The Coffee Girl

By mid November, everything had changed, but not really.

Here I was; a university student who spent most of her time slaving away at the neighbourhood Starbuck’s and, somehow, I had managed to befriend the Chicago Blackhawks. Was this kind of stuff even possible in real life? Didn’t only happen in cheesy fanfictions? Either way, I had become the Hawks’ new mascot, occasionally visiting practices when I wasn’t working or studying to talk to Patrick. That’s something else I didn’t understand. Here was this handsome, rich, athletic, funny guy and he was perfectly content wasting his time on someone as undeserving as me.

I wasn’t as exciting as some girls. Or adventurous. And my humour definitely needed less sarcasm and snarky remarks. But, he dealt with me. Patrick wasn’t the only one, however. Most of the guys on the team seemed downright happy every time I dropped by one of their practices, occasionally with a few coffees from Starbuck’s which they’d all have to fight over.

Rachel asked me everyday how I had managed this, what I had done to make this all happen. And I had absolutely no idea. I didn’t want attention, I didn’t seek dozens of friends, fame, or fortune. I guess, sometimes, awesome things just happen. It would do me some good to start embracing that fact and taking advantage of the perks. Like free tickets to games, right behind the bench; the opportunity to observe all the journalists that questioned the team on the occasions I was around; and, probably most important, the fact that I had gained a bunch of good friends.

And yes, I included Jonathan in the category of ‘friends’.

“What do you think about me growing a play-off mullet this year instead of a beard?” Patrick’s question seamed to stop everyone from what they were doing and look at him like the screws holding his mind together had fallen to the ground. This was what lunch out with the guys usually consisted of; random—and sometimes disturbing—questions about different body parts. Kris’ girlfriend, Melissa, sat next to me at the relatively long table in the restaurant and snorted with laughter. Though she was one of the nicest people I had probably met, I couldn’t help but wish that Rachel was there with me instead. What was it with this unwritten rule that she refused to befriend people I knew? An invasion of acquaintances, I think she called it.

“I think that, from then on, I’d have the right to tease you endlessly,” I replied whilst forking a lettuce leaf and popping it into my mouth. The guys all laughed, mumbling out a chorus of agreement to my proposal. Even Jonathan’s lips had permanently stretched into a smile as he shook his head hopelessly and ate his burger.Kaner Patrick (it was getting really hard to remember his real name these days) shrugged. “It’s better than these assholes making fun of my beard every day.”

“What beard?” Asked Patrick Sharp (who I had been told explicitly by him to call him Sharp) with a melodic laugh. Was it legal for such a gorgeous man to be playing hockey?

Jonathan let out a laugh and Patrick scowled from the end of the table. This was my life these days; hanging out with my new found friends, feeling as though I finally had the big family I had always wished for. There was never a silent moment when I was with them, just like there was never a moment without laughter when Sharp and Adam Burish were around.

“So, Calli,” Sharp said, turning to face me. All eyes had suddenly landed on me and I gulped nervously. He was definitely the mischievous one of the group so every time he put me in the spotlight, I couldn’t help but start sweating. “Kaner can’t grow a beard; Tazer has no luck with women—”

“Yeah, okay,” Jonathan scoffed, slapping Sharp in the arm and gaining a few chuckles from everyone. I laughed once I noticed his slightly flushed face despite his attempt to act nonchalant.

“What’s your secret?” Sharp continued, looking straight at me.

I licked my lips and shook my head, shamefully. “I can’t grow a beard either,” I sighed and Sharp smiled at my sarcasm. “And the ladies won’t even look at me.” I was good at using humour to hide what I was actually thinking. What would the mood be like if I told them that my secrets were an alcoholic mother, fears of failing school, and these strange—yet comforting—feelings I was beginning to have towards Blackhawk number 19?

Awkward. Uncomfortable. Embarrassing. Depressing.

Those were only a few words I could use to describe it.

“Don’t worry, Cal,” Patrick called from the opposite end of the table, “I’ll teach you everything I know about girls.”

I laughed and shook my head.

“Strong words from someone who can’t even grow a beard,” Brent Seabrook piped in, making another chorus of laughter erupt among us.

☼☼☼☼☼☼

I walked up to my apartment, a feeling of relief flowing through me. This had been the fifth time I’d gone out to dinner with the guys and I still hadn’t managed to screw anything up or make myself look stupid. A proud moment for me. I ran through the day’s events in my head, laughing at the mortified expression on Patrick’s face as we all laughed at him, sighed at how good-looking Sharpie was up close, and mused about Jonathan’s surreptitious looks thrown at me all night.

