Page 6 of Drop the Mitts

“I know a good therapist. She’ll take you on as a favour to me if you want to work through that.” André watched her settle in–the precise way she placed her beer in the cupholder, the way she tucked her legs beneath the seat, her posture stiff like she’d been trained out of letting her body take up space.

“I don’t need a therapist. Especially not one you’ve slept with.”

He scoffed. “You’re a lawyer. Don’t you know you need evidence before accusing?”

She didn’t take her eyes off the ice. “You said you knew a therapist, not that you had one, and you led me to believe you can influence her behavior. So, either she owes you money or she’s somehow still interested in you. Either one seems wildly unlikely, to be honest, but I’m going off of what information I have.”

“She’s my sister.”

Grace blinked, her eyes flitting briefly to his. “Well. A shot and a miss.”

André grinned. “Or I met her in grad school, and she definitely still wants me.” He winced when something hit him in the back of the head. Turning, he found Jenna with another Peanut M&M pinched between her fingers.

André pretended he didn’t know why she was pissed and spread out like he owned the damn row. “You don’t have to scrunch up. There’s plenty of room.”

“Mmm. Thank you for telling me how to sit in my seat to watch a hockey game.”

“Here to help. If you need instructions on getting the appropriate amount of dip on those celery sticks or making sure your fingers aren’t sticky from the beer?—”

“I have a napkin.”

He shrugged. “They’ll still be sticky.”

She turned her head. “Let me guess, you’ll lick them off for me?”

He swiped his tongue over his lips. “No. I’ll watch while you lick them.”

Grace didn’t break eye contact. “Is this how you talk to every woman you meet?”

André exhaled and leaned back in his seat. “Only the ones who enjoy it.”

She rolled her eyes and dipped a celery stick. Way too much ranch. André tried to focus on the game, but Grace pointedly licked dressing off her finger. Slow. Turned toward him. Daring him to turn his head. His nostrils flared, but he didn’t give her the satisfaction.

He cleared his throat and leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. The Blizzard controlled the game, cycling the puck in Winnipeg’s zone, their top line shifting seamlessly. Warren took a shot, and it clanged off the post. The crowd groaned as the Jumbotron showed the replay.

André barely noticed any of it. Which was insane, considering hockey was his entire life. Grace was like a TV in a sports bar. He kept wanting to glance over and see what was playing.

She hadn’t relaxed an inch. Not even a single casual shift in her seat, no slouch, no settling in. Just perfect posture, legs crossed tight, hands resting carefully on her lap.

André reached for his beer, which he’d conveniently placed in the left cupholder, and Grace’s eyes flicked down to his hands. She paused. Her nose scrunched.

“What?” he asked.

Grace didn’t answer. She narrowed her eyes, her gaze flicking from his fingers back up to his face. The expression was pure, concentrated judgment.

André drew from his beer, waiting for her to say it. He knew exactly what she was looking at. The nicotine stain on his fingers. Yellowed at the edges, just barely there, but enough for someone like her to notice. Someone who paid attention to details.

He should have cared. Should have been embarrassed, maybe. But he wasn’t. Because this wasn’t some new, bad habit.This was muscle memory. This was waking up after a road game and lighting up before his first piss of the day. This was learning to breathe through it because it was the only thing that ever made him feel steady.

The first time he smoked a cigarette, he was sixteen, sitting on the porch to avoid another drunken outburst. His brother, Luc, handed it to him.

André had taken it without thinking because the alternative was looking at the way Luc was staring blankly at the concrete, blood dried at his temple, mouth set like he wasn’t sure he still had all his teeth.

“Coach is going to be pissed,” André had muttered, rolling the cigarette between his fingers as if he knew what to do with it.

Luc hadn’t looked up. So André lit the cigarette, took his first drag, and hated it. It burned, tasted awful, made his lungs seize. But Luc exhaled, smoke curling in the air, and said, “It helps.”

And that had been enough of a reason to try again. Again and again. Until he didn’t hate it anymore. Until it became routine. Until he needed it.

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