Blame it on the Wind Chill

“Are you looking at my sister?” Drew asks with suspicious eyes. He engulfs me in a cocky Alex Ovechkin snow shower, before dumping a wad of rubber into the bag in my hands. “Well, quit starin’ at her. She’ll cut you.”

“What?” I mutter, brusquely. It occurs to me that I should be the one picking up the pucks, not him. After practice ended, he was the only boy considerate enough to stay back and keep me company while I play picker-upper, much to my back’s disdain. “Oh, I wasn’t staring.”

He scoffs at me, unconvinced. “Whatever, buddy.” I look away, feeling his glare staring into my soul. He is one smart cookie, I have to admit. So I may have been doing a little espionage, although I highly doubt intelligence of his sister working on her laptop is going to win me any war medals. Some day, I want to work for the FBI, however. I’ll have you know, I may have assisted in sneaking into ESPN offices in search of Team Canada’s playbook with Semyon Varlamov backing me up in the ceiling. Wait a second…

I don’t know what this fascination with her is about, but a part of me wants to put her into a bowl like the ribbons of fish in an aquarium and simply gaze through the plexiglass. Another part of me wants something entirely different. I am perplexed by both. The problem is both parts are equally likely to get me in trouble if I act on it; it’s either prison for unlawful confinement or a TMZ splash à la Mike-Komisarek-in a-night-club. Though if it were the latter, I’m pretty sure she’d be the one landing uppercuts.

“You’re so guilty,” he whistles. Frowning, I realize I’m staring again, but I’m not about to admit that to him. Damn, I would’ve gotten away with it, if it weren’t for this meddling kid. I swallow a defensive reply and quietly skate to the opposite side of the rink. I find my eyes landing on a mural of Dave Andreychuk, Doug Gilmour, and Wendel Clark instead. The Leafs are the best, better than all the rest.

Except when it comes to playing hockey. And making the playoffs.

We finish scooping the pucks and he goes into the dressing room, while I climb around bodies, trying to get to my designated change room, located conveniently on the opposite side. These skates are not made for walking. Just as I pass by Becky, averting my eyes like there’s something interesting about the penises etched into the blue paint on the wall, I see Uncle Eric strutting in, jiggling his keys in his hand. He looks around momentarily, before spotting my face and yanking me to the side.

“Okay, change of plans,” he breaths, slinging an arm over my shoulders. I wasn’t aware we had plans. He goes on anyway. “I have to go right now, so you’ll have to find yourself a ride home.” I furrow my brows and shake my head, the international signal for no. Don’t leave me now. Don’t go. “It’s urgent.”

“I’ll get changed fast,” I plead, whipping off my helmet to demonstrate how fast I can take it off. Ouch, I nick my eye with the chin strap.

I’m a grown man, and I can surely get myself home, but to be honest, I don’t know these streets as well as I used to and I don’t know anyone here well enough to beg for a ride. I scan the rink for Travis, who has vanished into thin air. My second impulse is to find Becky, but my better judgment tells me she would not delight in being my cabbie.

He shakes his head, all business. “No, I really have to go. Ask around. You’re an extrovert.” I realize we’re stuck in a conundrum. As much as I don’t want to be here anymore, maybe I should stop stalling his time. I see the sincerity in his old, grey eyes. Who knows, this urgent business he has to attend to might actually be of urgent nature.

“Sorry,” interrupts Becky, not realizing that Uncle Eric and I were in the middle of an intense staredown. “Eric, do you know what time it is?” It’s certainly not 7:00 P.M., as suggested by the flashing red numbers.

“Time to get a watch.”

“Oh, you’re funny,” she rolls her eyes. “Why would I when your Flavor Flav watch is beckoning me like a seagull to your bald spot on the beach?” She cocks her head, and smiles a bedazzling grin, letting hair sweep into her eyes. He grimaces in return, reliving some evident traumatic experience involving a vicious seabird attack. I’ll ask Aunt Helen about it later. “Well?”

