. Check the edge on one skate. Retie the drawstring. Entirely normal things.

Across the dressing room Noah appeared to have discovered an extraordinary number of equally important tasks. He retaped the knob of his stick. Filled his water bottle. Watched one more video clip on his tablet. Walked over to ask Rick something about... something. Rick answered. Noah nodded thoughtfully. Then somehow remained there for another minute.

Ben walked past me carrying his bag. "You coming?"

"In a minute."

He gave me a brief look. "Right." Then left.

One by one the room emptied. Aleksander. Eddie. Stellan. Coach Hayes.

Rick wheeled the laundry cart through the doorway with a wave. "See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow."

The door swung shut behind him. Silence settled over the dressing room. I looked up. Noah looked up at exactly the same moment.

"...Ready?" I asked.

"Yeah."

As though we'd only just realized we were the last two left. We slung our bags over our shoulders and headed for the corridor.

---

The walk through the arena was comfortably quiet. Equipment staff were already sweeping around the benches. Somewhere deeper in the building I could hear the Zamboni beginning another lap.

Neither of us hurried. Neither of us mentioned the kiss. Or the fact that we were leaving together.

Again.

Outside, the afternoon air caught us with a sharp bite of March cold. Our breath hung white between us.

Noah shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "Getting colder."

"It is."

"They're saying snow tomorrow."

"I saw."

We reached the players' car park. My truck was parked three rows over. His SUV was on the opposite side. Normally this would have been where we nodded goodbye and headed our separate ways. Instead we both stopped. Neither of us seemed entirely certain why.

"So..."

"So."

An awkward silence threatened. It wasn't uncomfortable.

Just... New.

Noah glanced down at the pavement. "I should probably head home."

"Same."

Neither of us moved. A small, slightly alarming thought occurred to me.

This had happened three days in a row.

I'd packed a little slower. Noah had somehow found another reason to stay. We'd left together.

Every time.

Which probably meant something. I wasn't ready to decide what.

Noah rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow."

He turned towards his car. I headed for mine.

Halfway there I glanced back.

So did he.

Noah had stopped again.

He was watching a flock of pigeons arguing over something near the far fence.

Before I could reconsider it, the words escaped. "Do you... want dinner?"

He looked across at me. "Dinner?"

"Yeah."

The moment the word was out of my mouth, every possible interpretation of it arrived immediately afterwards.

I started backpedalling. "I mean..." Brilliant. Very articulate. "We have to eat."

He blinked. "...We do."

"So..."

"So."

Neither of us appeared capable of constructing a complete sentence. Snow started drifting quietly between us.

Noah looked down for a second. Then back at me. "...Is this a date?"

My brain stopped. Completely.

I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

Finally I admitted the only honest answer. "...I honestly don't know."

He let out a breath that might have been relief. "Neither do I."

Another silence. Neither of us looked particularly alarmed. Mostly... Confused.

Eventually Noah gave a small shrug. "...Let's just have dinner."

I nodded immediately. "Dinner."

"Just dinner."

"Right."

Not a date.

Probably.

Neither of us sounded especially convinced.

Noah smiled just a little. "So..."

"So."

"You know anywhere decent?"

I felt myself relax for the first time since opening my mouth. "Actually..." I smiled back. "I might know a place."

---

The restaurant sat halfway down a narrow side street in South Philadelphia. If you didn't know it was there, you'd walk straight past it.

A small hand-painted sign. Fogged windows. Brick walls glowing amber beneath old lamps. The sort of place that looked as though it had been serving the same recipes for fifty years because nobody had ever found a reason to change them.

No televisions. No sports highlights. No reporters.

Nobody looked twice when we walked in.

The hostess smiled. "Two?"

I glanced at Noah. He nodded. "Two."

She led us to a little table tucked into one corner beneath a shelf lined with dusty wine bottles. A candle flickered between us. For a second we both looked around.

"This is nice," Noah said.

"It usually is."

"You've been here before?"

"A few times."

"Worth recommending?"

"The owner makes terrible coffee."

Noah looked horrified. "Terrible?"

"The food makes up for it."

"I'll reserve judgement."

---

The menus lasted about thirty seconds.

"You know what you're getting?" Noah asked.

"I always do."

"So this is one of those places."

"It is."

He closed his menu. "I'll trust your judgement."

"You probably shouldn't."

"Yeah, I've seen you choose airport coffee."

"That was one time."

"It was a ranking."

"It was scientific."

Noah smiled. "I'll have what you're having."

"We should have some vegetables to keep the team nutritionist happy," I said.

"Garlic bread," Noah pronounced with certainty.

"What?"

"Garlic bread counts as a vegetable."

"It absolutely does not."

"Garlic grows in the ground, so it is a vegetable."

