Page 128 of Hockey Halloween
Ambient terror fills the room as panic descends.
Oh shit, what if he’s too late?
Then, a lump of gray meat shoots out of her mouth.
I’m standing between the booth and the table so I see the blob before the trajectory delivers its slimy wetness on my chest. Disgust and relief clamor inside me. The injured woman coughs while her friends wail in relief.
Meanwhile, Tristan is stoic. He guides the woman back into herseat and throws me a look of someone ready to bolt. I grab my sweater and jog to the hostess stand, Tristan close behind. He reaches for his wallet with shaky hands.
“Run my card,” I tell the server and turn to Tristan. “Go. I’ve got this.”
Tristan rushes out the door. By the time I sign the bill, the first responders have burst in. Chaos raises the noise to unbearable levels. I exit. As I’m looking down at my phone to order a Lyft, I hear a horn from the side of the restaurant.
A black SUV runs idly, Tristan’s arm out the window as he waves me over.
“I’m good! I’ll order a ride.”
“Get in, Ligaya. For fuck’s sake, I said I’d take you home.” Something about his tone allows zero argument.
I slip into the passenger seat. The seatbelt hasn’t even clicked before Tristan pulls out of the parking lot. We drive in silence for a few minutes.
“That was quick thinking. You saved her life.”
He makes a gruff sound between a harrumph and a growl.
“Why are you mad?”
“I’m not mad. I’m...” He pauses. Tristan is driving to my parent’s house instead of my townhouse, but I don’t correct him. “I had a moment when I thought I wasn’t doing it right. Her body went completely limp. Like, actual dead weight. Fuck, what if shedied?”
“She didn’t.”
He visibly shivers. Tristan continues to stare into space when the light turns green.
“You shouldn’t drive back to Columbus in this state. Come in for a breather,” I offer.
“Your parents wouldn’t mind?”
“I might not be a fancy hockey player, but I make enough to move out,” I state and immediately regret my haughty tone.
“Turn left up the road, please,” I say contritely.
He parks in my driveway and is eerily quiet while following me onto the tiny porch of my townhouse.
“Nice place,” he says when we enter.
Some might call my home eclectic. That’s a short way of saying my style is comprised of colorful thrift store finds and unique restored antiques. The only matching elements are the plants stuffed into every free corner or surface. I love the warm, quirky home I’ve created for myself.
“Have a seat.”
I point to my plush maroon sectional made of velvet so soft it could be butter. This was my big splurge. The fabric, not the sofa. Being a theater junkie exposes you to all kinds of skills, like reupholstering furniture.
Tristan sits down and rubs his hands over the luxurious fabric. I’m momentarily distracted by the movement.
“Do you want a drink? Tea or coffee?”
“Water’s fine. Thank you.”
Clipped and tense, Tristan is not himself.
