The Coffee Girl

If there was one thing I could say about Patrick Kane, it would be that he is a...strange person. As we sat in the empty arena stands, both of us were content in not saying anything. Despite my previous thoughts, he hadn’t made such a big deal about everything that was going on. The kiss. Hanging out. He didn’t put a definite label on what had happened because—let’s face it—I didn’t even know what it was. A mistake. A moment of weakness on both of our parts.

He was early, Patrick told me. Practice didn’t start for another 30 minutes, but he didn’t care as long as I was there to keep him company. Even though I had agreed to go to a fair amount of their practices the past two weeks after the kiss, I couldn’t whole heartedly say it was just for him. I liked the guys; all of them. Like the scent and sound of an empty arena. I had grown used to it now.

A few of the other guys had shown up early too and among them I noticed Jonathan sitting all alone at the end of the stands nearest to the change room. His eyes were red, his brown hair dishevelled, and his hands moving in and out of his hoodie pocket nervously. I stared at him for a moment, but he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were only focused on the ground.

I nudged Patrick in the stomach with my elbow. He brought his attention back down to me from the giant Blackhawks banner that hung above us. “What’s up with Tazer?” I asked in a whisper. We were pretty far away from him, but I didn’t want to risk him hearing. Jonathan wasn’t one to have his emotions or problems on full display for everyone to talk about.

“He and his girlfriend broke up,” Patrick replied.

I nodded, not knowing exactly what to feel at this point. “You think he’s okay?”

Patrick shrugged. “As okay as Tazer can be.” I knew it was part of some unspoken guy rule not to talk about their feelings, but I couldn’t just sit here and watch Jonathan looking so miserable. I wasn’t as close with him as I was with Patrick, but I’d like to think that we were close enough to talk about this kind of stuff. After all, he had listened to me rant about my mother.

“I’m gonna go talk to him,” I said whilst standing up. I don’t know why, but I began straightening out my clothes and fixing my hair so it wasn’t the same tangled mess it usually was in the mornings. “I mean—he looks pretty bad.”

Patrick chuckled. “Don’t tell him that unless you have a death wish.” I rolled my eyes and shoved him against the shoulder so that he swayed to the side. With a devious laugh, Patrick wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me on top of him in revenge. He stopped to stared at me, our faces inches apart, and licked his lips. I gulped a little too loudly and pushed myself up off of him. Turning to look at Jonathan (my original reason for standing up), I noticed his gaze quickly flicker away from me and Patrick. Was it the image of a happy couple that made him look even gloomier than before? Because that was the farthest thing from what Patrick and I were.

I straightened up again and began shifting through the stands until I made it all the way to Jonathan, who sat with his elbows propped up on his knees and his head hung between his shoulders.

“Hey,” I whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. He looked up at me, but didn’t smile. His eyes darted behind me to Patrick. “I—uh—I—I mean, Patrick—” God, why was it so hard getting words out around him? I sucked in a deep breath and sat down next to Jonathan with a safe distance left between us. “Are you okay?” I finally said. I hoped my voice didn’t sound too girly or sympathetic for him. Knowing Jonathan, he’d think I was feeling pity for him and that’s the last thing the captain of the Blackhawks wanted. My pity. The girl who’s alcoholic mother had stayed at her place for a week and she couldn’t bring up the guts to tell her to leave.

“I’m fine,” he replied sullenly; his eyes looking everywhere but my face.

“I don’t buy it,” I replied.

“Then I don’t know what you want me to say,” he snapped. He looked at me and I could notice the slight anger in his eyes.

I licked my lips and looked up at the scoreboard. “It’s okay to say how you feel, you know.” I looked back down at his profile and waited for a snappy response. He didn’t say anything for a few minutes. I didn’t expect anything more than that. Slowly, he exhaled and my head perked up.

“It was mutual,” he finally said. I nodded. Was it actually mutual or had he been dumped? Either way, I could tell he was upset about something. With my instincts taking over, I raised my hand and gently placed it on his. The universal sign for ‘I’m here for you’. People can hold hands without it meaning anything more that a friendly gesture. I didn’t feel like looking at him, fearing what his reaction might be, but I couldn’t help myself. I let my eyes trail up his big form, to his neck then to his unreadable face. So far so good.

He slowly flipped his big hand over so that his palm faced up and my hand fit perfectly on top of it. For a second—a second of pure confusion for me—he let his fingers tentatively play with mine. Then, just as suddenly as that had happened, he tore his hand away and shoved it in the pocket of his hoodie before standing up. I was dumbstruck, to say the least. On his face was an expression of sheer determination. I shot up after him, my eyes begging for an explanation.

“Practice is starting soon,” was all he said. I knew guys were aggravating, but this was ridiculous.

“Jon, I don’t—” There I go again, the English major who can’t cough up a sentence in front of the most perplexing guy in the world. “This is—I just—” Every single thought about Jonathan I had was rushing through my head at lightning speed. I wanted to spit it all out. Tell him that we had been through enough and spent enough time together—the stargazing, the night at his place—to be able to talk about this kind of stuff. Instead, all that came out of my mouth was cut-off sentences. “What do you want?” I finally blurted out.

Hmm...that was a question I hadn’t entirely thought about myself. What did he want? He’s hot then he’s cold. He likes me then he hates me. We can talk about problems so long as they’re about me, but when it’s him in the emotional spotlight, he shuts down. What did he want?! What did Jonathan Toews want from me?!!

He cocked his head over his shoulder as he prepared to hop down the aisle steps. I knew I looked hopeless; standing there with a lost expression on my face and my arms just hanging next to me in surrender. I wasn’t much of a crier, especially in situations like this. Annoying guys just didn’t deserve my tears. But I was frustrated. And frustration usually got the best of me. I hated crying, but Jonathan had already seen me cry. He’d seen me at my most vulnerable and, yet, I couldn’t get two words out of him when he was upset.

“Nothing,” was the last thing he said before walking down the stands and leaving me standing there like an idiot.