Murphy's Law

Perhaps if I wasn’t running on zero sleep and stressed about my impending presentation, I’d have put it together. Of course the barista knew his name – he’s Jonathan Toews. His face is plastered all over the city after bringing home multiple Stanley Cups and countless awards and adulations. Here, in the context of a sports medicine conference, with a giant Blackhawks banner with his face on it, it came together. The rusty gears in my brain started moving and I realized that I had been spilled on by none other than Chicago’s Golden Boy.

Adam, immediately vexed, asked, “Do you know each other?”

Mr. Toews, clearly more in his element now than he was this morning, kind of grinned, “Yeah, actually we met this morning.”

Rolling my eyes like the child I am, “Yeah, for a guy who’s so smooth on the ice, you need some lessons on opening doors.”

He let out a hearty laugh, his tall frame giving away that he genuinely found humor in my comment.
Adam, still very much confused, looked at me sort of awestruck.

I explained, “I was running late this morning, and stopped for coffee. Someone opened the door as I was trying to from the outside and spilled their coffee on me,” I gestured to the faint discoloration on the bodice of my dress. “This is that someone.” Adam’s mouth formed an O-shape in understanding.

Turning to the dark-haired hockey player, I said, “In my state this morning, I didn’t piece it together. Again, thanks for bothering to buy my coffee. You really didn’t need to.”

Again a little bashful, he glanced down, “It’s the least I could do.”

“Bah, I just realized the time, I really must be going,” Adam announced. “Rhett, great job this morning, and enjoy your afternoon off. And it was a real honor to meet you, Mr. Toews.” I swear the man winked at me as he bustled away, leaving me with the coffee-spiller turned famous athlete.

“I guess I should properly introduce myself,” he stuck his hand out. “My name’s Jonathan. Nice to meet you, Miss Pearson.”

Eyeing him with a hint of amusement, I shook his hand. “You can just call me Rhett.”

He smiled. “Well, I’m about done here, I’ve made my appearance. Let me give you a ride home,” phhrasing it as a statement, not a question.

I opened my mouth to protest, but he interjected, “I’m buying you lunch too, don’t you dare argue. I owe you after this morning.”

Kind of wary of getting in a car with strangers, even handsome and famous ones, I almost said no. But I realized that I really would like something to eat, and walking the twelve or so blocks home in the snow would not be ideal.

Pursing my lips, I said, “Fine, but I get to pick the restaurant.”

He beamed, “Great!”



Half under his breath, he said, “I don’t know if I’d call this a restaurant…”

Glaring up at him I told him, “Just trust me.”

Ordering two Chicago-style hot dogs, fully loaded, I sat next to Jonathan on the lone bench outside Jim’s Original. Yes, it is December and I insisted on a place that does not have an indoors.
Rubbing his hands together to warm them, he said, “This better be good.”

“I can’t believe you’ve never had Jim’s and you’ve spent the better part of six years in Chicago!” I teased.

“Order up!” the guy in the white butcher’s apron called from the counter and I retrieved the brown paper bag of food.

Pulling out the hot dogs and steaming hot fries, I unwrapped one and took a big, messy bite. Jonathan followed suit, getting mustard on his cheek. He kind of groaned, “Okay, you were right.”

Triumphant, I handed him a napkin to wipe the mustard off his face. “See? Gotta listen to a native.”

He laughed, “Still, if I were you, I’d have picked somewhere more extravagant after being scalded. Make me atone for my clumsiness.”

For a few moments, it was quiet. A natural silence, luckily, fell as we ate. Nothing but the sound of traffic and the muffled chatter of people walking by.

After a bit, he cleared his throat, “Again, I’m impressed you didn’t threaten to sue after I potentially maimed you with hot coffee.”

I shrugged, “I learned a long time ago, that in this city, it’s not worth it to scream at strangers. For all you know, their day might be going just as bad as yours, if not worse. Plus, I didn’t want to be liable for anything I may have said or done if I opened my mouth. I'm not exactly the most ladylike when I'm angry”

He nodded and smiled, falling into a peaceful quietness again.

We finished eating, picked up our trash and threw it away. I followed him in the direction of the parking garage nearby. He led me to a black Mercedes SUV, unlocking it with the remote.

On the ride back, we made small talk. He asked some questions about my schooling, and I tried to make intelligent comments about hockey and their upcoming game against Minnesota with interspersed directions to my neighborhood.

Pulling up to my normal everyday brick apartment building, I had a moment of realization. I didn’t want to go back to my normal everyday life. It isn’t normal everyday life that you meet famous strangers, no matter how inconvenient.

Reluctantly, I pulled the handle to the sleek, black SUV and turned towards Jonathan.

“Thanks for proving to me that fame doesn't make you immune to being clumsy,” I smiled, and stepped out of the car. “I hope your game goes well tomorrow.” Shutting the door, I hurried into my apartment before he said anything else and I could convince myself that this was anything other than boring, old, normal-everyday life.



A few hours later, after a glass or two or five of wine and some general loafing around with my cat, Boots, I felt the urge to put on some Frank Sinatra Christmas songs and start the task of putting my Christmas tree up.

Before long, my tree was assembled and I had dug out the two boxes of ornaments I had amassed over the last few years. One by one, I unpacked them and placed them on the tree, relishing the memories attached to each.

That is, until I got to the photo frame ornament that read “Christmas 2014” which contained a photo of Boots, myself, my former fiancé and my parents, wearing Santa hats and silly grins.

Placing it back in the box, and taking a gulp of wine, I heard the ding of an email notification popping up on my computer. Without really thinking much of it, I clicked it. The sender was an unfamiliar address, but the subject line read, ‘Murphy’s Law?”.

Biting my lip in anticipation, I read the body,

Rhett,
I hope this isn’t too weird… I looked up Adam’s contact information on the university faculty website, and asked him for your email address. You left so quickly, I didn’t have time or the courage to ask if I could see you again.
Maybe it was Murphy’s Law that introduced us, but I’d be letting it go wrong if I didn’t try.
Best,
Jonathan


Trying to quell the intense rush of butterflies my stomach was feeling, I pressed “Reply”.

Jonathan,
A little weird, but I may be able to accommodate you.
Cheers,
Rhett

Within a minute later, another email notification popped up. Nearly spilling wine on myself, I fumbled to click on the little window.

Thursday night, 7:30? I’ll pick you up.

I laughed out loud at his forwardness. Luckily, Thursday is one of the few nights of the week I don’t have classes, so I replied.

See you then.

While not typically the type to dance around my apartment over a boy, I couldn’t help but pick Boots up, and dance around with the poor cat in celebration.

It had been 9 months since I had been on anything resembling a date, and needless to say waiting proved to be worth it.