Intern

Penguins 3, Red Wings 2
Associated Press

PITTSBURGH (AP) - Evgeni Malkin had a goal and an assist in his first NHL game action in more than seven months, and the Pittsburgh Penguins beat the Detroit Red Wings 3-2 on Wednesday night in the preseason opener for both teams.

Jordan Staal and Brooks Orpik did not play for Pittsburgh, while Nicklas Lidstrom and Henrik Zetterberg didn't dress for Detroit.

“He must have had around seven or eight shots that night. And he celebrated each one, even if he didn’t quite finish them off.” Pascal Dupuis picked his beer bottle up off the table, leaving a glimmering ring of condensation behind. When he set it back down, there was a smile on his face. “Good ole’ Max.”

Any passer-bys would have thought he was talking about his ex-teammate’s game play. But thanks to Sam all but forcing me to come along and my inability to voice a stern ‘no,’ I was able to pick up the actual meaning beneath Pascal’s two-way speech. It wasn’t about Maxime Talbot’s habits on the ice; more like off the ice.

“And I swear to God the motherfucker never got a hangover,” Chris Kunitz added, grinning over the rim of his own beer. “He could be out until the sun came up and show up at practice four hours later bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

I felt a small pang of remorse that I wouldn’t be able to work with the superstar forward this season. And if I ever did cross paths with him in the media world, it would happen within an interview with the enemy team.

The longer the banter went on, the better I felt about Jennifer’s assignment. The Penguins’ Boys were so easy going, very nice. I could feel Jen’s keen eye on me every once in a while from across the bar and managed to make it look as if I were deep in conversation with the boys I was supposed to be getting to know.

Not a hard task.

I’d ended up at a table with Sam and four other players - one of those semi-circle booths that if someone in the middle had to get out to use the restroom, half of the table had to scoot out to let the person go. Somehow I’d ended up being the middle person, squashed between Sam Kasan and none other than Jordan Staal. If I were any closer to either of them, I’d be in their laps.

James Neal occupied the end seat; every so often I could feel his eye on me, too. Though his motives probably differed from Jennifer’s. I kept my eyes on my own beer and pretended not to notice.

“I swear to God Sid’s gonna lose his damn mind once the season really starts going,” Sam contributed, nursing a half-empty beer of his own. “His left-hand meal man is gone.”

And from there, they launched into animated conversation about their star center’s bat-shit-crazy habits. “He raises his legs and touches window when he drives over railway crossings, but who doesn’t do that? He’ll walk twenty yards out of his way to go around a certain or through a specific door when he gets to the areana - and it never, ever varies. He doesn’t wear proper shoes in the dressing room, God forbid. He’ll take them off at the door like it’s some Japanese household.”

I was laughing the end, my barely empty beer long forgotten and sweating all over the table. The journalist part of me thought it’d be brilliant to do an article on the many habits of their captain; the logical side of me decided it’d probably been done a million times before.

Halfway through Pascal’s expansive explanation of Sid’s equipment rituals and rules, I felt a nudge against my elbow. I glanced to my left, where Jordan sat nonchalantly, staring at his teammate like nothing happened. Dick. I turned my attention back to the conversation, only to be disrupted a moment later by another nudge to my side.

“What?” I hissed, quiet enough for only him to hear. He still kept his eyes straight, but made a movement with his hand that made me look down. A napkin was folded in his hand; I took it and read it.

1-2-3?

With a roll of my eyes, I dug around in my purse for a pen. It’s cute that you tried, but no.

I stuffed the napkin back into his lap as discreetly as possible and distracted myself by taking a swig of my long-forgotten beer. It wasn’t long before I felt the napkin hit my own lap again.

Hint?

“-remember the time a rookie actually had the nerve to touch the Kid’s stick? He had to re-tape it quick before hitting the ice and pretty much delayed the game ten minutes-” Kunitz had long taken over Pascal’s speech, which I had only caught half of. I had a napkin to respond to.

First digit…number of dwarves in Snow White. Innocent enough.

7. Didn’t think you’d make it this easy.

I shook my head - challenge accepted. Symbolic number to fans in football. Both digits.

He didn’t hand it back for a long while. From the corner of my eye, I could see him messing with his phone. Cheater.

12? 712?

Damn. Bingo.

His response was quicker this time. Fork over the next four.

So I did. It was fair in a sense, since I’d basically fed the numbers to him on a silver platter. He toyed with his phone a little more, no doubt punching my number in. Every part of me died to know what title he’d put me under, since I was positive he didn’t know my name yet. In my guessing - Newbie? Rookie? Trivia Bitch? - I’d almost forgotten about the napkin. Halfway through another sip of beer, I felt it land in my lap.

We’ll be in touch.