One Shots
Jonathan Toews (2)
You had met him on the beach in California, under the sweltering heat of the August sun. You hadn’t known who he was, not yet. You didn’t even know he played in the NHL. It had only been a casual hookup, or so you thought. But he kept coming back, and you were slowly being intoxicated by him; his scent, his voice, his presence, his everything.
Then he left one day, with no explanation or goodbye. You were his for a fortnight, then he was gone, like a fallen leaf in the breeze. You didn’t know where he went, but by now you didn’t care anymore. You had moved to Chicago to further your university education, and had made some friends.
These friends invited you to a Blackhawks game, and you accepted, thinking,Why not? I’ve got nothing else to do on a Friday night.
Your seats were right by the ice, close enough you could see the detail in every player’s face.
And you saw him, captain of the Blackhawks, with the name Toews printed on the back. That wasn’t the name he had given you on the beach, the name you had known him by.
You watched the game intently, eyes always on the Blackhawks captain. Then, at a stoppage of play, he found you. His eyes locked with yours, and he could hardly bear to tear them away. When he did, he shook his head to clear your image, like he had seen a mirage. He couldn’t focus on his game after, making sloppy plays and missing the net.
You could see his coach asking him what the hell was going on, and you could only imagine what Toews must be saying.
After the game, though, he skated to the glass in front of you. In his eyes were pain, and hope, like you were the reason he couldn’t focus, yet waiting all game to talk to you. He mouthed “Come here,” and you obliged, following him to the ice access. Climbing down, you stood, waiting, for him.
He only stared, amazed, until he remembered he could talk. “It’s you, it’s really you.”
“Who are you?” you asked, not entirely sure.
“You know who I am; I know you know who I am,” he replied. “I know, back in Cali, I wasn’t honest with you. I gave you a fake name, I didn’t want to get attached.”
“Too late,” you muttered, but he didn’t hear you. He seemed to be beating himself up over you, but he held out his hand. “Let’s start over. I’m Jonathan Toews. You are…?”