I shook my head. "You're an indictment of the education system."

---

When the food arrived, the conversation drifted somewhere unexpected. Normally we'd have been talking about the next opponent. Video. Power-play entries. Faceoff percentages.

Instead I asked, "What did you read growing up?"

He blinked. "Books?"

"I was hoping so."

He laughed. "My mom taught English."

"That explains a lot."

"Does it?"

"You use semicolons in text messages."

"...I do, don't I?"

"You do."

He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"My dad thought every problem could be solved by taking us camping," I said.

"So could mine."

"No."

"He once tried to fix a broken washing machine with camping rope."

"...Did it work?"

"For about six hours."

Noah nodded thoughtfully.

"Respectable effort."

"It flooded the kitchen."

"Less respectable outcome."

He told me about learning to skate on that outdoor rink that was probably more grass than ice.

About falling through once because he'd ignored the warning signs.

About his older brother laughing too hard to pull him out immediately.

I admitted I'd once managed to set pasta on fire.

"Pasta?" he repeated.

"It was ambitious."

"Boiling water?"

"There were... complications."

"Jackson."

"I'm not proud of it."

"I don't think that's physically possible."

"Neither did the fire brigade."

He stared at me.

"The fire brigade?"

"They were very professional."

He put his head in one hand. "I don't know whether to be impressed or frightened."

"Mostly frightened."

"Good."

---

The candle had burned noticeably lower before I realized how long we'd been sitting there.

Nobody had mentioned hockey for almost an hour. Not tomorrow's practice. Not systems. Not the standings.

Not the kiss.

Nothing that had seemed so overwhelming three days ago. Instead I'd learned that Noah reread The Hobbit whenever life became complicated because it reminded him that difficult journeys eventually ended. That he couldn't cook anything more complicated than scrambled eggs without consulting a recipe. That he'd always wanted to see Sweden in winter. That he'd never actually been outside North America. I'd spent months learning how he thought on the ice. Where he'd skate before he decided to skate there. Which passing lane he'd see before anyone else. When he'd gamble. When he'd stay patient.

I knew the rhythm of his game almost as well as my own.

Tonight I realized I'd only known half of him. I found myself wanting to know the rest. Not because it would make us better linemates. Not because it would help us win hockey games.

Simply... Because it was Noah.

And somewhere between the bread basket and the embarrassing childhood stories, that had become reason enough.

We paid the bill and stepped back out into the March cold. In spite of the snow flurries, the air promised the end of winter. The warmth of the restaurant disappeared behind us as the door closed with a soft chime.

For a moment neither of us spoke. The street was quiet. A couple wandered past on the opposite pavement, laughing about something neither of us could hear.

Somewhere farther away, a train rattled across the city. Our breath drifted white in the glow of the streetlights. We started walking towards the car park.

Slowly.

Neither of us seemed particularly interested in arriving. The silence returned. Not awkward.

Just... Easy.

I found myself wondering when that had happened. We'd spent almost two hours talking.

Not about hockey. Not about systems. Not about practice tomorrow.

Just... Everything else.

It felt like we'd accidentally discovered a conversation we'd been meaning to have for months.

We reached our cars. Mine. His. Parked a few spaces apart.

This should have been the point where we said goodnight. Instead we both stopped.

Again.

Apparently we were becoming very good at standing beside parked cars without leaving. Noah shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets. He looked up at the clear winter sky for a second before glancing back at me.

"That was nice."

I smiled. "Yeah."

Another quiet pause settled between us. Then Noah cleared his throat. Carefully.

"...I think that might actually have been a date."

I considered it. We'd gone out to dinner. Just the two of us.

Talked for two hours. Neither of us had wanted the evening to end.

When he put it like that...

"...Yeah." I couldn't help smiling. "I think it was."

Noah laughed quietly to himself. "So much for 'just dinner.'"

"So much."

Neither of us moved. Neither of us reached for the other's hand. Neither of us kissed. The memory of the rink was still too fresh and new.

This... This felt better.

Like we didn't need to rush anywhere.

Eventually Noah reached for his car door.

Before he could open it, I heard myself speak.

"Same time next week?"

He looked back at me.

Really looked.

Then he smiled.

Not the polite smile he gave reporters.

Not the grin he wore after a good shift, but a smile that belonged entirely to him.

"I'd like that."

Relief spread through me with surprising force.

"Good."

He climbed into his SUV.

I got into my truck.

For a moment neither of us pulled away.

Then he lifted one hand through the windscreen.

I returned the gesture.

His headlights swung towards the street first.

Mine followed a few seconds later.

Halfway home I caught myself smiling at absolutely nothing.

Again.

I probably should have been more concerned.

We were trying very hard not to become a couple.

Unfortunately... we seemed to be making excellent progress in the direction of being a couple.