“Quarter past one. Thanks for the analogy, by the way.”

“I had to explain it in terms you’d understand,” she responds, passive aggressively. It’s clear to me that they know each other pretty well, and have a very relaxed, albeit comical relationship. The neighbourly love in the air is just overwhelming.

He rolls his eyes and clears his throat before returning to top form. “Oh Cam, this is Rebecca. Rebecca, my stupid ass nephew, Cam. Hey, would you like to give this poor child a lift home?”

She raises her eyebrows at him and opens her mouth to speak, but rethinks. “Not really,” she says finally. I shake my head and bang my stick on the ground, mouthing the word, bitch. She smiles before dropping her jaw, sarcastically. Stupid ass nephew, she mouths in response. She got me there.

“Perfect!” rejoices Uncle Eric, disregarding her completely. “See you kids. Wait, I won’t because I’m going ice fishing with my beer league buddies. Ha, suckers!” I open my mouth to protest. That’s why he has to leave so promptly? Urgent, my ass.

“But I have the next skating class,” she argues.

He continues walking away, not looking back. “So? Make him wait. Or better yet, let him help out. I’m sure he knows a thing or two about ice skating. You saw how well he was with my boys!” He turns a corner and then there’s nothing but laughter down the hallway. I think my coaching career has officially ended before it even started. This bums me out.

And that’s when it gets awkward. The hysterical laughter dies down and we’re left just the two of us.

“Nice moves out there. Smooth,” she says after a beat. I run a hand through my hair, uneasily. These people are never going to let me live this down. “Instead of the breakaway challenge, they should make a new All-Star event this year called, ‘keep the puck on your stick and try not to fall’.” I blink slowly with a blank look. “First Kovalchuk? Now you.”

“Shut up,” I laugh. “What do you know about hockey, anyway?” She raises her eyebrow, with an astounded look that says are you shitting me? I suppose she probably knows more than the next girl. “Sorry.”

“I’m actually a pretty big fan of the NHL. I love hockey players,” she retorts, playing with the zipper on her grey Canada hoodie. I look at her expectantly, with a wicked grin. She senses this and rolls her eyes, making the most adorable embarrassed face. “I mean the good ones.” Of course, she can’t give me an inch.

She snatches her olive CCM bag and we walk towards the change room together. The sign on the door doesn’t specify gender, so I take that it’s communal. Sweet.

She seems to sense this, too. “Don’t get excited, I’m just putting on skates.” My face drops and she laughs out loud, like it’s the funniest thing. No one has ever been able to figure me out this quick before. I can’t tell if I like it or not. “I’m pretty good at reading people.”

“Oh, is that so?”

I hold the door for her and she nods a thank you. The first thing she does is reach for a towel to wipe the dirt and snow off a corner of the old, grimy bench. She plops down and waits for me to do so, beside her. I’m surprised at the kind gesture, but it’s not like I’m complaining. With a satisfying hum, I finally unbound my feet from skates. I like to tie my laces extra tight, so undoing them after every skate is like taking a nice pee. Very liberating. I also take my wet socks off momentarily to wiggle my toes around.

“Gross,” laughs Becky. She slips off her own navy Vans and crosses her legs into a spandex pretzel, not making a move to put on her skates. “There’s still fifteen minutes before my class starts,” she explains, eyes closed. It occurs to me that we’re being civil—something that I didn’t think was possible between the two of us. Maybe she was just on edge this morning. Maybe she is super nice, as Travis described. Okay, let’s not distort reality. She’s still a pain in the ass. A pain in mine, to be specific.

I pull my legs onto the bench and try to mimic her pose, only it doesn’t work out so well. For a few long seconds, we sit in silence, side by side. “I don’t get it. I thought you hated me,” I say at last, unable to withstand the tension floating around. She opens an eye. “You know, after the tobogganing accident.”