Did I make him uncomfortable? Was our friendship only allowed to happen in the confines of his truck and when he’s grateful to me for saving his butt? Jonathan Toews was a mysterious guy; the complete opposite of Patrick Kane. The fact that he was always serious and unreadable made me want to work harder to make him like me, which was completely ridiculous from a feminist stand-point.

I stuck the key in my lock, jiggled it a bit because it tended to get stuck, then swung the door open only to have my heart drop into the pit of my stomach. What did I do to deserve this? Was it a check up, to see if I’m still alive and kicking? I walked into the house and let my bag fall to the floor as the woman with my brown hair, my green eyes, my timid stance, walked towards me.

“Hi, honey,” my mother whispered softly; a small smile gracing her chapped lips. Even from where I was standing I could see the thick glaze of her eyes and the smell the alcohol on her breath.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, not making a motion to meet her half way. She stopped in front of me and smiled again.

She placed a hand on my arm. “I came to see how you were. How college life is treating you.” An awkward laugh.

I licked my lips and raked my hair back. “I don’t have any alcohol here,” I said. “You probably already know that. Did you at least put everything back in place when you rummaged through my cupboards?” Even I cringed at the acid pulsing through every word, but I didn’t take it back.

Her face fell and a small part of me felt proud. “Don’t talk to me like that! I’m your mother and I deserve some goddamn respect.”

I let out an airy laugh. “Respect? You’re in my apartment that I pay for. And you’re drunk on top of it.”

“I’m not drunk.” Her voice was a soft whisper now.

“Fine,” I said “Intoxicated, buzzed, whatever you want to call it mom. I just don’t understand why you had to come here and show me. This is why I moved out in the first place.” She diverted her gaze to the ground then looked up at me through her thick, unruly bangs. “What do you want?”

“I don’t want—”

“Don’t lie to me!” I yelled, slamming the door behind me and taking off my coat. “You always want something. Last year it was bail money for your boyfriend, the year before that was a legal driver since you got your licence taken away.”

“I...” she began then ran a hand through her hair. God, I hated seeing her like this. Her face red, her clothes slumping off her shoulders, and her makeup smudged. It reminded me too much of my past and off all the things I feared my life would turn out to be. “I need a place to stay. Rocko and I got in a fight and he kicked me out.”

Rocko, the pathetic excuse for a man I’d dealt with for a good part of my life. I licked my lips and stared my mother right in the eye for a good minute. Finally, I said, “Do what you want. I won’t be here to watch.” And with that I grabbed my coat and bag and headed out the door of my home.

☼☼☼☼☼☼

It was raining outside, perfectly matching my mood at this point. I couldn’t believe that she had come back just to ask me for a place to stay while she and her boyfriend worked things out. I didn’t bother shielding myself from the rain or walking briskly to a store for shelter. I embraced it, let the water run down my face and soak my clothes until the fabric clung on to me. I was pissed, but also disappointed; enough to make me cry if I thought about it for too long.

I needed somewhere to go. Somewhere to get my mind off of things for a while. My mind immediately jumped to Rachel. She was, after all, my best friend. But I knew what she would say if I showed up at her house, soaking wet. She’d tell me I needed to talk to my mom and figure things out.

I wasn’t ready to do that.

What about Patrick? He and I were good at talking. He understood me and I understood him. I understood him enough to know that he’d want to talk about this all night if he could, and I didn’t want that. I didn’t, really, want anything. Just someone to sit with. I didn’t care if we were in the complete silence, I just needed company.

And then it hit me; Jonathan.

☼☼☼☼☼☼

My hand was nervous as it collided with the mahogany of Jonathan’s apartment door. This was ridiculous. Completely stupid and embarrassing. But, for some reason, it felt right. Well, it felt right to me. It was up to Jonathan’s answer now and, as I anxiously stood waiting with my wet hair matted to my face and neck and my clothes dripping water, I couldn’t help but run over the possibility that he could say ‘no’. Scratch that; he was probably going to say no. And he had the right to. I didn’t know him as well as I knew Patrick. Hell, we weren’t even that close to begin with and never really got along...except on Halloween. That was primarily the reason for the sliver of hope I had in me. Maybe, just maybe, Jonathan didn’t think of me as just a nuisance. Maybe he thought of me as a friend—

“Calli?” he opened the door with a pair of tongues in his hand and a confused expression on his face. “What...” he looked down at my soaked clothes, “...happened?”

I smiled meekly, glad that there was enough water on my face to hide the tears that began rolling from my eyes. How could I explain this to him? How could I explain that I hated my mother so much I would rather show up at his house a complete and utter mess than go back to mine.

I was pathetic.

“I—I just needed somebody to sit with,” I replied in a soft whisper. I could already feel my vocal chords growing sore from an hour in the freezing rain.

