“Did he play in the NHL, too?”
I shook my head. “No, he died.”
Zane’s eyebrows arched. You know, it proved he wasn’t a braindead zombie after all.
“It’s okay,” I said, “it happened a long time ago. I was eleven when he passed.”
“Still, that must’ve been awful.”
“Sure, it was. It took a long time to get over it, but I have my memories. The most important thing was watching hockey together.”
“He was a hockey fan, huh?”
“Oh, the biggest. He wasn’t very athletic, so he never played the game, but he had a passion for it all the same. And he never missed a game. He kept telling me I was going to be a really big deal one day. Nothing about the Stanley Cup, but he seemed certain that I was going to be successful hockey player one day.”
Zane surely would’ve taken his cue to make a smartass comment any other time, but now restrained himself.
“I just wish he could see me doing it,” I said. “I’m not in the NHL—yet—but it’ll happen.”
“He can see you.”
Zane spoke like he really meant that. Tenderness wasn’t the Remington Riptide’s strong suit, but he showed me that he was capable of caring.
“So, what’s the endgame for you?” I asked.
“The endgame?”
“What’s your major goal? You know, like other than winning the Stanley Cup?”
“I’ve got to go pro. It didn’t happen right out of high school like I hoped, but I’m going to enter the draft this upcoming season.”
“Hoping for any team in particular?”
“Sabres would be nice, but knowing hockey is in my future means more to me than anything.”
I couldn’t have agreed more.
Zane picked up the check. Honest to God. Maybe that shouldn’t have surprised me, given how he’d shown up with a dozen long stem roses.
He drove me back to my place and walked me to the door.
“Want to come in?” I asked.
“I can’t.”
Bullshit, I wanted to tell him. Had I asked the same question a few days ago, he would’ve lunged at the opportunity. Something had changed, though I couldn’t put my finger on what.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Totally, one hundred and fifty percent positive.”
For a moment, I thought I spotted fear in his eyes. The look didn’t scream at me or anything, but it was still present. I brushed that off because so much remained in play.
“I had a nice night,” I said. “Nicer than I would’ve thought.”
“I’m not going to let you push my buttons. Nice try.”
“I’m not pushing your buttons. I really mean that. I would’ve thought a date with you would’ve at least included a little bickering. Instead…” I just shrugged.
