Page 10 of Checking All Her Notes
“Figured if I’m making you stay late, least I can do is bring bribery.” He glances around the room, taking in the dim lighting, the triangle already set out on the table. “This feels like a scene from a movie where the piano teacher turns out to be a serial killer.”
I laugh, nearly choking on my hot chocolate. “That’s oddly specific.”
“I watch a lot of bad TV.”
“Between practice and games?”
“Can’t sleep after games. Too much adrenaline.” He shrugs, moving toward the piano bench. The same one that almost collapsed earlier. He tests it carefully before sitting down. “So I watch whatever’s on. Usually true crime documentaries.”
“That explains the serial killer comment.”
“That and your creepy lamp situation.” He nods toward the single lamp casting long shadows across the room.
“It’s ambient lighting,” I protest. “Very conducive to learning.”
“It’s a horror movie waiting to happen.”
I set my hot chocolate on the piano and grab the triangle, holding it out to him. “Less talking, more music.”
“Bossy,” he observes, taking the triangle.
“Focused,” I correct.
He settles the triangle in his palm, picks up the beater. I start the metronome. Tick. Tick. Tick.
He hits the first four beats perfectly.
Then smirks.
“You’re going to say I rushed,” he says before I can open my mouth.
I tilt my head, studying him. “You didn’t. And now I don’t know who I am anymore.”
He almost smiles, and I feel it like sunlight sneaking through clouds. Like that first warm day after a long winter.
We play through a simple rhythm. Just him and me. No audience. No teammates making jokes or giving him a hard time about the triangle. He actually listens. To the beat. To me. When I ask him to slow down on the next measure, he does without argument.
“You’re better when you’re not thinking about everyone watching,” I say quietly.
“I’m better when you’re not watching,” he answers, but his tone is light. Teasing.
“You lie terribly,” I whisper.
“One of my many talents.”
We run through the rhythm again. He’s really getting it now. The timing is natural, almost instinctive. I’m about to tell him so when I realize we’ve somehow ended up closer than we started. Not uncomfortably close, but close enough that I can smell his soap. Something clean and woodsy.
I lean against the piano. “You said earlier this is the story of your life. Rushing. What did you mean?”
He sets the triangle down, leans back on the bench. Stretches his legs out in front of him. The air shifts. Quieter. Heavier.
“Everything in hockey’s about speed,” he says finally. “Hit fast. Think fast. Move fast. Mess up, you’re benched.”
He stares at the wall where my old recital posters are tacked up. Kids in bow ties and velvet dresses, frozen mid-performance. His voice goes low. Almost flat. “I used to be a right winger. They moved me to defense. Said it fit my build better. Translation is score less, fight more.”
There’s no bitterness in his tone. Just truth. Raw and unvarnished.
“That bothered you,” I say. Not a question.