He licked his lips. “Well, what about Kaner? You two are—I mean...he likes to sit.” I laughed airily, but his severe expression didn’t seem to change. “Or your friend, Rachel, right?”

I knew it. He didn’t want me there, especially at 8 o’clock at night. “Yeah—um...” My voice cracked and a few more tears rolled down my cheeks. What was wrong with me?! Why was I being so freaking emotional?! I wasn’t like this. I didn’t cry. If anything bothered me I just plastered on a fake smile and dealt with it. I let my head fall so he wouldn’t notice the redness of my face. “That’s a—you’re right, I should go find one of them.” I spun around, my drenched clothes clinging to my legs and arms, and prepared to walk as fast as I could back to the elevator.

Before I could take a step I felt his fingers lightly latch on to my elbow and pull me back. I turned to face him and noticed the look in his eyes. That was the look I didn’t want. The look that prevented me from going to Rachel or Patrick tonight.

It was pity.

“I—uh—I can sit,” he said, gaining another meek chuckle from me. I nodded then followed him into his apartment, closing the door behind me. I looked around, feeling a sense of familiarity flow through me. The last time I was there was because Patrick was emotionally broken. It seems like the tables have turned.

I stood in front of the doorway, not wanting to walk onto his carpet and ruin his floors. This began feeling like a bad idea more and more.

“I’ll put your clothes in the dryer,” Jonathan offered. “Here,” He tossed me a pair of his boxers that, on me, would stop right above my knees and a grey t-shirt. “You can wear these until your clothes are ready.”

“Thanks,” I croaked and he turned around to wait is I pealed my jacket, jeans, and t-shirt off of me. Once I was dressed in his clothes I picked up my stuff and walked towards him. He turned around and took them from me before walking to the small laundry room next to the washroom.

“I was just making dinner,” he said as soon as he came back out. I nodded and hesitated in following him. Great, I had ruined his dinner. “Pasta with tomato sauce. Probably the only decent thing I can make.” I cautiously moved to the doorframe of the kitchen. He cocked his head over his shoulder to look at me as he stood over the oven. “I—uh—made enough for two.”

I licked my lips. “Sure, that sounds great.” He stretched his lips into a half smile then began placing mountains of pasta on two plates and drowning them in tomato sauce. “I’ll get the cutlery.” He pointed me to the top drawer of the kitchen counter and I pulled out two forks and two spoons and moved to his dining room table. Almost immediately after he brought out the food and placed one in front of me before sitting down. This was all weird. Me in Jonathan’s house, in his clothes, eating his food. A month ago I couldn’t even talk to his friend.

For a good 10 minutes, the only sound heard was the clicking of forks against plates. He seemed way to interested in his food because his eyes were on the plate of pasta as though his life depended on it. But, this was better than being home with my mom.

“So,” he finally said as he wiped his mouth clean of any red sauce, “what happened?”

I stiffened for a second then rolled my shoulders. “I—uh—it’s a long story,” I replied and ate another forkful of pasta. Jonathan nodded then looked back down at his plate. I felt guilty. The least I could do was tell him why I had shown up at his house. “My mom came to visit me,” I said and his head turned to me. “You remember my mom,”

“Right,” he replied, recalling the night I’d brought a drunk Patrick to his house and told him about my alcoholic mother.

“She’s staying at my place and I...I just can’t be there when she’s there.”

“But, she’s your mom,” he said, his voice low and husky.

I bit my bottom lip and dropped my head. “I know,” I replied, “but she always wants something. It’s never just about visiting me. There’s always something in it for her. I’ve been dealing with it for 18 years and I—I just can’t do it anymore.” I ran a hand through my now dry hair and let my fork fall to the plate with a clang.

Jonathan licked his lips. “Well, you should probably—”

“Go and talk to her?” I interjected. “That’s exactly what Patrick and Rachel would say, which is why I didn’t go to them tonight. I just—I can’t talk to her anymore.”

“I was going to say you should probably just get away for a bit, you know, clear your head.” I looked at him and he shrugged. “You could stay the night, if you want.”

“Really?”

“No, Calli, I’m just screwing with you,” he said sarcastically in his deep voice. “Yes, really.” I laughed and shook my head. Somehow he always managed to make me feel stupid. “We can watch a movie or something.”

I smiled. “Okay,”

As soon as we were done I began cleaning up the plates and scrubbing them in the sink before placing them in the dishwasher. All of this was done against Jonathan’s protests, but I couldn’t just let him clean up after me too. We then moved to the couch and flipped through the channels before landing on the Movie Network.

Thirty minutes; that’s all it took for us to fall asleep.