She sighs, as if in exasperation. “Okay, maybe I phrased it wrong. Contrary to what I do,”—she means the strange breakfast service—“I am not a morning person.” She shrugs and finally gives me the gratification I’ve been prodding for. “Look, I don’t hate you. I’m not unreasonable; I’m not going to hate you just because you were a clumsy moron as a child.”

“Really?” I smile, surprised. Does this mean we’re friends?

Her expression changes at my delight. “Why do you look excited? I didn’t say I like you either.”

I laugh at her furrowed brows. I can tell it’s hard for her to give me any satisfaction at all. Perhaps that’s the thrill of being with her; no one has neither frustrated, nor amused me as much as she has in the matter of a morning. As bitter as I am to be here in Toronto and not playing in Anaheim, I could use a friend for the time being. And with Tim gone away, is it ironic that the one person I’ve made an actual effort to acquaint myself with is his ex-girlfriend?

“But you didn’t say you don’t.”

“Stop implying things!” She gets up, out of the blue, and starts to unwind the cozy-looking oatmeal scarf around her neck. Then off comes the hoodie. My eyes widen and my mouth goes dry. Is she undressing? My birthday’s already passed, though. I feel like I should speak up now or forever hold my peace and just enjoy the peep show. “Stop staring!” Or not. I briefly glance away, but my eyes travel back like it’s compelled to by skin and flesh. The white tank top she has on underneath has ridden up, revealing a strip of silky cream coloured stomach tainted with the jagged scar of her misfortune in my hopeless sled driving skills. She realizes this and pulls her shirt down, slowly, almost in a deliberate way. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was teasing me.

“I-I’m not,” I stutter, but the passive glassy stare in my eyes clearly give me away. She shakes her hair back, letting her fingers run loose amidst the tangled chestnut mass. Now I’m sure she’s just torturing me; she knows this is a move that I find incredibly attractive. I’m a simple guy, what do you want? I try to shake it off, despite my urge to jump her—for real this time. If only she wasn’t Kung Fu Panda. “Well I’m just trying to figure out what you mean. Excuse you for being confusing.”

She groans. “I take it back. You are a little shit.” She reaches for a blue nylon jacket from her bag, emblazoned with a Toronto Parks & Recreation crest. It’s very professional looking; she’s legit alright. I spy a jade pendant hanging on a thin silver chain around her neck. She turns around to zip her bag and I notice it’s a little green elephant with its trunk up, saluting the world, saluting me. I remember that Tim had a real penchant for elephants. Does this mean something?

“Is that supposed to be your pet name for me?”

She growls at me and walks towards the mirror in front, holding an elastic in hand. If she was my girl, I would reach for her hips and pull her back towards me, kissing her neck lightly. Then we would smile at each other through the mirror and live happily ever after. But that’s the thing: the key word being if. If is not enough. It’s not me to fantasize about girls; I either get her or I don’t. I can’t tell if this feeling I have towards her means something significant. It’s probably just a phase, I imagine.

So there’s no denying that some part of me is interested in her. Physically? No kidding. But the whole nine yards? I can’t. It takes me a minute to realize that a relationship has to be consensual. There’s no guarantee that she liked, likes, or will ever like me. There’s even less evidence that she like liked, like likes, or will ever like like me. Although, let’s not kid anyone, I’m a catch.

The opportunity is there, but somehow, the name Tim rings through my head like Avery would to Dion Phaneuf whenever he kisses Elisha Cuthbert. It’s a bad aftertaste. We once tried to share a girl during one summer, long ago. Her name was Clea Morrison and the last time I heard from her she was congratulating me on my draft day. She also invited me to visit her and her girlfriend, Julie in Newmarket. Naturally, I declined, but I’ve always wondered if it was the combination of Tim and I that had swung her the other way.

