I tug off one of my mittens and reach for an overpriced fry, brushing his gloved hand in the process.
A gloved hand should not send a shock of electricity up my spine.
He has a kid, I remind myself. A twelve-year-old named Elodie. If I hadn’t been such a disaster that evening at the taqueria, I’d have told him it’s a beautiful name.
“My first sports,” I say, dipping the fry into ketchup. “And we don’t even have to worry about the weather.”
Russell, bless him, tries his best to explain the game to me as the players take the ice and an announcer calls their names.
“Those two at the red line are the centers,” he says. “And what they’re doing now, that’s called a face-off. It’s how they start every period and every time someone scores.”
The puck is dropped directly between the two centers, and after a brief clashing of sticks, Seattle takes control and bats it back toward another one of their players, the crowd erupting into cheers.
It’s a raucous, fast-paced game, almost dizzying. More than a few times, I lose my eye on the puck.
“What position did you play?” I ask Russell.
“Goalie.” He points at Seattle’s goal. “That shaded blue area in front of the goal—that’s called a crease. The goalie is allowed to do their job there without interference from any opposing players. A lot of goalies are bigger guys. You have to be quick and flexible, too.” He trails off as one of our players takes a shot on Edmonton’s goal and misses, which is met with a collective awwww from the arena. “You have no idea how excited I was when we finally got a hockey team in Seattle. I’d resigned myself to it never happening and needing to go up to Vancouver to catch games, so this . . . this is really incredible.”
It’s very cute, how nerdy he gets about hockey, the way he can recite not just stats but all these details about the players, like how Seattle center Dmitri Akentyev always sleeps in a jersey from the opposing team the night before a game and Edmonton goalie Bo Madigan eats exactly two snickerdoodle cookies before taking the ice. Plenty of people love sports—I’m aware of that. But I’m not sure how many watch a game the way Russell does, like he’s holding his breath, quietly urging his team forward. He’s not rowdy or belligerent, but calm. Focused.
Still, I’m aware that as much as we’re getting to know each other, there’s a huge piece of his life I know nothing about. A few times, I come close to asking about Elodie, but I don’t want him to think I’m prying or judgy. I’m just curious, eager to know more about this guy I’ve committed to matchmaking our bosses with.
If Russell and I are friends, it’s perfectly fine that he happens to be cute. A harmless newsroom crush.
* * *
? ? ?
“IS TORRANCE A hockey fan?” Russell asks at the intermission between the first and second periods. Edmonton is up 1–0. All around us, people are stretching their legs, heading to get more food.
Seth’s just returned from grabbing a hot dog, but Walt isn’t back yet. “Loves it,” Seth says. “We used to go all out, painting our faces, getting dressed up.” He takes a bite of his hot dog, and I’m impressed he manages to do this without getting mustard in his mustache.
I try to imagine the two of them at a game together, and I can’t help it—a laugh slips out. Seth pauses between bites of his hot dog.
“Sorry. I’m picturing Torrance dressed like that guy.” I point to a fan a few rows down, face painted green, batting his wild blue wig out of the way as he goes to town on a pretzel. “It’s just—I’ve worked with her for three years, and I still feel like I barely know her. Except for, well . . .” Everything that goes on between the two of you. And even that is a mystery.
I do my best to sound as casual as I can. None of what I’ve said is a lie, which makes me feel slightly less Machiavellian. Still, I’m not in the habit of grilling people for information, especially about their personal lives. Any time I’m reporting a man-on-the-street weather story, the questions are all softballs. What do you think about all this rain? How does this affect your weekend plans?
“All the fighting?” Seth says. I nod slowly, bracing myself for him to shut down this conversation. Instead, his dark eyes soften. “You don’t have to tiptoe around it. I know what we’re like.” He polishes off his hot dog and reaches for his beer. “Is it pretty bad?”
He winces, waiting for our verdict. Everything in me is crying out to tell him that no, it’s not that bad. Avoid conflict at all costs.
“Well—” Russell starts, and I can see the indecision march across his features. Seth is his boss. He’s not about to insult him to his face.
His silence, however, seems to speak loud enough for Seth.
Seth drags a hand down his face, the sharp angles of his jaw and graying stubble. At work, he’s so polished that I can’t quite believe this is the same person. That version of Seth would never admit fault. The arena beers are doing some heavy lifting. “Shit,” he mutters. “I guess it’s possible we’ve been too much lately. We—we’ll tone it down. Sometimes it’s easy to pretend we’re in our own little world, huh? I think I’m a bit”—he laughs, as though unable to believe he’s saying this—“a bit embarrassed.”
“You shouldn’t be—” I start, before I can catch myself.
“You don’t have to sugarcoat it, Ari.” Seth gazes out at the rink, and maybe it’s really dawning on him how rough it’s been for the rest of us. “I want our employees to like coming to work. To feel at ease in the office. Can you honestly tell me that’s true?”
“I love what I do.” I say it emphatically, no forced sunshine necessary.
Russell immediately backs me up. “Absolutely. But sometimes, the station itself . . . well, it’s not always the most welcoming atmosphere.”
“Jesus. It must all seem so childish. Sometimes I wonder, if we’d worked things out . . .” He cranes his neck to look beyond our row, as though silently willing Walt to return and save him from this conversation. “Look. I’ve probably already said too much. We all work together, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable with her.”
“You’re not,” I say as gently as I can. His expression has changed, and I think I might recognize it. So I take a leap. “I know what it’s like when something ends and it isn’t your choice. When you’re still invested, but the other person is just . . . done.”
“That happen to you, too?”
“I was engaged. Until three months ago. I can see now that maybe it should have ended earlier, but when we broke up, it was a complete surprise.”
“I’m sorry.” Seth really does look it. “Relationships are fucking complicated,” he says in this way that manages to sound profound.
“I’ll drink to that.” Russell raises his cup of beer, and we all take a sip.
My confession buoys Seth, seems to make him more comfortable. “Tor was the one who wanted the divorce,” he says. “I wanted to work things out. To try harder. But I had no fucking idea how.”