Page 45 of Must Love Dogs… and Hockey

I wince. “Won’t be long, my man.”

We make a quick exit so as not to prolong the suffering. Out on the street, we pause.

“How about the Cheerful Rhino?” I name a bistro a few blocks away.

“That’s fine. I like that place.” We start walking. “No practice today?”

“Optional. I decided to skip it.” I grimace. “Which will probably piss off Coach. Ah well.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I get the feeling you and your coach don’t get along.”

I don’t answer right away. I know better than to criticize the coach or team management in public. Players have gotten themselves in deep shit by doing that and being overheard by their Uber driver or someone sitting at the next table in a bar. But it’s just me and Lilly, and somehow I know she’s not someone who’s going to run to the media, and also I really need to talk about this to someone who’s not involved. I can vent to my teammates, but they’re not objective about this either.

“You’re right,” I finally admit. “We’re…very different.”

“That’s diplomatic.”

I sigh. “Fuck it. I don’t like him. I don’t like how he coaches, I don’t like how he leads. He’snota leader. He’s a fucking dictator. We’re grown men, we’re dedicated, we’re talented, and he treats us like shit.”

“Don’t hold back.”

I catch her dry smile, and one corner of my mouth lifts. “Feels good to let it out.”

“I guess there’s not much you can do about it.”

“Nope.” I fill my lungs with icy air. “And it doesn’t help that I’m kind of…grumpy.”

After a beat, she says quietly, “Why are you grumpy?”

“Because I have a bad coach.”

She laughs softly. “Hmm.”

“I get so pissed off,” I continue. “Sometimes it’s hard to keep my mouth shut.”

“Is it just him that gets to you? Or are there other things?”

I think about that. “I get annoyed in traffic sometimes.”

She nods. “I guess we all do.”

“And I hate littering.”

She bites her bottom lip as if trying not to laugh. Which makes me smile. “I hate that too,” she says solemnly.

“I also hate racism. Homophobia. And slut shaming.”

She blinks. Her bottom lip pushes out. We walk about half a block in silence. Then she says, “I hate to tell you this, but you’re not grumpy. You’re a good guy.”

I feel her words hit me in the chest. But because I’m not a good guy, I say, “Phhhht. I’m a jerk. Just ask Coach.”

“Why doesn’t he like you?”

“Because I hate assholes.”

We arrive at the bistro. It’s a tiny place, but popular in the neighborhood. We enter to a gust of warm air scented with yeasty bread and garlic. I’m starving.

The place is nearly full, but the hostess seats us at a small table for two in the back corner. We settle in, removing outerwear, adjusting our seats.

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