“Can you hand me another hair band from my bag? I think this one’s broken,” she asks me, pointing to the CCM carrier with one hand, while trying to hold her ponytail intact with the other. “It’s in the left pocket. No, your other left.”

“Since you asked nicely,” I say, presenting her with one in a nice, prune juice purple. Niedermayer’s always promoting that shit. It’s a nice purple, but that’s all I’m willing to say. I chuck it at her, forgetting that she’s a tad tied up at the moment with only one free hand. She lunges for it, but prune juice finds the carpet. We can’t all have hand-eye coordination like Sid the Kid, can we? He would catch that hair band with a pinky and proceed to flick it and knock over the pyramid of pucks arranged oh-so-nicely in the corner. He’d take down the last rolling one with his spit.

She grimaces before bending down to retrieve it, back facing away from me on purpose. I still manage to get a peek, thanks to the mirror. “Aaaand that’s physics!” my grade ten science teacher, Mr. Blenson, would say. I used to think he looked eerily like Bill Nye. The science guy, not the actor. Same difference, no?

“Thanks for that,” she scoffs, tying her hair into a ponytail with some quick wrist action.

“Welcome. How’d you snap the other one?”

She rolls her eyes. Everyone’s doing it today. “Dutty winin’,” she responds sarcastically. I miss the joke. She sighs. “It just broke. Everything has a breaking point.”

I start to take off my equipment, feeling the heat—literally; it’s hot in here. Plus, the clock on the wall, which I assume to be correct, more or less, reads five to 1:30, the start of the class. I think it’s just skates I need for this one, unless I want to be a human crash wall, which I wouldn’t mind on another day. My back can’t handle that shit, no.

“Okay, you’re disrobing. I’m leaving,” she covers her eyes. It’s not like I tried to cover mine.

“Relax. Stay. Just look the other way. I could use your company.” She considers it. I can tell it’s getting awkward.

“Fine,” she agrees, for some reason. I wasn’t expecting that. She takes a seat on the edge of the bench, facing away from me and my gorgeous six pack. I smile like I’m winning this game we’re playing. I think she lets me take the moral victory for now. “So why exactly are you here? I’ve been dying to know.”

“Injury.” I don’t want to get into specifics. She turns around, forgetting that she’s supposed to be averting my indecency like the plague, and tries to spot the problem with no success.

“You don’t look hurt to me. Well, maybe you are now after that nice tumble.” Her eyes linger momentarily on my naked abdomen.

“My eyes are up here.”

She looks away. “I wasn’t checking you out.”

“I didn’t say you were. Stop implying things!” I mock, feeling pleased with myself. I sense a blush creeping down her neck. I finally put on a shirt and pull a sweater over it. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” she laughs, lightening the mood again. “I’m Canadian and I don’t say sorry nearly as much as you do.” She checks over her shoulder to make sure I’m clothed this time, a gesture that I find hilarious. I wink and there goes the eye roll. She shuffles closer. “I don’t want you to think I’m a bitch, Cam.”

I smile. “Is that your way of apologizing for being one?”

Her jaw drops, genuinely this time. “I feel no remorse.” Really? I show her the red spots on my wrist from this morning. She winces in empathy. “Maybe for that. You didn’t deserve to be clawed.”

“Now can you word it like an apology?”

“Will you accept me otherwise?”

“What does my acceptance mean to you?” We’re on a roll.

“Not a damn thing, but if it makes you feel better,” she pats my kneecap and looks sincerely into my eyes, “I apologize for bruising your wrist.”

“And the ass kicking?”

“And the ass kicking.”

“And calling me a shit? And then reinstating it later?”

“My blood sugar was dangerously low. Still is.”

“You have an excuse for everything don’t you?”

“If it saves me from taking the blame.”

Somehow, here in this locker room we’ve come to a truce. We’re looking at each other, not fighting, just talking, albeit normal people could certainly mistake our conversation for an argument. I think this is as civil as it’s going to get between us.

Things are about to get interesting.